“He’s late,” I say icily to no one in particular. There are ten men in the room. Even given an automatic, I know better than to favor my odds. “What? Italians aren’t known for their punctuality?”
“Actually, no.”
I turn sharply, feeling heat rush up my lower back, spread between my shoulder blades, as Luca brushes into the room. It’s a parlor of some kind, smaller than expected and crammed with rows of old bookshelves. A massive antique desk sits at the head of the room, and before it, a trio of men in no kind of denoting uniform. They have a file of paperwork in front of them. I can’t read Italian—I probably should learn, given my circumstance—but there’s no mistaking the pair of blank lines at the bottom of the page.
So, I think bleakly. That’s where I sign my life away.
“I see you dressed up,” says Luca, meeting me at the desk. He’s not dressed up himself, any more than usual, and neither am I—so I take this as a joke. Strange. It’s really the first time I’ve seen him in humor, and the occasion couldn’t be more grim for me. “Put on a smile, Kate. It is an exciting day.”
“You’re a motherfucker,” I say, looking at him hard. He keeps his face pointed forward, away from me, a cold, slight smile on it. I don’t miss the way the three men at the desk jolt, flinching either at my tone or the crass English word. “And I’ll make sure you pay for this.”
“I’m quaking.”
I grab his arm as roughly as he’s ever grabbed mine. Several of the men along the shelves—guards—step forward. Luca dismisses them with a wave of his hand, still smiling faintly, still looking ahead rather than at me.
“You should be quaking,” I say frigidly. “I’m not going to fight here today. But I will fight. I didn’t come here to marry anyone, much less you. And as soon as—”
“What?” He turns to me then, piercing me straight through with those dark eyes. “As soon as your father finds out you’re here, hm? Please, Kate. He already knows you’re here. He’s known from the night we left Dublin. Do you want to know what I think? I think he knows where you’re most valuable—and that’s in my bed.”
Ice floods my spine. I go rigid, my shoulders shooting to my ears, my hands falling in tight little fists to my sides. I want to say something. To curse him, to curse at him, to tell him how much I hate him for this, to tell him all of the elaborate, slow, painful ways I’m going to kill him for this—but for maybe the first time in my life, I’m actually speechless.
And this seems to satisfy Luca. He smooths the front of his black silk shirt and looks at the three men behind the desk. He speaks to them in Italian, and they speak back in low, hushed tones. If what Luca says to them, or what he’s asked of them, seems unsavory—they don’t show it. And a moment later, Luca takes up a pen and neatly signs his name at the bottom of the page.
All eyes go to me. Luca straightens. Looks at me. Meets my eye. And slowly extends the pen to me.
I look sharply at the paper. To that neat little line, empty, bare, perfect, right beside his. His name. Romano. Kate Romano. In a sick way, it has a nice ring to it. But it’s not me. It’s not my name. It’s not who I am—a wife. His wife.
Do it for your father, whispers a voice in the back of my mind. A young voice: mine, as a girl. A girl who was always, every time, saved. A girl whose father always came for her. Do it for him. Do it to save him. Prove that you can. Prove you’ll do anything, Kate. Anything. Anything.
I take the pen.
I sign my life away.
***
I’ve been staying in a different guest room than the first one for the last few days due to the three bodies in the doorway and the blood and bullet holes in three of the four walls. Not to mention the shattered chandelier. But tonight, after I’m settled in my dressing gown and robe, a knock at the door rouses me, and a guard guides me back to my first room, the elaborate one I hate to admit I actually like.
It’s not until I’m inside, the door closed behind me—but not locked, Odd…—that I realize I’m not alone.
My heart leaps into my throat. Luca is undressing beside the bed. I mean to scream at him, curse, throw something—but I’m frozen in place as he unbuttons his shirt, sliding it slowly from one arm and then the other. Jesus. My mouth goes dry. He’s built. Every muscle is perfectly toned, his back flexing as he shifts to unbuckle his belt. Heat floods between my legs, and without meaning to, I back up, my shoulders bumping into the door.
He looks up, a faint expression of amusement crossing his face. He pulls off his belt. The sound echoes through my brain. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
“This is my room,” I say after a moment of blank-minded speechlessness. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Wait. No. Surely he can’t mean…
“We need to consummate our marriage, Kate. Don’t be so naïve.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. My hand is on the doorknob. The guard didn’t lock it—now I know why. They couldn’t very well lock their boss in here with me, could they? I could open it. I could run. I know the way. I’ve memorized it now.
But what would be the point?
“Kate,” says Luca, and when I glance up, I find him looking at me from across the room with the strangest expression. “I’m joking. I would not expect you to sleep with me. But I’m going to sleep here with you. Because eventually…you know it must happen.” He pauses, hand rising to idly brush the bandages wrapped securely around his shoulder. “And—well. Optics matter.”
