Chapter 10

Opening my left fist, I fought its trembling, and I hated every second of it. It showed weakness, but I couldn't stop it. My body acted on its own, failing to heed my commands.

Massimo stood unbothered as he grasped my cold hand, gliding the gold band securely onto my finger. I dared to look up. His eyes swarmed in sadistic triumph as he memorized my ringed hand. His.

"You should change into warm clothes before we leave." His offer caught me off guard.

A dress in this weather wasn't my first choice, but it was the easiest to conceal and retrieve my push dagger.

"I'm not cold."

"Your body's temperature says otherwise." Massimo squeezed my fingers. The tell of my lie.

I pulled my hand away. "Do you care?"

He smiled. It was the first time I'd seen it, and while it reached his eyes, I didn't trust it.

"I care to leave the city before the storm arrives." He waved his hands. "So, if you need to get comfortable and warm, do so now. I won't be stuck in New York for longer than I need to be."

It was the longest Massimo had ever spoken to me, but it was clear he didn't care as he ignored my statement. There was no reason to say I, too, shared his hatred for New York. How I've been waiting for the last night I would sleep under my father's roof. A house that haunted me to the point of fleeing thoughts.

He. Wouldn't. Care.

"I'll grab my coat."

"Wait."

I froze, and his hand startled me as it applied pressure to my arm. Massimo then twisted his hand, bringing me back to face him once more. I had promised I wouldn't cower under his stare, but his eyes sought violence. With his hand tightening and causing pain, my heart could almost weep at the life I would have as his wife.

I wasn't expecting trust, respect, or love out of our marriage. I was no fool.

But I had wished for a life without physical abuse. A life I never wanted to return to. Because I would always fight back, and it would only hurt more.

Massimo's free hand tipped my chin. Defiant, I searched for his eyes, but they weren't on mine. They were focused on the bruise my father had gifted me by my hairline. His gaze then scrutinized every inch of my face. My arm muscles ached, and I swung my arm.

He held both my face and my body tight.

"Let go." I seethed, but my next words caught his attention. "You are hurting me."

He dropped his hands automatically, without an apology, as if he had lost his cool.

"Who?"

In one word, he ordered an answer.

"Do you care?" I asked again, but this time my tone had grown bitter. I could easily have said my father, but after the way he had hurt me himself, he had no right to ask.

"Don't be bold, Alessandra. I torture answers with a smile."

An icy chill settled over me. A whip of warning to stay quiet. A lash I didn't listen to.

"You would torture your future wife?"

"Yes." His detached voice answered. My breath hitched as my mouth parted, and I wanted to scream out the trapping shackle on my finger. Massimo closed any space left between us. His hand trailed to my chin. "I will have you begging." His thumb dragged my lip while his eyes trailed with the swipe of his thumb.

Quick, labored breaths filled my lungs as I reeled in his words. With his hands on me, it was a difficult task to accomplish. I tore away his heavy fingers.

"Now, answer me."

Exasperated, I blurted, "Franco Zanetti."

Massimo didn't seem shocked to hear my father's name, but he turned away from my gaze. When I found his eyes again, they were empty and out of my reach.

"I'm not used to being gentle," he said quietly. "But if I leave a mark on your arm, it will be the last."

"If you leave a mark, I'll be sure to leave you one."

My emotions won over the years of practicing deception, but I wasn't mentally capable of fretting over my tongue.

Humor shimmered through his eyes so quickly that it could have been an illusion.

I heard the whispers of Massimo Lombardi. The youngest mob boss to have ever taken over a syndicate. The ruthless and cold killer. How quiet and yet lethal his mind worked to his gain. Most importantly, how he was a man of few words. That when he spoke, each word was deliberately thought-out and purposefully said. Perhaps I should have paid them more attention.

"Stay cold then." I'd forgotten where this conversation had started. "After you."

Tired of mind games, I walked. While his steps were silent, his presence was loud behind me. Massimo's strong hand shot out in front of my body before I had the chance to open the door. Inked fingers gripped the copper doorknob, and I saw my brothers waiting as he pulled the door open. Both Aldo and Dante were far enough for privacy but close enough to hear a cry for help.

The weight of Massimo's hand connected with my lower back as he stood beside me. A jolt of warmth and possessiveness followed his hand gesture.

It wasn't the kind that would make your toes curl up from feeling wanted. It was the kind of possession that slowly suffocated. As he showed it in front of my blood, I knew that for men like Massimo, the word possessive was nowhere near the depth described in textbooks.

Dante's lips twisted, and for once, he kept his volatile actions restrained. When Massimo's hand pressed forward, I took a step with him in tow. Dante held on to a ledge so thin, with features flaring in displeasure. Meanwhile, Aldo's eyes watched me carefully.

I almost laughed. A belly and ear-splitting laugh at the absurdity of the play before me.