Page 4 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

Her face hardens. I take it back—she is quite striking when she’s angry. There’s a definition to her cheeks, a hardness to her mouth I want to make yield. “Tell me,” she whispers, eyes wide and holding mine. “What kind of man are you, master?”

I tighten my grip on her wrist. Her pulse flutters, vital and wild, against my fingers. “The kind you will obey and serve, without question.”

Chapter 3

Dani

This man.

I had courage in the car. In the room upstairs. In this gown, in this room, in the wine. Tremulous and deeply buried, but courage nonetheless.

Every ounce of it flees me as his hand grips me, the heat of him branding.I hate him.At once and final as the drop of the guillotine. I hate him because this house is beautiful, this land of his is beautiful, his wine and his art and his words are beautiful.

But more so, I hate Santo Amata almost at once becauseheis beautiful. Unimaginably. A man rendered in strokes of oil, dark and tormented and all danger. He towers above me, a column of lean muscle, glowing olive skin and piercing, stormy near-black eyes. Dark curls swept back from a face made of hard, noble angles. I hate his full mouth, his elegant, statuesque nose. I hate that he commands me. I hate that even now, an instant after meeting him, after deciding I must hate him, my body is burning with something I can barely recognize.

Desire.

He has me close, and of the two, he blazes even hotter than the fire. My lower body is pressed against his, every unyielding, powerful inch of him. I’m utterly outranked.

“What kind of woman are you?” Santo asks, his voice barely a growl, his black eyes locked hungrily on my mouth. “Daniella?”

God.The way he says my name.

That desire, blind and lustful and utterly alien, locks tight as a fist beneath my navel. Suddenly, feathered and wild with wine, I can’t think straight.

I should submit. I knew I would have to. Ichoseto. But I didn’t expect this man to be sharp or beautiful or so very dangerous. Of all the things I imagined, attraction wasn’t one of them.

More than anything, it terrifies me. He is the enemy. Imusthate him—even if I must also serve him.

What kind of woman am I?The kind who knows what she must do. I force myself to stop trembling. I force myself to ignore the heat of him, the touch.

“I came here,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level, “to settle a debt. I will marry you. I will bear your children. I will serve you and do as you command.” They’re familiar words. I’ve been rehearsing them since the moment I chose this fate. But new words, angry ones, rise to my tongue too quickly to be stopped. “But I will never love you.”

“Love,” repeats Santo, and he jerks me closer still, so my body is pressed fully against his. I have to tip back my chin to hold those terrible eyes. “Who said anything of love?”

And with that, he releases me, so abruptly I stumble. Cold takes place in his absence, and I wrap my arms around myself tightly.

“Your father has long been my enemy,” he says, his back to me as he lifts his wine glass and drinks. Snow barrels against the tall, arched windows. “Now he is my subject. As you are. And for subjects, there are rules.”

He turns, eyes blazing. Even though I want to, I don’t dare look away. I simply nod, once. Understanding. Conceding.

“We will marry in the coming months, at my leisure. I have a great deal of work occupying me. And though I don’t care for your affection, I admit I have some pride, and I care for your will.” It’s only then I catch a hint of an accent; his English is so polished, so competent I almost forgot it’s not his native language. “I won’t force myself on you, Daniella. Not ever.”

I’m startled by this, and shamed by the flush that spreads telling across my face. “Dani.”

He looks at me in question, handsome brow furrowed.

I feel suddenly foolish. Quickly I add, softly, “Call me Dani.”

“Dani.” The anger that suffused the air so suddenly seems to fizzle and fade. “You will be lady of this great house. I expect you to learn it. To make it your home.”

“My home?” The words fall startled from my lips.

“You are not a prisoner.”

Not in so many words.But again, I only nod.

“There will never belove,” he says, somewhat scathingly. “But that shouldn’t be expected. You are my enemy, after all.”