Optics matter? I stare at him, still paralyzed, but my grip on the doorknob loosens. If he wanted to, he could have me. Force me. If he wanted to, he could have this or any door locked. I know part of this is a game. I wasn’t lying when I said that his good cop act wouldn’t work on me. I recognize it; I do. I know it’s only a ploy. But it doesn’t make me appreciate it any less. Luca Romano could be being a far, far worse man. And he’s electing not to be.
Why? Optics matter. He doesn’t mean the way he looks—he means the way we look. A chill pricks at the crown of my head and begins to seep down my face, down the back of my neck. His men, Ariana’s men, are posted in this house. And surely, plenty of Luca’s and my enemies know that I’m here.
“You’re taking me off the table,” I realize it as I say it and believe I’m right when Luca’s dark eyes meet mine. They’re shadowed, his mouth and jaw hard. “You’re marrying me so no one else can think they have a chance. You’re…” The realization has my mouth going dry. It’s too intense to speak aloud: You’re protecting me. If I’m married to Luca, there’s a much better chance no one will come shaking down or shooting up the house. I lose value to them. But both Luca and I gain value from one another.
How did I not realize?
“It isn’t sentiment,” says Luca mildly, sliding off his trousers. I let my eyes glide over his long, muscular legs, thick with dark hair. I imagine brushing my legs against them, twining our toes. I imagine the way his skin would feel against mine. “It’s pragmatism.”
“I know.” Finally, I release the doorknob and slowly, sheepishly, cross the room. When I reach the bed, I sit gingerly on the end, watching Luca fold his trousers and shirt neatly, like he’s never had another person do it for him. Maybe he never has. “Do you need that redressed?”
He snorts, a strangely human sound and gesture that has me breathing a little easier. He’s not a God. He’s not a king. At the end of the day, he’s just a man. “Are you volunteering?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me quizzically. Good. I’m starting to figure out how to catch him off-guard. “Alright, then. Let’s see your nursing skills at work, McNamara.”
He goes into the en suite bathroom, all marble and tile and glass, and I follow. It’s not the first time I’ve dressed a gunshot wound. Not even close. I’ve actually dressed two of my own, not to mention countless others. Did Dad ever really mean to keep me out of his world? Does he realize I’ve never left it?
And Luca…what of him? What of his father? That’s what I’m thinking as I carefully but swiftly unbind his bandages and get to cleaning the wound. I’m thinking, against everything in me, about how similar Luca and I are. I’m thinking of how many times I’ve been in this exact situation.
“Wait,” he says softly. My hands are trembling as I stroke alcohol over the gouge in his shoulder. Already it’s healing, the swelling gone down. It’s no surprise. Luca must have some of the best care in Europe in this palace. But still, it must be excruciating. And he barely bats an eye. “Wait.”
I seal my lips, lower my hands, and step back. Luca gets up, brushing past me. I wait a moment, trying to catch my breath, wrestling the heat that’s building in me. He protected me. He gave me a gun. He trusts me, or else he’s the best fucking actor I’ve ever met. When Luca returns, it’s with two glasses in hand, each with a liberal pour of whiskey. I take mine with pure gratitude and drink deeply. Luca watches, amused. But he drinks his as well, down to the dregs. I finish mine, hoping the heat and alcohol will loosen the strange tension building inside of me.
I put my glass down and finish dressing Luca’s wound. My hands continue to shake.
“Are you afraid?” Luca asks, and I lock eyes with him. My fingers rest against his chest. His skin is so hot, burning but not feverish. He’s just alive. Vitally, purely, wildly alive. And so am I, after everything. And so am I, against all fucking odds. “I’m not going to hurt you, Kate.”
It hits me how close we’re standing. How he’s resting against the cream marble counter with legs spread, and I’m standing between them. Close, but not quite touching.
It would be so, so fucking stupid.
It would be the stupidest thing in the world. I know that. I have to know that. But what does your gut say, Kate? What does your instinct say, and has it ever failed you? Has it ever sent you after something you couldn’t get?
I drop my gaze. I can’t look at him. I can’t stand him. I should hate him. But I don’t—I respect him. I am grateful to and for him. And he’s right. Optics matter. How we look and act together, from now on, matters. It could make or break this deal. It could save or cost my father his life. It could save or cost me mine.
He reaches for me and tips my chin with a curled finger. Our eyes meet, and the ice breaks open through my ribs. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. He’s so close and so warm, and my wild mind feels…safe, with him. Safer than I’ve felt in days, months, and years. There’s something foolish in the air between us, and I sense that he feels it too. That maybe it’s been there since the first night we met. And now the stars are aligned—or designed—and I have nothing to lose.
So fuck it.
I lean forward, sliding my arms over his shoulders. Heat rushes up through me and builds between us. Our mouths lock. He grunts, a soft, startled—pleased?—sound. Immediately his hands glide up my back, his fingers shifting over my shoulders, brushing back the silk robe I was given by the maids. It spills to the floor. Fuck. Fuck. This is so stupid. This can’t happen. This shouldn’t be happening.
