The mafia's king bride claimed by his obsession.

He didn't show up for dinner. Alessandra brought me my meal at the long table, just me, no one else. "Mr. Rossi is occupied with business," she murmured. Business. Yeah, right. The word tasted like a lie. I ate quietly, my skin still buzzing from his touch, my lips tingling. The whole mansion held its breath. Later, I waited for him in his bedroom our bedroom, now. The silence was worse than any of those nights I'd heard other women. It was thick with what almost happened on his desk. He came in after midnight, didn't bother with the light. I listened to the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt. The bed dipped under his weight. "The doctor's report came back," he said, voice slicing through the dark. "You're perfectly healthy. No surprises." I didn't answer. I just stared at the ceiling. "Lucas Thorne left the city," he went on. That got me. I turned toward him. "What did you do?" "I suggested it was in his best interest to take a vacation. He agreed." No mistaking what kind of "suggestion" that was. "He won't be a distraction again." The finality in his words snuffed out my last bit of hope. My one thread to the outside world gone. "Why did you stop today?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. Silence. Heavy enough to feel. "Because," he finally said, his voice low and rough, "the first time I take you, it won't be in anger. It'll be when you're begging for it. And you will beg." His arrogance should've made me furious. Instead, heat curled traitorously low in my belly. Before I could say anything, a phone buzzed. Not his usual one a harsh, unfamiliar ring from the nightstand. He snatched it up. "Talk." Pause. His silhouette went rigid. "Where?" Another pause. "How many? ... Keep him alive. I'm coming." He jumped out of bed, started pulling on his pants. "Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave. Don't answer the door unless it's Marco or Antonio." "What's going on?" "A problem." He strapped a holster under his arm. "One of my men got picked up. He's talking to the wrong people." He was almost out the door when I called, "Damon." He stopped. "Is it the inside man? The traitor?" He glanced back, his face lost in shadow. "Yes." And then he was gone. I tried to sleep. No chance. The house was too quiet, his absence roaring in my ears. Around 3 AM, a new sound crept into the room. Not from outside inside. Low, steady thumping, muffled. Coming from right below his private study. Then, a man's groan, sharp and desperate, cut off mid-breath. My blood iced over. They'd brought someone here. They were interrogating him. Right beneath us. I slid out of bed, silent on the rug, and crept to the vent near the floor. Voices drifted up, distorted but clear enough. "a name, Carlo." Damon's voice, cold as marble. "Who are you feeding?" A wet cough. "Go to hell." A sickening crack. A scream, quickly stifled. "Again," Damon said. No emotion, just command. A whimper. "Vincenzo..." Carlo gasped. "He... said it was for the family's good... a consolidation..." My hand flew to my mouth. Vincenzo? The uncle who always smiled at me? "Liar." Damon's voice snapped like a whip. "It's true! He's cutting a deal with The Vipers! He gave them the house plans... He said the girl was the key to breaking you..." The world spun. Vincenzo, the one person who'd ever been kind to me. Silence from below. The dangerous kind. Then Damon's voice, soft, almost lost. "Take him to the harbor. Make it clean." All one would hear was hard footsteps and dragging sound, then nothing at all , as if nothing just happened here. The scene terrified me, that I had to left immediately to my room. I dove straight into bed, yanking the covers over my head. I was shaking. Felt like I'd just been handed a death sentence. And now I knew the man Damon trusted most was the snake in the grass. The door creaked open. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. His footsteps thudded across the room. He brought the smell of night air and something sharp, something metallic blood. He just stood there for ages, watching me. I could feel it. Then the mattress dipped. He didn't lie down, just sat on the edge with his back to me. His shoulders sagged. In that thin slice of moonlight, he didn't look like a king. Just a man, weighed down by a whole kingdom of ghosts. He spoke, barely above a breath. I almost missed it. "I see him in everyone now." He left it at that. Just sat there, grief and rage turning him to stone. After what felt like forever, he finally lay down. He didn't touch me, but he didn't pull away either. Just stared at the ceiling. "The man who raised me," he whispered, "taught me how to fire a gun. How to read a balance sheet. How to spot a lie." He let out a laugh bitter, empty. "He forgot to teach me how to spot his." God, my chest hurt for him. It was reckless and stupid, but I couldn't help it. Without really thinking, I reached out. My fingers grazed the back of his hand where it rested between us. He froze. Then his hand turned, fingers lacing tight with mine. It wasn't sweet or gentle. He clung to me, desperate. Like he was drowning. We just lay there, fingers locked. Betrayal and truth binding us together in the dark. He thought Carlo was lying about Vincenzo. But I knew he wasn't. And I had no clue how to tell the most dangerous man I'd ever met that the person he loved most wanted to ruin him.