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"As your prisoner?"
"As my wife." His hand slides to my neck, thumb resting over my pulse. "Protected. Provided for. Free to build whatever life you want—within reason." His grip tightens slightly. "But you’ll never run from me again. Never take my child away. Those are my terms."
I close my eyes, feeling the trap close around me. Around us. "And Tony?"
"He’ll be retrieved. Protected. Given the same chances you're being offered."
"If I marry you."
"You're marrying me regardless." The steel returns to his voice. "I'm just being polite by pretending you have a choice."
More tears fall, but I barely notice them now. Because underneath the fear and guilt and resignation, there's something else. Something that feels dangerously like relief.
Relief that I don't have to run anymore. Relief that I don't have to lie or scheme or play both sides against the middle.
Relief that, for better or worse, someone else is taking control.
Even if that someone is Stefano Rega.
"Okay," I whisper, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. "I'll marry you. Just...please. Save my brother."
His kiss tastes like victory and possession, like promises I can't take back. Around us, men move with renewed purpose, the machinery of power spinning into action.
But all I can focus on is Stefano's hand, still curved around my neck. Claiming. Protecting. Trapping.
"It could be worse," Matteo murmurs as he leads me toward whatever comes next. "He does love you, you know. Even after everything."
I think of the way Stefano looked at me this morning, soft with sleep and trust I hadn't earned. The gentle way he'd touched me, whispered "I love you".
The way he's turning the world upside down now, just to keep me.
"I know," I whisper back. "That's what terrifies me."
Because love like that, possessive, obsessive, absolute, is its own kind of prison.
And I just agreed to a life sentence.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Stefano
The priest'sflawless Latin during the recital of the marriage ceremony echoes through the conference room, transforming the sterile corporate space into something almost sacred. Almost. If you ignore the armed men at every exit and the way Ava's hands tremble in mine. The steel bands we're calling wedding rings glint in the light.
She won't look at me. She hasn't since Matteo brought her in. She’s beautiful and broken in a cream dress someone procured at my command. Her skin is pale, with dark circles under her eyes, betraying how little she's slept. My doing. My punishment. My protection.
"I do." The words fall from her lips like stones, heavy with resignation. No joy. No love. Just surrender.
It should satisfy the monster in me. It should feel like victory, watching her bow to inevitability. Instead, something twists in my chest, sharp and bitter.
This isn't how I imagined marrying her. Even in my darkest fantasies, there was always fire in her eyes. Defiance. In my dreams, I would stare at the spark of fierce strength that made me fall for her all those years ago as we were married.
Now this hollow compliance tastes like ash.
"I do," I echo when prompted, letting my grip tighten on her fingers, letting her feel the strength that could crush or protect.
The priest pronounces us man and wife, his voice carrying no judgment. Smart man. I pay well for discretion, for understanding that sometimes monsters need legitimacy too.
Ava's pulse races beneath my thumb where it rests against her wrist. From fear? Anger? The child making her heart work harder? I observe each flutter, each tremor, storing them away with all the other details that make her mine.