Page 43 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

ABELLA

T he feeling of a warm cloth between my thighs stirs me from sleep, and I fight to open my eyes. I’m strung out on exhaustion, feeling like I just did the hardest workout of my life. In reality, all I did was lie there and take Angelo’s cock.

The man is built for ruin. I’m not sure how I’ll survive him.

“Is that tender?” He sweeps the cloth over my skin, wiping away his cum.

If by tender, he means I just took a baseball bat up both orifices, then yes.

I groan in response, and he gentles his touch.

“It will get easier.”

I don’t want to ask him how he knows that—or more specifically, how many virgins he’s deflowered. I’m imagining a whole stack of them.

I angle my head back and let my gaze wander over him. Every stitch of his clothing is black—the trademark Angelo Vitale I-don’t-give-a-fuck aesthetic.

If Cosa Nostra had a signature brand, it would be him in those tapered, no-break trousers, fitted waistcoat, and dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Depending on the day, you might also find him with various accessories.

Gold Rolex. Clubmaster sunglasses. Signet rings on his inked fingers.

There are three he wears often: a gold skull, the Vitale family crest, and a square-cut slab of onyx.

He’s effortlessly stylish, and admittedly, he’s been my inspiration for many of the looks I’ve shopped over the years.

But nobody can pull off Italian style like he does.

He’s edgy and masculine. Clean lines, tapered fits, and tailoring that hugs his body so perfectly, the standard can’t be matched. This is my NSFW content.

Angelo Vitale in casual Mafia wear.

He glances up and catches me eye-fucking him.

“Keep looking at me like that, cara , and I’ll have to brutalize this pussy again.”

Those filthy words and the rough edge in his voice spark another ache between my legs. There’s not a gentlemanly thing about him right now. I think this is how I like him best—raw and unfiltered.

He finishes cleaning me and drapes a blanket over the lower half of my body. Then he retrieves something from his trouser pocket and reaches for my right hand.

“This tracks your temperature and cycle.” He slides the silver ring onto my finger. “It will tell us which days are best for conception.”

When he releases my hand, I hold it up to examine the ring. I’ve heard of these, but I never imagined he’d buy one for me. Then again, we have a lot riding on this.

Two years for an heir.

I glance up at him, and I know he’s thinking about it too. I’m sure it weighs on his mind constantly.

“I also tossed your sleeping pills,” he says matter-of-factly. “You won’t need them when you’re in my bed. I have better options to keep the nightmares at bay.”

“That almost sounds sweet,” I tell him. “Except…you are the nightmare, darling.”

He gives me a dark look as if to say I have no idea.

Something flutters in my belly. It almost feels like we’re flirting, which is strange. I can tell he’s noticed the shift, too, because he’s itching to leave.

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.

“I have work to do,” he says. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll leave the yacht for a while.”

“Leave where?”

“We have dinner in Monaco. A few associates.”

I don’t have to guess what that means. Europe is the Cosa Nostra’s favorite playground.

I wouldn’t be surprised if half of our wedding guests are still here, sipping cocktails on a beach somewhere.

And now that Angelo has returned, he’ll be invited to every event under the sun.

As his wife, I’ll be expected to attend most of them.

But that isn’t what’s bothering me right now or why I’m asking these inane questions.

“Is Genevieve staying with us the whole time?”

“Yes.” He holds my gaze, his face a mask of indifference. “She’s my assistant. She goes where I do.”

A long, uncomfortable silence follows. Something hot flickers in my chest, and I try to tamp it down. To nobody’s surprise, he doesn’t allay my concerns. I’m sure he thinks I have no right to say anything after what I’ve done to him. I can foresee this war between us spinning wildly out of control.

Maybe we only have thirty days, but that doesn’t mean I have to forfeit right now. So I just come right out and say it.

“I won’t tolerate cheating, Angelo.”

A low, humorless laugh echoes through him as he fixes me with a contemptuous look. “Ironic coming from you.”

“I never cheated.” The words nearly get caught in my throat, which doesn’t help my case.

Of course, he doesn’t believe me. He may have taken my virginity, but he still thinks I left him for Matteo. The reasons why don’t matter. Not to him. All that matters right now is retribution.

He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “We’ll leave at six tomorrow. Don’t shower until I check your tattoos in the morning.”

He’s on his way to the door, and I don’t want him to go. Not on a bad note.

