“I don’t know where he is,” I snap at my father. “I’m not his keeper. He’s a grown man. He can do what he wants. I’m tired of having to chase after him. He’ll come back. He always does.” I rub my forehead as my father curses in Italian before hanging up on me.
Being the one to take over the Benedetti name doesn’t come with fucking flowers; it only comes with headaches the size of mountains. And to make matters worse, I have to get married. According to the old family rules that have been followed for generations, I have to get married by the time I’m forty-one, or the title will fall to the next in line.
My younger brother.
And that cannot happen. I’m constantly bailing him out of jail or bad situations he finds himself in. He hasn’t grown up. He lives life on the whim, consequences be damned. He doesn’t want the responsibility of looking after fifty-plus men. He doesn’t want to keep order. If Otello had his way, he’d toss the rules out the window, let everyone do what they want, and cause havoc.
It would only be a matter of time before all of us got arrested for crimes we’ve committed if Otello were in charge.
Benedettis have always been ruthless. We don’t play by laws or rules. We make our own. If someone crosses us, they die. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it will always be.
But I hate this rule of needing to get married. I don’t want to marry a woman I can’t stand. I only have one woman in mind, and I’ve spent years obsessing over her. My heart is hers. No one else will ever compare. The brief moment I had with her all those years ago is better than any moment I’ve had with the women in my life.
I’m infatuated with someone I don’t even know, but I don’t deserve her. Her parents are dead because of me and my family.
I dab a bit of white paint onto the canvas to give the illusion of light hitting her lips and take a step back to admire my new painting of her.
“So fucking beautiful, Mable,” I speak to the painting, wishing the woman on the canvas came to life. I’d give anything to hold her in my arms and to give her the world, but life isn’t fair.
And Mable knows all about that.
I set my paintbrush down and look around the room no one has been in but me. My obsession with her has taken over my life. I’ve painted her thousands of times in thousands of different ways. I’ve painted her naked, imagining what her body would look like laid out on the bed, her long hair spanned along the white pillowcases.
I’ve envisioned it so many times; there are days when I’m not sure if seeing her naked hasn’t happened. I’ve nearly convinced myself that she is mine and mine only.
I sculpted her body from clay, needing to see how her body would look in my hands. I’ve imagined her breasts to be a perfect size, just enough to fill my palm, so none goes to waste. Her waist has a dip, but she isn’t too thin. She has enough for me to hold onto and grip while I thrust in as far as I can and fill her until she drips off me.
There are even sculptures of us together, body against body, lips against lips, and it still isn’t enough. It’s like I’m trying to bring her to life so I can truly have her.
It’s insane.
I’m insane.
And if I marry someone else, how will I be able to get out my pent-up lust, wants, and needs for Mable? That is what this room is for. It’s my escape. Drawing, painting, sculpting, it’s the time I have to create with her.
Every second I spend with my new wife, I’ll want to be in my studio, painting and creating images of the woman who owns my soul.
I imagined that when I became a husband, I’d be devoted and loyal, but pulling Mable out of that car changed my entire future.
I can’t be loyal to another woman. I won’t want her, not like this, not obsessively. I find myself never wanting to leave this room. Being surrounded by her is all I want, or maybe the guilt has been eating me alive after so much time. All I want to do is take care of her.
Would she forgive me if she knew the truth?
I get lost imagining our lives together, the children we would have, the way I’d fuck her against every surface of this mansion where she’d scream my name, and it would echo down all the halls.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my fantasies. “What?” I snap, frustrated that I can never seem to be alone with Mable.
“If you’re late to your own party, I’ll give the title to your brother anyway. Victoria, the Rossiti girl, is here with her parents. I like them. You’ll meet her tonight.”
“I don’t understand the meaning of this. I don’t need to be married to take over the business,” I sneer, wishing I could use my authority to make my father heel, but I can’t.
He’s a patriarch. He’s highly respected in this world. His word is the only word that matters because he spent thirty years building the Benedetti name.
“You can’t. You need balance. You’ll need the softness and intelligence of a woman. You won’t be able to make decisions without her.”
“That requires trust, and I don’t trust Victoria.”
“Trust is earned. It isn’t automatic. You won’t embarrass me.” He hangs up on me again, and I squeeze my phone in frustration until the plastic creaks.
I snort. “Right, I’d embarrass you,” I mumble, thinking that if it were my brother in charge he wouldn’t even show up to this party.
