Page 14 of Abducted By the Mafia Don

Fuck it. There are only two options here: she knows she’s my captive, or she accepts my offer.

“I could protect you properly if he thought you were my wife.”

Her shock is almost a physical thing. I’ve never seen someone so still. It’s like she thinks if she moves or draws breath that will change what I’ve just said.

“What if I had come to pick you up from that club because I was your husband?”

I can practically see her mind whirring. “I left with those boys, I couldn’t have anyone thinking?—”

“They wouldn’t,” I cut her off abruptly. “You went to the club to meet your friends from university, left a little early, and were grabbed while you waited for me to pick you up.”

“I guess…” She’s a bit breathless, and frankly so am I.

She hasn’t said no yet. I can hardly believe my luck.

“So, what, we’re engaged?”

“Married.” I don’t like the idea of an engagement. That could be broken off. “Have been for a year.”

She huffs with laughter. “This is ridiculous, noone would ever believe you married me. And how would they even know?”

“We’ll go to some events, and tell everyone we kept our marriage a secret because your grandmother disapproved, and you didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.”

The sounds of doubt that come from her mouth would be endearing if I weren’t wracked with nerves that I’ll have to lock her in this house to keep her.

But she still doesn’t say no.

“Just until the threat from Thaxted is over?” she checks. “And then, what? We’ll pretend to divorce?”

No. Absolutely not.

I nod vaguely.

“We’ll figure something out.” Specifically, something that involves her staying with me forever. “For now, let’s ensure you look the part. Come on.” I hold out my hand and then swear internally as her gaze drops to it.

I keep forgetting she doesn’t feel this connection that I do.

It’s only a fraction of a second, and I’m already withdrawing my arm, pretending I didn’t desperately want to hold her hand, when she dives forward and her little, soft fingertips brush my big scarred knuckles.

I lead her upstairs to her bedroom, and to the dressing table—one of the only pieces of my mother’s furniture that remained in here during last week’s redesign. She gasps as I open the box, revealing jewellery passed down through the Richmond family for generations.

“Choose any ring you like.”

“I couldn’t.” She looks up at me, then down at the array of priceless heirloom jewels.

“Try.”

“But they’re all so beautiful and expensive.”

I attempt to see it through her eyes. To me, there are hundreds of tiny memories of my mother and my grandmother and my sisters wearing the necklaces and brooches and rings. There’s every type of combination of stones in shades of blue and green and purple—the colours of Richmond. Emeralds, amethysts, sapphires, and aquamarines. Big, showy rings and simple rows of princess-cut diamonds.

I guess it could seem intimidating.

“Taggie, my wife should have?—”

“But I’m not your wife.” She takes a step back, shying away, and I grit my teeth.

I really should have opted for a different strategy. Somehow, I imagined that if we pretended we’d been in love for a year already, the outward situation would match the way I feel inside: like I’ve been in love with Taggie forever.