Chapter1
Gemma
“Son of a bitch.” I push through the hotel room door and slam it shut behind me. At least I try to, but the automatic stopper catches it, closing it with an unsatisfying click.
Stupid door.
I’m not even sure who I’m angrier with, my papà, for actually marrying me off, or my new husband, who had his cock sucked by someone who wasn’t me less than an hour after we said our vows.
Going into this arranged marriage with one of my dad’s business partners, I knew it wasn’t going to be some fairy-tale love story, but I was at the very least hoping for decency and respect between Luigi and me. That I would be treated like a person and not just as property or an accessory.
I guess I was wrong.
My chest feels too tight, the material of my wedding gown threatening to crush my rib cage and steal my breath.
My fingers blindly grasp for the top pearl button at the back of my neck, attempting to undo it, which isn’t an easy feat. I manage to unbutton two of them before I huff out in frustration. This isn’t going to work. None of this is. What I wouldn’t give to scream, or better yet, to punch a hole in the wall. But I don’t do things like that, or rather, the precious and obedient daughter of Lorenzo Fiore doesn’t.
Instead, I ball my hands into fists and try to alleviate some of this festering aggravation. My jaw is clenched so hard, I’m worried I might actually break a tooth if I can’t get out of this damn wedding dress in the next moment. I guess I could call my cousin, Ally, or someone who works for Papà to help, but I don’t want to see anyone right now.
Thank goodness I decided to change into a more casual outfit after we welcomed our guests at the wedding reception. This way, I should have a good half an hour before someone searches for me, maybe even forty-five minutes, if I’m lucky. Either way, I’m beyond grateful for this break. No way in hell would I have been able to keep a smile on my face after catching my husband cheating on me. I can only pretend to be the devoted new wife for so long.
My gaze lands on the desk, and a spark of hope blooms in my chest. I walk over and rummage through the drawers, excited to find what I was looking for . . . a pair of scissors. With an actual smile on my face, I snatch them and get to work. Careful not to cut myself, I start at the neckline and slowly make my way down the front of my body.
The pressure eases off my chest, and I sigh in relief when it allows me to fill my lungs with much-needed oxygen. The dress loosens around my hips, and I stop cutting and simply step out of it. My slip follows, both forming a large pile of chiffon, lace, and silk on the carpet.
Ah, freedom. At least for a short time.
I slip out of my shoes and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The desk lamp near the suite door is the only light source, and I welcome the dimness as I walk up to the glass. From the forty-second floor, Manhattan seems miniscule from the bird’s-eye view, yet also vast and enormous with all its skyscrapers.
A movement to my left snaps my gaze away from the city skyline and to the armchair situated in the corner.
It’s plush . . . but, more importantly, it’s occupied.
The person in it is swallowed up by the surrounding darkness. Once my eyes have adjusted to the low lighting, I'm able to make out a large man. Who is he? And how the hell did he get up here past security? Do they know him?
I swallow, trying to fight against the weight that’s pressing on my chest and robbing me of breath. Again.
“I have to say, you’re not anything like I expected. Luigi Rizzo usually likes his women quiet and obedient. Somehow, you don’t strike me as either.” His voice is dark and deep, like a cool touch on my overheated skin.
“Who are you?” I inhale deeply, my chest expanding with the fresh oxygen.
The rise and fall of my breasts is a painful reminder that I’m standing here in nothing but my bustier, thong, and garter belt. My hands itch to cover myself in front of this stranger, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my embarrassment.
If I’ve learned one thing from my papà, it’s that Fiores don’t show their fear. Or their emotions for that matter. I might have been kept home the last few years like a damn prisoner, but I’ve watched my male cousins receive their lessons from Papà or my uncle. Even when they thought I wasn’t paying any attention to them. My papà, and now my new husband, expect me to be a compliant princess, which I usually am around men, but I’m not a damn robot.
The stranger unfolds his legs and pushes off the chair. He’s tall, close to one of my cousin’s six-foot-five height, and instinctively, I take a step back.
“I’m a friend of the Martino family. They wanted me to talk to Luigi.” His steps toward me are slow and casual, clearly demonstrating who’s in charge here.
And the Martino family? My brain scrambles to remember any information about them.
To my knowledge, my family doesn’t have any beef with them, but Luigi does, which means now that I carry his name, I do too.
Fuck.
He makes his way closer to me, and even though I’m itching to wipe my damp palms on something, I refuse to show him an ounce of my discomfort. That’s what these guys usually get off on. They expect a woman to quiver in their shoes or to run away.
My eyes have finally fully adjusted to the dark, and with the stranger angled toward the light, I’m able to get a better glimpse of him when he’s only a few inches in front of me.