Stealing one last look at the colorful painting of Mable, I unzip the overalls and step out of them; my tux is pristine under the paint-covered fabric. I hang them on a hook, knowing I’ll be back in here tomorrow.
There’s no way I’m leaving the party tonight with another woman.
Have I looked for Mable? No.
I’ve had to restrain myself because if I ever found her, I would take her away from everything she’s ever known, and I’ve already done that once. I already took everything she cared about. How could I do that again?
I open the heavy wooden door, the black iron hinges squeak with old age, and classical music floats up the stairs from the ballroom. My hand falls on the sculpture next to the door, a hand-carved replica of Mable’s face. My thumb presses against her lower lip, and as I step out the door, my fingers slowly fall from her face.
Shutting the secrecy and the madness behind me, I leave part of myself there as I stroll down the stone steps. My hand slides down the rail, and the violins become louder, grating my ears. Impatience begins to grow. The murmur of a hundred conversations echoes down the hall from the ballroom.
The last thing I want is to put on a fake smile and pretend I give a fuck about any of these people. All they want is to show off their beautiful daughters in hopes they will be tied to the Benedetti family. We’re wealth and power. We’re everything people want and often never get. If one of their daughters marries into the family, they will be taken care of forever.
Who wouldn’t want that?
I walk in through the French doors; the oversized brick fireplace in the back of the room is lit up, flames licking the bottom of the chimney. The conversation stops as every man, wife, and daughter turns to look at me. It takes everything inside me not to curl my lip in frustration.
I hate desperation, and in this room it’s nearly suffocating.
“Mr. Benedetti,” the caterer greets me, holding a silver platter of flutes topped off with champagne and slices of strawberry.
“Thank you.” I snag one from the stem and take a sip just as my father slithers his way through the crowd.
“Nice of you to join us, Dri,” he says, the Rossitis flanking either side of him.
“I was busy,” I state, thinking about the drying canvas still sitting on the easel.
“That’s okay,” Victoria steps up, her voice just high enough to get on my nerves. “I’d love to know what you were doing. I don’t like parties like this either. I always have a headache at the end of the night.”
“Don’t tell him that, Victoria. We don’t want him to think you’re no fun.” Her mother awkwardly fidgets with the pearl necklace around Victoria’s neck to make sure it’s lying perfectly.
“It’s really no issue.” I down half of my champagne, and my father’s jaw sets, his teeth grinding together.
“If you’ll excuse us for one moment. We will be right back.” He grabs my shoulder, squeezing hard as he pushes me through the crowd.
For a man in his seventies, he’s still in great shape. He doesn’t look his age, so he thinks he can still control me.
We get out of sight; I grip his arm and twist it behind his back, throwing him against the wall until he can’t move. “Listen to me, Father,” I sneer the word because I’m tired of these games. “You do not control me. I am in charge. I am the one who makes the decisions now. Not you. You will not force me to do anything, and I sure as fuck don’t want anything to do with that Rossiti girl. You’ll wait until I’m happy, or you’ll get the hell out of my house.” I add more pressure to his arm, and he grunts, giving a slight nod of his chin.
I let him go and take a step back, rolling my shoulders to calm down.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest,” he says, rubbing his arm. “But you do have to marry, and you don’t have long, so I suggest you make the best of this party.” He tugs on the lapels of his tux but stands in front of me, his hand cupping my jaw with a hard slap. “I’m proud of you for standing your ground, but rules are rules, son. Pick someone to marry tonight, or I’ll call your brother.”
“You must not care about the family name at all if you want the torch to go to him.” Before my father can say another word, I’m walking away, plastering a smile on my face as I survey the room for a potential match.
I feel like I’m a predator, and all the women here are prey. What kind of person hosts a party like this?
“Adrian,” a smooth, elegant voice stops me in my tracks.
“Daphne,” I greet the gorgeous redhead, kissing her on the cheek. “How are you?”
“I should ask the same,” she smirks, her red-painted lips leaving a trace of gloss behind on her flute. “You hate things like this.”
“I do, but it comes with the job. You wouldn’t want to go into an agreement, would you? We marry, you can still do what you want, and I can do what I want.” I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. Daphne is the perfect woman for this. She isn’t interested in me. She doesn’t want to be tied down. She’s too dominant for that. She is actually a Madame at a local BDSM club. “No harm, no foul, what do you say?”
