Page 18 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

A m I Rocco’s wife… or hostage?

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between the two.

I should be plotting my escape and making plans. Resisting the pull of the man who drugged me, spanked me, and ripped me away from everything I’ve ever known.

But here I am—wrapped in luxury, breathing in his cologne, and wondering how it’s possible to hate someone so much and still want them every time they walk into the room.

Rocco Fieri is not a hero.

He’s a captor with a code.

A savage wrapped in silk, and I hate how safe I feel near him.

Yes, he’s kept me alive. Yes, he’s given me a taste of what it’s like to be truly claimed—body and soul—and I can’t forget that one devastating orgasm that nearly rewired my entire nervous system. But that’s not reason enough to surrender. Right?

And yet… if I run, where the hell would I go?

Leo’s still out there, hunting me like I’m his favorite toy that got stolen.

And now, thanks to some twisted Mafia inheritance I never asked for, I’m the viral sensation of the criminal underworld.

According to what I overheard from Rocco’s phone calls—yes, I was awake—my name is bouncing across the dark web like a damn bidding war.

I’m not just Ricci’s daughter anymore. I’m currency.

Leverage. A trophy with a price tag in blood.

So, no. I’m not safe.

Not in this house.

Not in my skin.

Not even in my head.

Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend my father will show up, guns blazing, to rescue me. It’s a nice fantasy. Matteo Ricci is powerful enough. Respected enough. But the truth? He’s known about me for twenty-four years and did precisely nothing.

No birthday calls.

No secret meetings.

Not even a single, fucking postcard.

When I was eight, there was a father-daughter dance at school. I asked my mom why I didn’t have a dad. She smiled, as if her heart was breaking, and told me he was lost to the wind. I thought that meant he was dead.

He isn’t. He’s just… absent. By choice.

My mom, on the other hand? She showed up . She found a kind doctor, Dr. Norris, who escorted me to that dance. And everyone after. He held my hand like it mattered. Like I mattered.

He died of a heart attack eight years ago, and I haven’t thought about a father figure since.

So no, I don’t believe Matteo Ricci is coming for me.

Not now. Not ever.

And that leaves me with exactly one option:

Rocco Fieri.

A man who burns when he looks at me.

Who touches me like he owns every inch of skin.

Who terrifies me—and makes my body betray me every time he’s near.

He’s dangerous. He’s brutal. He’s controlling.

But he’s also the only person in this entire blood-soaked nightmare who has made me feel… protected.

I don’t know what that makes me.

A wife?

A fool?

Or just a survivor clinging to the most dangerous lifeline in the room.

I walk over to a wall of windows and take a deep breath.

The balls he inserted inside me are working my body over.

Every step is like a caress to my inner walls, and it takes me a few minutes of practice not to falter with every step.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me succumb to his sexual torture.

The view outside the bedroom window is breathtaking. If I weren’t here against my will, I would call it romantic. Maybe that’s why he brought me here? A romantic gesture of some sort.

Rocco is like Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he’s attentive and caring for my needs, then the next he’s threatening me with soft-core violence. Just the thought of his rumbling voice earlier in my ear makes me shiver.

You will be a good girl and do what I say or face my belt against your ass. Your obedience is non-negotiable.

The nerve of the man is astonishing. However, I don’t doubt his words. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my new husband, it’s that he means what he says. His follow-through is unmatched. I need to cooperate until I can figure out a way to get free. It won’t do me any good to push his buttons.

I’ll start by arriving at dinner on time.

The shower is spacious and features a white and gold marble design.

The hot water and steam are just what my aching bones and muscles need.

I didn’t realize how much of an effect the last 72 hours had on me.

Escaping the safe house traumatized my mind, body, and spirit, and I never want to be that close to death again.

I take a deep breath as jets of water hit me from behind. A rainfall showerhead douses my body in water from above, making me feel brand new. A girl could get used to a shower like this. The water pressure in my Bronx apartment is never strong enough, and there’s barely enough space to turn around.

I want to come so bad that it hurts. He left me worked up and ready to explode. His strong hand slapping my ass does something to me.

