Life settles into a surreal routine. I work as much overtime as regulations allow. At the end of every shift, Fiero waits in the shadows to escort me home. He never argues about my long hours. Never tells me to cut back. Never asks why I’m pushing myself so hard.
Hell, I don’t even know why. Maybe he senses my need to feel in control, even though there are no guarantees in my occupation.
I don’t know what he does while I work, and I’ll never ask. Some nights, the horrors lurking in his eyes visit me in my dreams, but I never remember them when I wake. He’s always in my bed to scare them away with his big, hard body, so they never linger.
He invades every part of my life. We eat, sleep, and spend every moment I’m not working together. Showering, brushing teeth, combing hair, trimming nails. Washing laundry, cooking, cleaning, all the moments I once spent alone now hold an intimacy I silently cherish.
Katherine goes to her classes and works her part-time job, but she seems to be at the apartment almost every time I return home. I see her more often than I ever have before, but the haze of exhaustion, stress, and worry prevents me from enjoying it as much as I should.
When Fiero promised to protect her, I didn’t understand what he meant, but when Katherine asks him if he has three men tailing her during her commute and he nods, a weight lifts from my shoulders. When she demands names and photos of all the guys he plans to assign to her and he gives the information freely, I wonder what alternate reality I fell into.
What ruthless, powerful mafia man would do such a thing?
Another crack forms in my defenses, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I can’t help but feel we’re one misstep away from the entire world crumbling down around us. With Narciso an immediate threat and Seppi a looming, ominous figure barring us from happiness, I can’t let my guard down.
Almost four weeks after Fiero and Katherine’s first face-to-face encounter, I curl up on the couch with my sister to watch a TV show, only to wake as massive arms lift me against a hard chest. I complain and reach for Katherine, but a deep, comforting voice lulls me back into slumber. On a subconscious level, I trust this man in every way, but when my alarm shocks me awake, I don my wariness and untangle my legs from his.
Fiero’s muscular arm wraps around my stomach and tugs me back against him.
“Just a few more minutes,” he mumbles into my hair.
I tell myself to push him away, but I can’t. His thick cock presses against my ass. Need swirls low in my abdomen.
He doesn’t sneak his fingers into my panties or grab my breast.
Which is good, because soreness pulses between my legs from his vigorous claiming two nights ago. When I shift, the heaviness in my core and the familiar ache in my breasts signal the start of my period. Although I’ve distracted myself with work, tendrils of worry wormed their way into my mind. My cycles have always been regular and blessedly mild, so I never worried about contraceptives, but I’ve had Fiero in my bed every night since he killed Seppi’s man.
Sex with him is never the same. Hard and fast. Slow and scorching. Rough. Loving. I never know what to expect from him.
His current snuggling both frustrates my libido and fulfills the yearning in my soul.
I sigh and slip into a doze before my phone buzzes with my second alarm.
My morning routine passes in a blur, but when I notice spotting in my panties during a rare bathroom break at work, I absently note the date and take care of business before jumping back into the chaos of the emergency room.
When I tell Fiero my menstrual cycle began, his expression goes blank for a moment before his brain clicks back into gear. Disappointment flashes in his eyes, but he leans back against the bathroom doorframe and tugs me into his arms with a smirk on his face.
In a moment of weakness, I don’t fight back. Heaviness plagues my heart. Fatigue weighs down my limbs. Mental exhaustion muddles my thoughts. I decide it’s hormones and nothing more, but part of me clings to the disappointment he showed.
I don’t want kids. When I was a child, I fantasized about being a mom, but as I grew and tasted men’s cruelty, I lost the yearning to bring a fragile new life into the world. It’s not safe. I can’t take that risk or bear that responsibility.
But somewhere along the way, this stupid man stole into my heart and muddied the waters. Now I don’t know what I want.
“It’s okay, mia caramellina. There are many, many ways I can get what I want from you.”
He proves it. Over and over again. Night after night. And he does it so well I don’t admit when my period ends early. I should hate him for weaving his way so seamlessly into my life, but he becomes an addiction, and suddenly I understand his ridiculous proclamation. Humans aren’t drugs or alcohol, but the way I become dependent on him is similar.
Three more weeks pass as I drown myself in work. Even though I know ignoring my problems won’t solve anything, I use the emergency room as a shield. As perfect as my daily routine may be, I’ve still forced my sister to live under the mafia umbrella. She’s not safe. I failed to escape the dangers we grew up in.
When I consistently fall asleep every time I sit down, I finally relent and cut back on my overtime. Low-key nausea plagues me day in and day out. I lack my normal energy, and a dark cloud hovers over my head everywhere I go. I recognize the signs of depression but refuse to address them.