This is totally happening.
His tongue thrusts into my mouth, and like the fool I am, I can’t suppress a soft moan. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Kate…” He shifts, grabbing me easily by one leg and then the other, lifting me up so I can lock my thighs around his hips. I expect him to fuck me right here, messy, out of control. But almost like a gentleman, he carries me to the bed.
Less like a gentleman, he throws me down. Roughly. His eyes are wild. When he kisses me again, it’s harder, rougher, and I slide my hands into his silken dark curls, grunting in surprise as his mouth opens and his tongue enters mine. One of his hands finds my throat, gripping softly but firmly, tilting back my head as his other hand slides beneath my dressing gown.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost in marvel. “I thought you’d wear your heart on your sleeve. You had me fooled.”
“I don’t like you,” I say sharply, almost stung, biting my cheek hard to keep from moaning as his fingers, so, so easily, find me. “I want you. That’s different.”
“How different?” He leans back, tightening his grip on my throat, his dark eyes full of knowing. Cocky. As I open my mouth to answer, he slides one finger inside of me. I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, stunned at how good that feels, something so simple, something so slight. It’s him. Fuck. He’s turning me into a puddle. “Tell me, Kate. What the difference is between liking and wanting.”
“Fuck me,” I say, not caring how desperate it sounds. How desperate I sound. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
His eyes dance with amusement, with easy blatant attraction. He likes that. He likes a woman that isn’t afraid of him. He kisses me again, his sweet fingers leaving me, brushing my nightgown up over my hips. His mouth trails roughly down my jaw, my throat, and between my breasts. When he reaches my stomach, bare, he drags his tongue down it, leaving a line of fire. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The whiskey is in me down, making me a little looser, a little cockier. Come on, Luca. Fuck me. I’m begging. But I won’t—not out loud.
He drags off my panties, eyes snapping up to lock with mine. They’re dark and dancing as ever, almost smiling. He’s proud of himself, I think. I’m so hot for him, so hungry for him at this moment that I don’t care. It’s shameless.
It feels better than almost anything.
He stands, drags me to the edge of the bed, and grips the backs of my thighs. I’m practically panting now—and this time, Luca doesn’t keep me in suspense. He pulls himself free, and sweet anticipation rushes through me. I admire him for the bare instant of pause, and then he thrusts himself inside of me.
“Fuck,” I gasp weakly, throwing back my head. It’s so bad. We shouldn’t be doing this. And maybe that’s why we are—maybe that’s why it feels so, so fucking good. He moves into me again, deeper this time, and I arch my back, breath slamming to a halt as pleasure floods me. “Fuck, Luca—”
His fingers slide into my mouth, and I groan again, happier at the gesture than I should be. “You’re a wild one,” says Luca, his voice low and rough. “Aren’t you, Kate?”
I don’t answer. I want to drag him into this, too. I want to make him want me, too. I lock my legs around his hips, pleased when he roughly grabs my waist and pulls me harder against him. He enters me perfectly, deeply, hitting me in just the right spot. I cry out, arching my back, rocking myself into him harder, faster.
“Fuck, Kate,” he mutters, heat in his voice. He digs his fingers into my hips, fucking me harder, faster, his breath coming hard and ragged. “Fuck—”
Heat builds between my legs. Fuck. I begin to lose myself, gripping the silk duvet in both fists and arching my spine. Luca moves against me hard, holding me fast, secure. And something about it, about him, sends me straight over the edge. Pleasure crashes through me, heat shattering through my veins. Luca groans, his thrusts deepening, slowing, as he comes in the same instant I do. The sound of his pleasure is nirvana. And the way he holds onto me, keeping my hips raised, gives me time to sink into the bliss. I can hear myself moaning, as if from afar, and I fall into it, into the sweetness, into the safety.
When I collapse, Luca lowers me back onto the bed. He lies back beside me, breathing hard. I wait for the shame, for the regret to come rushing in at the heels of the pleasure. But it doesn’t.
We lie there in silence for a long while. Until finally, after some time, Luca says, “Well. That was unexpected.”
I look at him sideways, his profile in the ambient dark of the suite. He’s a stranger, still. With his dark romantic features, with his deep voice, his soft accent. I reach for him without thinking, dancing my fingertips over his cheek. He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t flinch away and doesn’t tell me to stop. And after a moment, he catches my hand and brings my fingers to his lips.
“We are enemies,” he says, his voice very soft in the dark. “But you are not my wife in name only, Kate. Whatever comes, we must be allies now.”
Allies…until I get what I need. I feel cold steel blooming through the warmth of the moment, cutting through the safety of this strange place and circumstance. Allies, until I get the opportunity to betray you.
“You know,” Luca says, turning to look at me, his dark eyes soft and deep as they meet mine. “You saved me first. You set all of this in motion, Kate.”
I gaze at him. A strange, soft fist of protectiveness clenching behind my ribs. “I know,” I say softly. “I know.”