“What should I wear?”

He cuts me a sideways glance, eyes raking over me in one long, lingering sweep. “Wear something that sends a message.”

My heart thumps erratically. “Such as?”

His voice deepens, thickening with possession. “The Vitale Queen has arrived.”

Angelo Vitale.

He literally tattooed his name on the back of my thighs. As I observe the reflection in the mirror, a rush of heat zips down my spine. It’s such a feral, insane thing to do. How barbaric and degrading can he be, marking me like I’m his property?

More importantly, why do I like it so much?

Val was right. There’s something seriously wrong with me. I think he’s melted all my internal circuitry, and now my wires are screwed up. I shouldn’t find his psychopathy so charming.

“Madonna Mia,” I mutter under my breath. I’ll never hear the end of this if the girls ever see it.

I push those thoughts aside and get to work assembling my look for tonight’s dinner. I have no doubt Angelo’s going to make a big splash as news of his return spreads far and wide. Everyone will have eyes on us, and I’ll now be representing the Vitale name.

Monaco is known for its luxury and high society, so I lean into an old-Hollywood aesthetic. The gown is couture—a glittering gold, off-the-shoulder silhouette with a corseted bodice and Grecian-style draping. It hugs my figure, accentuating my waist and bust, and flatters my curves.

I pair the dress with a Tiffany bangle, Cartier diamond earrings, and a strappy gold metallic heel that coils around my ankle. For hair and makeup, I style a low chignon with loose, face-framing pieces and a natural base, adding just a touch of champagne shimmer to my eyelids.

I’m touching up my nude-pink lipstick when Angelo enters and halts mid-step.

I stare at him in the reflection of the mirror, watching as his gaze sweeps the length of my body. A long beat of silence passes before he scrapes a hand over his face and mutters a low curse.

“Do you like it?” I hate the vulnerability in my voice. I’ve always been confident in my styles, but this one feels more important than all the others somehow.

“Yes.” His voice is a rough caress I feel right between my thighs. “But there’s something missing.”

As he approaches me, I notice he’s carrying a distinct navy blue box with the Harry Winston monogram embossed on the front. I’m effectively shocked into silence.

He pauses behind me, his body heat brushing mine as he opens the box and removes a twenty-two-carat Riviere diamond necklace. I know exactly what it is because I saved it on my personal inspiration board, never really believing I’d own one, but dreaming nonetheless.

I try and fail to formulate a sentence as he drapes it around my neck and secures it for me.

“I’ll take that as your approval.” He breathes the words against my ear, the heat of his erection pressing into my back.

“It’s too much,” I whisper.

“You’re my wife now.” He turns me in his arms, inked fingers caressing my face. “I want the world to know it.”

“How could they not?” I stare up at him. “Between the ring on my finger, the ink on my body, and now this…There could never be any question.”

Something dark flickers in his gaze, indicating that for him, it’s still not enough. And in that moment, I realize it never will be. Because he could mark his name on my forehead, and it still won’t change the fact that I let him go.

Guilt makes me stupid, and I reach up on my toes, clutching his face as I try to kiss him. He turns away, rejecting me softly as he kisses my cheek instead.

“Time to go,” he says.

I nod, choking down too many feelings as he takes me by the hand and leads me to the main deck. We deboard the yacht, and after a short walk, we find Nicky and some of the other guards waiting for us with a fleet of vehicles.

Angelo opens the door to a metallic silver Aston Martin, and I pause to do a double take. At first glance, I can’t be sure, but when I notice the eighteen-karat gold accents inside, I know it must be the Goldfinger edition. A car so rare and exclusive that few will ever get the chance to own it.

“Is this even available yet?” I ask.

Angelo arches a brow at me, undoubtedly questioning my sudden interest in cars.

I only know about the James Bond-esque commemoration edition because Matteo went into great detail about how much he wanted this car.

But because of the limited production run and high demand, he wasn’t able to order one.

Clearly, Angelo didn’t have the same problem.

Seemingly reading my thoughts, he trails his fingers along the curve of my jaw. “He wanted it, so I took it.”

A shiver of awareness crawls down my spine. Clearly, we’re not just talking about the car anymore.

“Have a seat, cara ,” he says.

I do as he instructs, and he pulls the belt across my chest and buckles me in. Once he’s settled into the driver’s seat, we set off into the night.