Almost eight weeks after he kidnapped me, Fiero pulls me out of my funk by dragging me out of bed and hauling me back to the boutique where we bought our wedding outfits. I eye him warily as he guides me into the dressing room.
A flash of relief comes and goes in his eyes so fast I wonder if I imagined it when I glare at him. He replaces it with a smug expression and pulls me tighter against his side.
“We’d better not be here for another wedding,” I snap.
“And if we are?” he challenges.
“No. I’m not marrying you again,” I declare.
He’s lost his fucking mind if he thinks it’s safe enough for him to marry Emma Lanza. As long as Seppi Capito is alive, she must stay in hiding. The moment Fiero legally weds his brother’s ex-fiancé is the moment that cruel bastard descends on our heads. That hell descends on the earth.
I turn to leave, but Fiero sweeps my feet out from under me and sits on the couch with me in his lap. With fury coursing through me, I ignore the wave of nausea and dizziness and elbow him in the chest, but he parts my knees and forces my legs around his hips before grabbing my nape and ass. Trapped with his semi-hard cock mashing my clit and his chest flattening my breasts, my attempt to escape only results in a pathetic wiggle. The friction threatens my control, so I fill my fists with his hair and glare into his handsome face.
“There’s my spicy caramellina. I missed this spark. You’ve been neglecting your husband recently, haven’t you?”
I scoff and turn my head, avoiding his kiss.
“No, I haven’t. You’re in my bed every night. Wasn’t it just last night when you—”
He slips his hand up from my nape, cups the base of my skull, and forces my face toward his for a scorching kiss. Pleasure arrows straight to my core. Need pulses between my legs. After weeks of his ruthless claiming, it shouldn’t affect me so much, but the soreness in my pussy feeds the masochistic tendencies of my body.
My brain turns to mush and drains out of my toes. When he finally pulls back, a whimper escapes my throat. He caresses his thumbs over my jaw and hip. The awe and delight in his hungry eyes melt my bones.
“Be careful what you say, mia caramellina, or I might reenact what we did last night right here in the dressing room.”
I bury my embarrassment under my anger.
“We’re already married. Can’t you just—”
“No. We’re going to this wedding today. Find something else to argue with me over,” he demands.
His dismissive attitude only infuriates me further. I clamp my teeth together and alternate between pretending as though he doesn’t exist and glaring at him as I try on different outfits. My suspicion grows as I review the selection. They don’t seem bride-like, but Fiero watches me with lascivious eyes, distracting me as I stand in nothing but panties before him.
When he says no to the fifth dress, I huff in exasperation and roll my eyes. He tries to hide his smirk behind his drink, but I see it and pile it onto my list of grievances.
For the first time in a long time, I feel alive during the day.
With a skeptical glance, I step into the pale green dress and shimmy it over my hips and fit my arms into the sleeves before checking the length of the skirt. It’s longer than I thought, and the fitted bodice tucks in my waist and lifts my breasts without pinching or digging into my skin.
When I turn to check out my profile in the full-length mirror, I fall a little in love with the dress. In the past, my depression always led me to lose weight, but with my sister’s cooking and Fiero’s watchful gaze, I’m as curvy as ever. The color and fit of the dress make me look vibrant despite the tired lines bracketing my eyes.
Fiero approves and chooses my footwear before perching me on the stool in front of the vanity for the hair and makeup artists.
I seethe even as I steal glances at him in the mirror. He chooses a suit and styles his hair with mouthwatering skill. Even though I’ve watched him countless times as we run through our hygiene routines, my heart skips a beat as he turns and meets my gaze in the mirror.
He’s too fucking sexy and he knows it. The devious smirk tilting his lips dampens my panties. I look away and regroup as I study my reflection.
No matter how nice I look or how much I want to believe Seppi isn’t a threat anymore, I can’t marry Fiero as Emma Lanza. Katherine and I won’t survive the war that’s sure to follow.
Without a word, Fiero pays at the front desk and leads me out onto the sidewalk. When he helps me into the passenger seat as though I’m made of glass, I send him a withering glare. He steals a kiss on my forehead before closing the door and settling behind the wheel.
Less than five minutes later, he pulls into a parking garage and leads me into a glass room with four elevators. We ride up to the first floor and emerge in a hallway full of men wearing suits.
Fear ices my spine. I tighten my fingers on my clutch and grit my teeth as Fiero guides me through the crowd of goons with a hand on my lower back.
When dozens of the men walk through the double doors in front of us, I flick an uncertain glance up at Fiero’s face, but his expression tells me nothing. He’s neither over-vigilant nor laid back, so his cues give no hint of what we’re doing.
We step through into a beautiful indoor forest, and even as I feel my eyes widen in surprise, I cannot dampen my reaction. It’s like falling through a portal into another world. New York City may have public outdoor parks, but I’ve never felt safe enough to visit them. It isn’t until this moment that I realize how deprived I am of nature. I’ve always been a city girl. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.
