Page 13 of Stolen Vows
One of them chuckles, and Stella’s wide brown eyes and sharp smirk flash in my mind. I can still taste blueberry, mint, and a hint of blood on my tongue. I imagine that long dark hair of hers twined around my fist while I fuck her on every surface of this condo, then on others outside it.
Touching her pussy through my gloves was utter torture. I wanted to drop to my knees right then and figure out if losing my mind and marrying her was worth it.
Something in my gut says yes. If nothing else, I can tell the hellcat will at least be a great lay.
But she’smine. Not theirs to touch, or speak to, or even look at. I made the decision to marry her, to have her by my side, and no one will fuck that up. Not some random person, not Stella herself, and certainly not the arrogant bastard before me.
“What would you have her do first?” I ask, making my way back over to where my father sits. “Service you, then Ranolfo…maybe Gino too?”
Talking about her like she’s a piece of garbage I happened to find on the street makes my brain scream, but I want to get a rise out of him. Want him to disrespect me in public so I can make him pay for it later.
I need this to be justified.
My father sits up straighter, snatching Ranolfo’s cigar. “Well, Christ, I haven’t thought about?—”
“Or maybe you’d skip the foreplay and just take her all at once?” My blood sings a song of violent chaos between my ears, rushing so loudly that I can barely hear myself over it. “She’s got three holes. I’d be willing to bet they’re great for stuffing if she fucks anything like she kisses.”
Unease ripples through the men. Ranolfo shifts away as I come to a stop in front of my father, crouching so we’re at eye level. I drape both arms over my thighs, gripping the knife so tight that my thumb goes numb.
“She’s a hot piece of ass, isn’t she? You wrinkly old fuckers are justdyingto get your dicks up long enough to use her, aren’t you? Show her what the De Tore family is all about?”
A half snort comes from Ranolfo, but my father remains stone-faced. He sucks on the cigar, then blows the smoke directly at me, unbothered by my taunting.
“You’re getting awfully worked up over a girl you say you don’t care about,” my father says, his words laced with a tenorof disgust. “It’s obvious you don’t have the guts to run this business. Still too much of a petulant child.”
He’s an idiot. To Flavio, I’ll always be a kid thrust into a role too big for him. Nothing more.
But perception is not always reality, and just because my father doesn’t think I’m capable of doing something doesn’t mean it’s true. Even though he’striedto make it impossible for me, damaging my hands and affecting the mobility of one, I’m still better than him.
He flinches when my arm rises, and I flick my wrist so fast that the motion is a blur in my peripheral vision.
When the knife lodges into Ranolfo’s thigh, inches above the knee, no one blinks. No one even breathes. The older man makes a garbled noise and sucks in a labored gasp when I pull the blade back out, warm blood pumping immediately from the wound onto his chair and the white rug beneath.
Frankie hovers near me, ready to spring into action if anyone decides to retaliate. He’s got two Glocks at his sides, and I hear someone else release the safety on a gun, but I don’t see where it comes from.
They don’t shoot, though. I don’t think any of them really know what to do, since they’d been expecting me to stab my father.
But that’s why I went in the opposite direction.
Now they’re afraid of what else I might do if I was willing to dothis.Maim an Elder.
Fear shines in their eyes, and that’s the way I like it.
I pinch the blade between two fingers, wiping off Ranolfo’s blood. Then I pin my father with a look. “Come near my wife, and you die.”
7
STELLA
Leo’s goon drags me out of the skyscraper’s private elevator, his nails biting into the skin above my elbow, which rests on my duffel bag. I’m not sure why I keep allowing men to manhandle me tonight, but I suppose the shock of the situation hasn’t exactly worn off yet.
My fighting instincts are in hiding, and while I’d like to think they’re saving their strength for later, it’s getting to the point where I can’t even lie to myself.
Not after letting Leopoldo De Tore defile my mouth behind Saint Paul’s. I would have let him do more, too, had we not been interrupted.
The thought sours my stomach.
Perhaps a bout of temporary psychosis could be blamed if I hadn’t seemed to enjoy his kiss so much, despite that razor blade cutting the inside of my cheek. Even now, my tongue slips to the side, gently roving over the pocket of skin it sliced through.
