Sold to the Italian Mafia Boss: A Dark Mafia Arranged Romance (Possessive Mafia Kings Book 6)
Sold to the Italian Mafia Boss: Chapter 6

I don’t see Kate for three days. In part because I’m healing. In part because I’m angry. In part because I want to make her squirm.

Yet when she’s escorted out into the snow on the third day by Dome, I can’t help the way my stomach tenses. The way my pulse skips hard. The way my jaw clenches and my grip on the Range Rover wheel tightens. What the hell is that?

Dome swings open the passenger door, and Kate, with a look that could melt the polar ice caps, climbs up into the seat. Dome slams the door and steps back, giving me a curt nod. I rev up the ignition.

“Ready?” I ask Kate.

She turns that blazing glare on me. “I haven’t seen you in three days. I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing.”

I drum my fingers on the wheel, glancing out the windshield at the villa. In the snow, it looks more like a palace, cold and removed, hidden at the top of the world. Arched windows and gothic spires; in summer, the fields are emerald, and the cypress trees make it look Roman. But in winter, it’s withholding and formidable. A fortress.

“So,” I say. “Are you ready?”

Kate snorts. Then nods once, hard. “Yeah. Fuck it. I’m ready.”

I suppress a smile and turn off down the long cobblestone drive. I like that hint of an accent in her voice, the taste of Irish clinging beneath the American. Does she try to hide it, I wonder? Or has it just eroded, been lost to the years? I cast a sidelong look at her. Her gaze is ahead, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing winter gear, what I ordered the maids to get for her: a padded parka, gloves, fleece leggings, and a hat pulled low over twin honey braids. She looks…sexy. Though I’d never admit it. Not out loud, that is.

We reach the gate, where the guards let us through, and glide out onto the snowy road. At a distance, a pair of SUVs follow.

It’s not until we’re out on the road that Kate finally speaks again. “How are you?”
It’s a soft question, though she says it with a tone. And it’s unexpected. I cast her a glance. “Well enough. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“No. I didn’t think it was.”

I answer her with silence. It’s more tense this time. Dome told me every time Kate banged on her locked door over the last three days and nights—every time she demanded to see me. Every time she asked whether or not I was dead. But I had things to deal with. Things to arrange. People to dispatch.

“Who were they?”

I straighten, lifting my chin. We’re among the trees now, the evergreen cypress and firs, all with steely dark bark and dusky green canopies. I turn into them, off-road, and Kate sits up sharply, looking at me.

“Relax,” I say. “If I were going to execute you, this isn’t how I’d do it.”

Silence. A moment of the car leaping and bounding over snow drifts, clinging to the barely-visible path through the trees. “How would you?” She asks. “Execute me?”

“On your feet,” I say without hesitation. “On film, probably. It does have a message.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m working on it.”

“Ari?”

“I sent her to Moscow. She has contacts to pull on. We have an idea of whose men they were, but it wouldn’t be wise to act without knowing for certain. And…I’m not certain they aren’t connected to your father.”

Her mouth opens sharply, her eyes wide and bright with indignation. “My father—”

“Is my enemy,” I remind her. “As are you.”

Her glare could burn holes in steel. Luckily, we’ve reached our destination before she gets the chance to really hit me with it. I pull off into a clearing, parking up by a pair of huge rocks. The SUVs glide up behind us, hanging at a distance. I watch three of my men peel out of each vehicle and set themselves up in a seamless perimeter, rifles held to their chests. Good. I’m not exactly looking forward to a repeat of the attack three nights ago.

“What is this?” Kate asks, a hint of anger in her voice.

I simply give her a look, one brow raised, then unbuckle my seatbelt and climb out, leaving her alone in the car. She’s quick to follow, plunging her boots into the snow and following me out into the field.

“What the hell, Luca? How long are you going to jerk me around like this? I know I’m your prisoner, but I’m not just any prisoner—”

“You’re rusty.” I turn, drawing a pistol from the holster beneath my arm. It hurts like a motherfucker—every movement does. I’m bandaged up heavily, and I’m not too proud to deny painkillers. I’m on a heavy dose, but not enough to fuck me up. I need my wits about me. Not just because of what happened—but because of her. She’s keener than I thought she was. Quicker. And infinitely more dangerous. “If you’re going to be hanging around, you need to be a better shot.”

Kate looks at me in disbelief, brows raised practically to her hairline. In the cold, her porcelain skin has gone pink: her cheeks, the tip of her nose. It’s amazing what transforms a woman. Just now, she looks so soft and innocent as a cartoon princess. But just a few nights ago, she was animal, lethal, pistol in hand and blood spattered across her face.

She has a temper—I like that about her, never trust a woman who doesn’t have a temper—but this time, for some reason, she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she casts a look down the field, spotting the discreet set of targets erected in the snow. Rusty. I can practically feel the word sliding up under her skin, biting into her bones, nicking nerves. Maybe I know this girl better than I thought.

Instead of saying a word, she plucks the pistol from my hand, turns, squeezes one eye shut, and knocks out three quick rounds. Each one pings off a different target. She tries a fourth—the furthest—and is answered with what I imagine is a very frustrating silence.

She lowers the pistol, and I watch her, the focus on her pretty face, in the hard set of that soft pink mouth. Breath clouds from her nostrils. She’s gauging the distance, writing it off as too far. Even I struggle with the furthest target from this shooting platform. I expect her to call it, shove the gun back at me, and demand answers. Instead, she brings the pistol neatly back to her eye, breathes deeply once, and fires on the exhale.