Walls of glass separate the space from the busy city streets, but the layers of canopies and different foliage seem miles away from reality.
Fiero leads me down a set of stairs. My heart pounds in my throat as a simple altar comes into view, but the tinkling sound of water pulls my attention to the right. An elegant fountain ringed with benches sits in the center of the building.
Fiero wraps his powerful fingers around the back of my arm and tugs me toward the altar. I dig my heels into the cobblestone until the straps on my shoes cut into my feet. When my juvenile show proves futile, I send a glare at him and reluctantly follow.
He continues past the altar and tucks me against his side as a burly man approaches him.
“We’re secure, consigliere,” he says to Fiero.
All the blood drains from my face.
Consigliere. Second in command. My husband. Fiero Capito.
To whom?
The double doors open and a tall, thin woman enters before a heavily pregnant woman and her partner—a man whose stature rivals Fiero’s—follow her in. By the tattoos peeking out from the man’s suit and the lethal alertness in his eyes, he’s no doubt mafia. I swallow and look between Fiero and the older man, wondering if this is the boss he serves, because by his bearing alone, the guy at the top of the stairs is definitely a don.
When the stranger lifts the pregnant woman into a cradle hold at the top of the stairs, I jerk in alarm and step forward, ready to call out and demand he stop as years’ worth of injured patients flash through my mind. Working in the emergency room makes me aware of how fragile the human body is, and there are too many horrible outcomes if he trips on the stairs with her in his arms.
Fiero pulls me back against his side, captures my outstretched arm, lifts my wrist to his face, and nips the flesh of my palm in warning. I stare at him in shock as he licks and nibbles my hand, hitting too many erogenous zones for me to breathe.
By the time he releases my hand, the mafia don sets the pregnant lady on her feet at the bottom of the stairs. She smiles at him as though he’s the center of her world.
My heart clenches, and I try to look beyond the man’s terrifying exterior, wondering if I misread him, but when he lifts his head from his wife—the rock on her hand could blind an astronaut in orbit—his eyes become as threatening as the rest of him. I look away before he thinks I’m ogling him, but I refuse to lean on Fiero like a coward.
The tall woman with model beauty clears the stairs and walks to the back corner of the fountain. Despite her graceful movements, she shows clear signs of trauma.
I blink and look away when I realize I’ve spent so much time at work I’m analyzing everyone I meet as though they’re patients.
A boy screams Fiero’s name from the top of the steps. An odd sense of abandonment streaks through me as Fiero leaves me behind to catch the kid—who looks to be about eight or nine, maybe ten years old—halfway up the stairs. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and try to fade into the background as another brutal-looking man appears at the top of the stairs.
Uncertainty barrels through me as Fiero and the boy banter back and forth. Does my husband have a son he never told me about?
As they reach the landing, I dismiss the idea. They look nothing alike.
But the boy doesn’t look like the third man either.
Before steam billows from my ears, I shove my disjointed thoughts to the back of my mind and shuffle away as the clearing becomes crowded. My heel catches on the edge of a cobblestone. I squeak and pinwheel, trying to find my balance.
Fiero’s hard features fill my vision. He pulls me upright, plastering our fronts together, and wraps his arms around me.
“I got you, mia caramellina. You okay?” he asks.
As I swallow my heart and fend off a wave of lightheadedness, I sense all the strangers’ eyes watching us. Embarrassment rushes through me.
“I’m fine. Let me go,” I demand.
He smirks and tucks my hair behind my ear before lowering his lips to my temple and murmuring, “How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll never let you go.”
My insides throb. I curse the thick fabric of his suit since it bars me from scratching him and paste a sickly sweet and thoroughly mocking smile on my face.
“At least once more, consigliere.”
I push as much derision into the title as I can, still reeling from his deceit. It may have been a lie of omission, but it was still a lie. He’s told me absolutely nothing about himself, despite insinuating himself into every aspect of my life.
His smirk stokes the coals burning in my core, but hardness lurks in his eyes.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t want to be consigliere either, but some things are worth protecting.”
He speaks with such intensity my mind needs an extra few seconds to process his words, and by the time I catch up, he twirls me around and throws an arm over my shoulder, pinning me against his side. My head spins at an alarming rate, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath before glaring up at him. He quirks a brow then steps forward and introduces me to the last man who came down the stairs.
“Giorgio Vivaldi, meet my wife, Mia.”
When Giorgio keeps his hands in his pockets, I return his assessing gaze and force my fingers to loosen around my clutch. Giorgio is another man you never want to show your weaknesses to, but when the boy tugs at his arm, softness steals into his eyes as he looks down at him.
“I thought Zio Fiero was chasing your uncle, not getting married.”
