Page 1 of All’s Fair In Love & War (The Bulgari Cartel #2)

Sins Of My Family

Felicity

I lay on a thin cot—that I damn sure wouldn’t call a bed, with my knees pulled to my chest in a ball of nerves as I twisted a piece of thread from the sheet between my fingers.

Never in my life, and I mean never , did I imagine my kidnapping would end with an arranged marriage.

Death? Sure. Beatings? Absolutely. Starvation, maybe even rape?

I had braced myself for all of it, but marriage? Fuck. No.

This had to be a joke or some twisted prank that went way too far. Any second now, I was expecting Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the closet with a camera crew. Where the hell was he?

I, Felicity Veneto, was getting married to a man I didn’t love, one whom I truly despised, and there was nothing I could do about it except…

Give. Him. Hell.

Not by shrinking myself or staying quiet.

That was never my style. I wasn’t meant to play house or smile through gritted teeth.

He wanted me to fall in line and act as if this were a fairytale where I was lucky to be chosen.

Nah. He’d regret ever agreeing to this deal. Let another bitch be his peace.

I was here to be a problem.

He may have gotten my body in this deal, but my soul? My dignity? That still belonged to me, and I was going to make damn sure he knew it.

I’d just decided how I would handle things in the future when I heard a knock.

Two things let me know it wasn’t Khalil standing on the other side.

First, Khalil never knocked. He just barged inside without a care in the world, as if I couldn’t have found something to knock his block off.

Second, it wasn’t loud or aggressive. Neither was Khalil, at least not outwardly, but we were at war, and he lived for the petty moments that got under my skin.

Before I could respond, the door opened halfway, and a woman in a black blouse and pencil skirt stepped inside. Her hair was pinned up neatly, not a single strand out of place. I could tell she was someone who took her job too seriously to ever be late.

“Miss Veneto?” she whispered my name in question, her tone careful, not quite warm, but not cold either. “I’m Doreen. Mr. Bulgari sent me to escort you to your new room.”

Room?

The word rattled around in my head, refusing to settle.

I wasn’t even sure how to respond. I wasn’t a prisoner anymore, apparently, but I also wasn’t free, and now I was being given a room, as if I had been welcomed here instead of kidnapped.

I was more like a bride-in-training whom he could groom and manage.

The whole thing reeked of manipulation, hidden behind a fake show of generosity.

I stood slowly, watching her the entire time.

“I don’t want a damn room. I want to go home and forget your employer ever kidnapped me,” I said, my tone combative.

She nodded once, as if she expected my pushback. “I understand,” Doreen said. “But Mr. Bulgari was clear. He said it’s time you were treated like the woman of the house. You will be his wife after all.”

I didn’t move right away. My legs were fine, but my pride needed a second.

Eventually, I nodded. “Fine. Let me see what he has up his sleeve. Just know, if it’s some bullshit, everyone will regret it,” I warned, glaring at the woman, though I knew she was only doing her job.

“I understand, but you’ll be pleasantly pleased with your accommodations. Mr. Bulgari went above and beyond to ensure it is as luxurious as you deserve,” Doreen stepped aside, motioning for me to follow. “Right this way, ma’am.”

The hallway outside was quiet, the air thick with the scent of fresh flowers and polished wood. Everything in this place had been carefully curated, and now it felt as though I was being added to the collection.

As we walked, I noticed the way her heels clicked evenly against the floor, unbothered by the silence or by me trailing behind her.

No one knew what I might be plotting or if I had something up my sleeve, and the worst part was, they didn’t seem to care.

I could be dangerous. I was dangerous, and I hated how invisible that made me feel. I was someone worth fearing.

Was this intended as a reward for compliance? A test to see if I’d play along now that I had something to lose?

Maybe. Probably.

But I still followed.

Not because I trusted him, and not because I had anything to lose.

I just needed to see where they thought I belonged, so I could figure out how to burn it all down.

A few minutes later, Doreen stopped in front of a door. When she opened it, I didn’t expect much, but what I walked into nearly stole the breath from my lungs.

It was luxury, ridiculously breathtaking luxury, and bigger than my entire first apartment.

