Emilia's POV
The Marchetti estate rose from the cliffs like a bone-white cathedral.
When my father shoved me into the Marchetti SUV, yelling, "Take your pound of flesh from her for shooting the gutless weasel—but tell Enzo our deal remains exactly the same,"
I'd expected a forest. A dirty cage, maybe. Something dark and wild for animals on legs.
But this? Marble columns. Fountains choked with blood-red roses. Arched windows catching the last light like stained glass—this was a breathtaking palace. The Conti mansion was a broom closet compared to this place.
But beauty here was rotten to the core. I saw it in the way guards' hands never left their weapons. In how maids walked without sound, eyes down, ghosts in their own skin. This wasn't a home. It was a mausoleum with better lighting.
One of Salvatore's men dragged me up the grand staircase, his fingers clamping into my arm like meat hooks. The bruise would be spectacular.
"Bitch!" The voice snarled behind me. "The bitch shot me. I can't believe she actually shot me."
I twisted my head. Blood had soaked through his shirt, painting his left shoulder crimson. "I can't believe I missed your heart!" I screamed, tears already burning down my face. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you!"
He dragged me into a bedroom—all silk and shadow—and hurled me forward. I caught myself against a marble fireplace, wrists screaming where the cuffs bit.
"Enjoy the view," Salvatore muttered, stepping through the doorway. His men lingered behind him. "It'll be your prison for a very long time. And when my nephew tires of you?" He smiled slowly. "It'll be my turn to have fun with you, Emilia Conti."
"Then prepare to lose your fucking cock, bitch." I bared my teeth. "I'm a biter."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Then interest. The worst kind.
He stared at me for a long, crawling moment before waving at his men. "Cuff her first."
They did—wrists bound behind my back, the metal biting cold. Then the door clicked shut behind them, and I was alone with him.
Alone.
He took a step forward. I took one back.
Another step. Another step back. My spine hit the wall hard. I turned my face away, fixed my eyes on a golden vase three feet to my left—beautiful, heavy, uselessly out of reach.
His body heat pressed against me before his hands did. "Don't you get it yet?" His breath slithered across my cheek. "No one's coming to save you."
I tried not to whimper. Tried not to cower.
I failed at both.
His tongue dragged up the side of my face—wet, slow, possessive—and my stomach lurched. "Maybe I should have a taste," he murmured against my skin. "I'm sure my nephew wouldn't mind a quickie. For my pain and suffering."
His hand found my breast through the thin fabric of my shirt. Found it. Squeezed.
I shut my eyes.
And I thought of Paolo.
Paolo, who'd taken a day-old infant who'd just lost her mother and raised her. Who taught me to shoot, his big hands steady over mine. Who let me sit in his study while he worked, quiet as a mouse, just to be near him. Who'd cupped my face at his wedding and said, You're not losing me, piccola. You're gaining a sister.
Sweet, selfless Paolo.
The same hands that killed him—that tore him apart, left pieces of him for me to identify in a morgue—were now on my body. The same family. The same blood.
I opened my eyes.
"What?" he said, still smirking. "Got something to say?"
I just stared at him. Through him.
"He wasn't just Vittorio's son, you know." My voice came out quiet. Calm. Strange, for someone seconds away from being taken apart by a psychopath. "He was my big brother. He loved hunting. And swimming. And me." My voice cracked. "He loved me."
I was crying fully now, tears cutting hot paths down my cheeks. I was sixteen again, standing in that morgue with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and his cold hand in mine.
"I loved him so much." The words scraped out of me. "He was Nina's father. Mara's husband." I tilted my head, let him see the grief—and the promise. "You remember Mara, right? The sweet pregnant girl you cut open and left for death by the roadside?"
Salvatore's smirk didn't fade. "So?"
I stepped closer to him. Close enough to smell the cigarettes on his breath, stale and rotten. Close enough that our bodies nearly touched.
"So the first thing I'm going to do," I whispered, "as your leader's wife—is demand your head on a platter. And call it a wedding present." I smiled. "So please. Go on. Fuck me." I leaned into him. "Give me one more reason to hate you, Salvatore Marchetti."
Something shifted in his eyes. The smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat.
"SAL!" The voice cracked through the room like a whip. A younger man stood in the doorway—brown eyes, not blue. Shorter. Softer. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, brother?!"
"Stay out of this, Marcus!"
"The old man's waiting." Marcus's eyes darted between us, taking in my position, his brother's hands. "Can you just... take her to him?"
For a long, terrible moment, Salvatore didn't move. His hand was still on my breast, his body still pressed against mine. I could feel his heartbeat—or maybe it was my own, slamming against my ribs.
Then, slowly, he let go. Stepped back.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward double oak doors, knocking once.
I gestured at the door with my chin. "Don't keep the old man waiting," I said quietly. "Get me closer to my goal."
Something flickered in his eyes. Confusion. The reports probably said Conti girls were docile. Weak stock meant for breeding and alliances.
Well.
Not this Conti.
"Keep barking, meat." But his voice was shakier now. "Let's see how many more dead Vittorio wants to bury."
He pushed the door open.