The boy sends me a dirty look as he speaks, and the petty part of me wants to stick my tongue out at him and snap that I didn’t want to marry his precious mobster, but this is neither the time nor place to air Fiero’s dirty laundry, and arguing with a child is stooping too low.
“Tristan, what happens when someone insults your sister?”
Fiero’s icy tone is the polar opposite of how he greeted the boy mere seconds ago. After a few moments of consideration, Tristan shows wisdom beyond his years when he straightens his spine and squares his shoulders with mine.
“Forgive me, Zia Mia. My name is Tristan and Zio Fiero is my favorite uncle. I don’t want to share, but if he can still give me lessons after he catches Narciso, then I’ll try to be nice to you.”
Giorgio nudges his shoulder and sends him a glare so full of warning my heart skips a beat in fear for the boy’s safety. But beyond accepting the correction, Tristan shows no signs of trauma or abuse. Surrounded by dangerous mafia men, he seems like a normal rambunctious and chaotic child.
It makes no sense. My father always crushed our spirits when he disciplined us, so we learned how to stay out of the way, but Tristan openly airs his emotions as though no one has ever hit him before.
As Tristan apologizes and offers a slight bow, I glance between Giorgio and Fiero. An entire lifetime of abuse doesn’t crumble in a day, but I’ve known Fiero for weeks now and he’s never once hurt me the way my father or Seppi did. I feel raw and exposed as massive chunks of my defenses fall away.
“I will be nice to you, even if it’s just because Zio Fiero likes you,” Tristan grumbles.
Giorgio settles a hand on the boy’s shoulder but doesn’t squeeze.
“She’s family now, Tristan,” he says.
The proclamation punches me in the gut so hard I’d stumble if it weren’t for Fiero’s arm around me. Longing curls through my ribs and tightens my chest.
After a moment of working through his thoughts, Tristan sighs and rolls his shoulders back before giving me a somber look.
“Give me your phone number before you leave, Zia. I may be little now, but when I get bigger, I’ll protect you and my sister.”
A lump forms in my throat. I don’t know how to respond. He means it with every fiber of his little body.
Fiero slips his hand from my shoulder to my waist and gives me a reassuring squeeze. I clear my throat and banish the sentimental nonsense before elbowing Fiero and thanking Tristan.
When Fiero introduces me to the people across the clearing, I connect the dots. Camilla and Serenity are Giorgio’s sisters. They aren’t here to watch Fiero marry me; they’re here to support Giorgio and his new wife.
As soon as we complete introductions, I glare at Fiero. The jerk made me think it was our wedding when he could have clarified it was someone else’s with a few simple words.
After an elderly man greets Giorgio and stands behind the altar, a hush falls over the garden. Leaves rustle overhead. The sun dips behind the building to the west.
Tristan sidles up to Fiero’s other side.
“I’m sorry, Zio Fiero. I shouldn’t have insulted Zia Mia,” he whispers.
A gentle smile ghosts over Fiero’s lips, but his firm tone brooks no argument.
“I won’t forgive you next time, mini boss man. She’s important to me. Capisci?”
I miss Tristan’s response as emotions barrel through me. The door opens.
A stunning woman starts down the steps. She beams with happiness and has eyes only for Giorgio. A few steps before reaching the bottom, she trips and flings her bouquet. I dodge, but Fiero angles me directly in the path of the flying flowers with his unbreakable grip on my waist, so I have no choice but to either catch it or get smacked in the face.
Other than a few petals floating to the ground, I save the bundle and glare at Fiero as I fix the arrangement.
When I offer it to the apparent bride, she shakes her head and gestures for me to keep them.
“I don’t need it anymore, and you caught it fair and square, so it’s yours now,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue, but Fiero grabs my arm, so I clamp my teeth together and glare at him over my shoulder as he tugs me backward. When he cups my hip and pulls me against his side, the flowers brush against my breasts. I drop my gaze to the pretty bouquet when the man behind the altar begins the ceremony and the couple of honor glow at each other with fairytale level love in their eyes.
The flowers mock me. Fiero caresses my hip with his thumb. I feel his attention shift to my face, but I can’t lift my gaze from the bouquet.
For the first time since I stood at the mouth of the alley, I peer beyond my fear and anger and admit defeat.
I trust Fiero. I want him. I need him.
Just like how these flowers came flying at my head, Fiero Capito steamrolled his way into my life. He always gets what he wants, but he’s never cruel, proving time and time again he isn’t like his brother and even protecting my sister without me asking.
He’ll stop at nothing to ensure I marry him as Emma Lanza, and I’ll never admit it, but I want that, too.
I want to give him everything.
Fiero Capito, my ex-fiancé’s younger brother and the most lethal mafia soldier in New York City, stole my heart.
I’m in love with my husband.
Fuck.
