Page 40 of Broken Crown

The morning rides to the office were exercises in exquisite torture—her body pressed against the opposite door of the Maserati, refusing to acknowledge my existence despite the confined space.

At night, I'd catch her watching me from shadowed corners, those blue eyes wide and unblinking in the dark. The moment our eyes met, her chin would jerk away, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, her throat working on a swallow she couldn't quite finish. But that half-second before she turned—her lips parting, her chest rising on a sharp inhale—told me everything her silence refused to.

She was still mine, whether she could admit it to herself or not.

I figured it was a fair trade-off for what I'd put her through that horrible morning. The image of Sabrina lifeless with a bullet through her head haunted my nightmares, tormenting me with grotesque details my mind couldn't seem to stop creating.

The dreams always started the same way. My legs leaden, my movements painfully slow as I fought to get to her. The pavement beneath my feet turned sticky with blood, each step more difficult than the last. The gunshots echoed off surrounding buildings, but I could never reach her in time. Sometimes I found her sprawled across the unforgiving ground, her sapphire eyes vacant, accusatory even in death.

Other times, Vittorio stood over her body, his knife dripping crimson. He turned to me with that sick smile, whispering, "The judge sends his regards."

Every time, I awoke gasping, the phantom smell of gunpowder and blood so real I had to check my hands to ensure they were clean.

But there were nights when I woke up for entirely different reasons.

Visions of Sabrina naked beneath me, her skin flushed with desire despite her hatred.

The memory of her body yielding to mine in that shower, water cascading over us as I claimed her against cold marble. The way she fought me even as she came undone. Those dreams left me hard, aching, reaching for a woman who wasn't there.

It took all my self-control, not a skill I'd ever truly cultivated, not to carry her into my bed each evening.

The animal inside me wanted to drag her by her hair, throw her down onto my bed, and remind her body who it belonged to, regardless of what her mind believed.

I wanted to mark every inch of her skin, leave bruises on her hips from my grip, bite marks on her inner thighs—physical evidence of my possession that wouldn't fade for days.

But I had to continually remind myself that I was playing the long game.

Sabrina wasn't some disposable plaything to be used and discarded.

She was to be my wife.

The mother of my children.

The woman who would stand beside me as I rebuilt the Diamanti empire in my image.

For that, I needed more than her body's surrender.

I needed her willing submission.

Mind, heart, and soul.

So I kept my distance, biding my time.

Letting her think she had choices, freedom, agency. All while the trap closed around her inch by exquisite inch.

Every night I lay awake, my body burning with need as I imagined slipping inside her door, pinning her to that mattress, and taking what was mine.

The waiting was its own exquisite torture. One I gladly endured, knowing the prize that awaited me at the end.

I had a lifetime of falling asleep with her tucked into my side ahead of me.

She would be mine. Completely. There was no other acceptable outcome.

Condensation beaded on the glass I clutched, slipping between my fingers. I raised it, ice rattling, and swallowed half its contents, the bitter liquor burning a path down my throat.

Arcangelo laughed and slapped me on the back, nearly causing me to spill the remainder of my drink. "Oh, so it's like that. Well, if you want me to take her off your hands…"

I glowered, heat flaring in my chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "I've already warned you once to stay away from her, Arcangelo. There won't be a second one."