Ping!

“Rusty, my fucking ass,” she says, and now she does shove the gun back at me, flicking the safety and letting it swing once neatly around her index finger. “You didn’t bring me out here for target practice. You brought me out here to pitch something. Thought it’d get me into your good graces to get some fresh air, like an animal. Thought it’d win me over to keep me out of handcuffs, to let me shoot your gun. Like a good cop.” She turns and faces me squarely, her shoulders hard. “Fuck you. You’re not a good cop. You’re a businessman. And I’d like to hear your pitch.”

Fuck. I stand there caught off-guard, yet again. I don’t, at this moment, really care who Kate McNamara is or who she thinks she is. I’m so bluntly, blindly turned on that for a minute, all I can imagine is taking a fistful of that pretty hair and dragging her against me, opening her mouth against mine, owning her tongue with mine. What would she do, I wonder? What if I slid my hand into her fleece leggings, felt for her, stroked her? Would she welcome my fingers? Would her breathing go ragged? Would she fall against me?

How quickly, how easily could I make her come?

She’s not going to be too eager for any of that when she hears what I have to say. I clear my throat, replacing my gun in its holster and sliding my hands into my pockets. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.

“You and I,” I say, noting the way her face tenses, the way she’s already doing the math. “Will be getting married, legally, tonight. No ceremony. Just the paperwork. But it is legal. And it will be binding.”

Red floods her soft, pale face. Her eyes blaze. But she seals her lips and says nothing. I can tell, though, that she’s burning with it. Dying to tell me to fuck myself, to go die.

“If you do not agree,” I continue, “I will do it by force.”

Her hand flashes out. I might have enough time to dodge or duck, but something in me wants to feel just how hard she can hit, to gauge just how much rage this woman is carrying around in her bones, in every taut muscle. It’s a mistake—I’m expecting a slap. What I get is a practiced, poised, closed fist straight to the mouth. My inner cheek breaks against my teeth, and I’m surprised at the oomph of the blow. It rocks me a little and snaps my head to the side, but I remain in place.

I touch my jaw tenderly, slowly turning to look back at her. Her eyes are bright with tears. One of my guards has appeared, almost silent even in the snow. He has Kate by the back of the neck, his gloved grip tight enough to make her shoulders surge up to her ears. She reaches back, fumbling for him, but her fight is spiritless, and he’s got her in a good hold. I wave a hand, and after a beat, the guard releases her, gives me a curt nod, and trudges back to his post.

“Done?” I ask, looking at her hard. When I wipe a hand across my mouth, it comes away bloody. “I’ll let you get away with that this once because you saved my life the other night. But do it again, and there will be consequences.”

“What consequence,” she asks through gritted teeth, “could be greater than marrying you?”

“It is the way of things.”

“It is an archaic way of things.”

“Perhaps. But an effective one nonetheless.” I step toward her, looking down to meet her eyes. “You will marry me tonight, Kate. And if you so much as think of putting up a fight, I will make certain you pay for it.” As I say it, I reach for her, slowly unfurling the knot in her scarf. Her eyes are sapphire infernos, locked with mine. She trembles slightly, breath pluming coldly from her nostrils. Her scarf falls open, and I unzip her parka and unroll the neck of her sweater beneath.

Her neck is exposed, and the band of bruises from Dome’s hands the other night laid bare. They’re days healed now, but still dark, mottled green and yellow with stark streaks of red. Fuck. The appearance of them fills me with blunt, sudden anger. And when my fingers dance over her skin, I’m filled with something else entirely.

“Don’t test my power,” I say softly, leaning nearer. Her eyes dart to my mouth and back to mine so quickly I might have imagined it. “Don’t tempt me, Kate. You have no concept of what a terrible man I can be.”

She quivers as my hand slowly, gingerly clasps around her battered throat. I run my thumb up the side of her neck and bring it to the soft angle of her jaw. I press myself ever so slightly nearer, sense her sway toward me—and then her lips part, just a hair. And her eyes flutter shut.

A knife of desire plunges up into my ribs. Everything in me screams to pull away. A wise man, a controlled man, would. What the fuck do I have to gain by kissing her? She’ll be my wife tonight.

What the fuck do I have to lose?

I tighten my grip on her neck, just slightly, not enough to hurt. And lean closer, my pulse catching. Her eyes slit open, just a little, and lock with mine. She doesn’t so much as blink. Doesn’t flinch away as I draw nearer. I don’t close my eyes. Neither does she. Even as my mouth grazes hers.

Fuck. She tastes good. Like something specific: chamomile? Lavender? Slowly, deliberately, I slide my tongue over her bottom lip.

She makes a weak little sound, a mewl from deep in her ribs. And I feel myself stiffen, feel my grip on her neck tighten. And when she leans in, my breath catches in my lungs. Her mouth catches mine fully, not a graze of the lips this time. And as soon as we’re kissing, her tongue is gliding into my mouth. I grunt, startled—and the spell snaps out of place.

Kate recoils, going completely white. Her eyes widen, and she looks horrified, one hand flying to her mouth. “I…”

She didn’t realize what she was doing. Why the fuck is that so hot? She was just so seduced by me that she kissed me—her enemy. Her father’s enemy. Her captor. “Tonight,” I say. “And don’t waste your energy or efforts putting up a fight, Kate. It’s already decided.”

And with that, I brush past her, leaving her alone, scarf in the wind and coat open, bruised throat exposed and snow just beginning to fall: landing like a kiss on her parted lips.

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