She purses her lips, and her big, blue eyes with a thick coating of black mascara narrow at me. Her nails clank against the champagne flute as she thinks. “Why? You have all these available women at your disposal, Adrian.”
“I don’t want any of the women here.” Why would I want someone I don’t trust? Daphne isn’t from a prominent family. She’s successful on her own and she’s helped so many by forging illegal documents to get others out of the country, for their safety. She has reach in high places that I don’t understand, but together, we could make an amazing team.
But only a team. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“But there is someone,” she prods, taking a step closer. “Dance with me and tell me all about her.”
I’ve never told a soul about Mable. “Do we have a deal? As my future wife, you can know anything you want.”
She sighs, holding out her hand as she waits for me to take it. “Dance with a lady first, Adrian.”
I smirk, gently taking her hand in mine, then bend down to kiss the top of it. Her skin is soft and flawless, but I know she holds a whip at night. These hands have dirty sins attached to them, and they aren’t as clean as they appear to be. “Yes, Madame,” I tease, and she lifts her brows at me, a smile tugging her lips.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come down to the club? You’d make a great dominant.”
“It’s not my thing, Daphne, you know that.”
“But whips and chains are so fun,” she purrs, her nails tickling the back of my neck as we dance in front of the fireplace.
My father stares at us from beside the fireplace. He leans against the brick, and the flames illuminate his face, worshipping him as if he is the devil himself.
Hell, if he had it his way, he would be.
“So, tell me about this woman. She must be pretty special to capture the attention of Adrian Benedetti.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time, but she’s always held my attention.” I’m careful not to lie, but I choose to not tell the truth.
That I’m obsessed with a woman I held in my arms for less than ten minutes. I’m unbothered even now, dancing with Daphne, my arm around her waist, and the natural seduction that pours off her in waves.
I do not want her.
“She beautiful. Her hair is long—” or it was. I’d be devastated if she cut it. “And her eyes are big with long lashes. She doesn’t wear makeup, and she has a dash of freckles on her nose.” I remember them as if it were yesterday. I’ve dreamed of every curve and line of her face. I know where every freckle is and how badly I want to kiss them.
“Well, Mr. Benedetti, you sound entranced. Why not ask her to marry you? You don’t need all this, and why would we tie the knot when we both know marriage isn’t something we want together? You’re handsome, baby, but it wouldn’t work between us.” She taps my cheek lovingly.
I smile, spinning her on the floor, and it causes everyone to gasp. “That is why. If I want to keep my position, I have to marry, and I’d rather marry someone I trust. I can’t ask her because I don’t know where she is.”
Daphne squints her eyes at me, knowing I’m not telling her something but ignores it. “We don’t have to do any of the married couple activities. You aren’t my type, sugar.”
I snort, shaking my head. The only woman I want sexually is Mable. “No, we don’t even have to sleep in the same room. This can be business. Nothing more.”
“But I have to think of my work. I might lose some clients. I don’t know,” she exhales, stepping away from me as the song ends.
“I’ll pay what you lose, but I doubt you will. I bet people will pay more to be with you knowing you’re married to such a powerful man. How forbidden is that? Don’t your clients like that?”
She taps her chin with her finger, giving me a thoughtful appraisal. “Yes, they do.” She snags another glass of champagne. “I don’t wear rings, baby. I want a necklace. I need my fingers to always be free.”
My heart soars with the hope that she’s actually considering this. This would be the ideal situation. “And you wouldn’t care that I’d hide away in my studio? Kill…mangle…whatever I need to do?”
“Honey, I wouldn’t care if you fucked another in front of me. That actually might be kind of hot.”
I chuckle at her honesty. She wouldn’t have sex with me, but she’d watch me have sex with someone else; typical.
“No one will see my partner. I’ll have to kill you, Daphne.”
“Aw, you’re no fun. How is this marriage going to work?” She winks, teasing me, but Daphne lets out a long, weighted breath. The kind that tells me she can’t believe what she may agree to. “Okay, I’ll do this for you, but only because I love you and consider you my friend.”
I cup her face gently, relief unlike anything else I’ve ever felt before, then embrace her in my arms. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll be the worst husband in the world to you.”
“I sure hope so, Dri. I’ll be in touch.” It’s a deal, or should I say, match made in heaven.