There were velvet drapes, a king-sized canopy bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton, gold accents carved into every surface, and a marble fireplace that flickered with a low, steady flame.

A plush rug softened every footstep, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and sandalwood.

I was in awe until I saw the windows. Each one was boarded shut behind the heavy silk curtains. Shaking my head, I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped me. The illusion of freedom was cute, almost charming, in a sick, twisted way.

It was a palace, but it was still a prison, and I didn’t care how soft the sheets were.

I was already plotting how to set them on fire.

I stepped farther into the room, my heels sinking into the thick rug that probably cost more than some people’s rent, while Doreen stood to the side like a silent watchdog, letting me take it all in.

The room was gorgeous, yes, but it screamed of captivity.

The bedding was snow white, so crisp it looked untouched.

Monogrammed pillows embroidered with a golden “B” were fluffed just right.

There was a vanity against one wall, stocked with expensive makeup brands I hadn’t seen since the last time I walked out of Saks.

Across the room sat a full closet with doors cracked enough to reveal a lineup of designer pieces in my size.

Oh, wow, he had everything tailored for me.

There was even a glass cabinet filled with accessories like bracelets, watches, and earrings. Some I recognized, some I didn’t. And next to it was a full-length mirror framed in gold, positioned perfectly to reflect the bed.

Of course it was. I imagined Khalil was a freak.

And yet… every window was sealed. Thick wooden panels hid behind the curtains, blocking out sunlight, stealing the view, and making it clear there was no way out.

I walked toward one of them, parting the drapes and running my hand along the edge of the board, feeling the rough grain beneath my fingertips. It was solid and bolted down.

“Did you think I would be thoroughly pleased with this, too?” I muttered under my breath, and Doreen said nothing.

I turned around slowly, facing her. “Tell me something. Did he decorate this himself? Or did he just pay someone to figure out what I might like before he locked me in here?”

She hesitated, just for a moment. “He gave instructions to spare no expense. He wanted it to reflect your taste.”

I scoffed. “My taste? He doesn’t know shit about me.”

“Apparently, he spoke with your brother, Mr. Dallas Veneto, to find out what you would like.”

“That son of a bitch doesn’t know anything either,” I sneered, finding it insulting that he would pretend to know me.

Doreen didn’t argue. She only offered a short nod before stepping toward the door. “I’ll give you some time to get settled. Dinner will be brought up shortly, or would you prefer having dinner in the family room with Mr. Bulgari?”

“I would rather gouge out my eyes. Right here is fine,” I replied, disgust filtering through my tone.

Doreen gave a final nod before stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her. I stayed still, my focus trained on the silence that followed, waiting to hear the familiar slide of the lock clicking into place, but it never came.

The absence of that sound unsettled me more than hearing it ever had, and I stared at the door, blinking slowly as realization crept in.

It wasn’t locked. For the first time since this nightmare began, I wasn’t being sealed inside like a caged animal.

That should’ve been a relief, but all it did was raise new questions.

Khalil didn’t forget details. He wasn’t careless or distracted. Every move he made was intentional, precise, and calculated. So, if the door had been left unlocked, it was done intentionally, which meant this little slice of freedom wasn’t a gift. It was a tactic.

He was extending what he wanted me to believe was an olive branch, trying to show me that things had changed now that I’d been moved to a room with soft pillows and golden trim. However, I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe his sudden generosity came without a catch.

Maybe he wanted me to think I was safe now, or trusted, or that I had a choice in what came next. Perhaps he thought this would soften me, make me second-guess my rage, make me grateful, but all it did was make me more suspicious.

I turned away from the door, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching me bolt for it or even touch the handle. If he wanted to know how I’d react to being unchained, he was going to be disappointed.

I wasn’t going to run. I wasn’t going to beg. I wasn’t going to give him anything , not yet.

Let him keep guessing what I might do. Let him think I was adjusting, maybe even cooperating. But I hadn’t forgotten where I was or what he’d done to me. And no amount of luxury, no open door, no soft sheets or carefully lit fire would ever be enough to rewrite the truth of how this started.