It’s a kink; I never knew I had.

Then he had to go and insert these damn balls, I’m hanging on by a thread. But, I’ll obey because there’s no way in hell I’m letting him stuff anything in my ass.

After about 10 minutes of luxuriating, it’s time to get out. There is a heated closet to the left of the shower, where I find warm towels. I grab one, dry off, and wrap the large towel around me. I tuck it close as I step into the walk-in closet.

Rocco didn’t bother to get any of my clothes before he whisked me away.

There’s no telling what he’s packed for me to wear.

When I walk in, I’m pleasantly surprised to see row after row of soft cashmere sweaters, silk tank tops, white crisp button-up shirts, and comfortable jersey tops and dresses.

Everything is in soft muted colors and neutrals.

Exactly the things I would buy if I had disposable income to spend on clothes. How did he know?

Since it’s a little warm, I chose a long black silk maxi dress that falls below my ankles. My eyes widen as I notice Prada written on the label. The price tag is still attached, and I gasp.

$2150. 00

The foolishness that rich people spend their money on is beyond me.

That’s an entire month of rent for my New York apartment. My Morris Heights neighborhood is known as Little Ghana, and even though our rent is controlled, it’s still astronomical compared to what you get. But it’s where my people are.

I lay the silk dress on the bed and head over to the dresser to find some underwear.

Everything is neatly arranged, and the silk and lace are so soft I purr.

I put on a black thong and don’t worry about a bra.

My breasts aren’t itty bitty, but they’re not large either.

My B cup gets me by. The neckline of this dress looks fantastic.

The V-neck accentuates my cleavage in the best possible way.

Back in the bathroom, I look into the vanity mirror and realize my hair is just fine as it is. The shower steam made it damp enough to curl up on its own. Now it’s a big, soft, curly plume of hair. A few passes with the diffuser define my curls, and I’m happy.

I almost jumped with glee when I saw Fenty makeup products lined up in one of the vanity drawers. One swipe of Fenty lip bomb gloss and mascara is just enough. A spritz of some lemon perfume that apparently is native to this area is the final touch, and I’m ready to meet my master.

I halfway expect to find the bedroom locked before I remember he instructed me to meet him downstairs.

Outside the bedroom, my senses perk up. There’s a sea breeze fragrance flowing throughout the beautiful villa.

A landing is located right outside the main bedroom, providing a 360-degree view of the entire second floor.

I can also look down from the balcony and see straight through to the first.

He decorated the home in wonderful pale shades of white, sand, and gold with blue accents.

There are numerous plants, rock accents, and seascapes on the walls.

This isn’t a place I’d expect a harbinger of death to live.

This home is full of life and every good thing that God provides us on earth. The contradiction is unsettling.

I head down the stairs, following the unmistakable smell of garlic and tomatoes.

My mouth waters, and my stomach growls. His cook must be making some sort of pasta.

Maybe he’s in his office or something, and I can chat with his cook before dinner.

I could use a few more moments before facing him.

She may give me more information about my enigmatic spouse.

I put on a bright smile and walk into the kitchen, expecting to find an elderly Italian woman cooking up a storm.

Instead, I find my husband wearing a tight white T-shirt and gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

He’s stirring the pot of sauce in time with the Hazel Scott piano rift, blasting from his speakers.

His muscles flex as he stirs, and his hips sway slightly to the beat.

I stay quiet and enjoy a rare look at my husband unbound.

I clear my throat. Then he turns around and flashes me a smile.

A fucking smile.

It’s genuine. The kind that reaches his eyes. It’s the first one he’s given me since we met. He’s relaxed and in his element. This place must be his real home.

I run my hands along the spaghetti straps on my dress, suddenly self-conscious as he peruses me from head to toe.

I need to speak, or I’ll spontaneously combust from his heated stare alone.

He must have taken a shower because his hair is still damp, and the thick black strands are curling.

The man is sex on a stick, and I need to distract myself before I jump on said stick.

“I love Hazel Scott.” I blurt out.

He smirks, turns back around, and places a top on his sauce. He wipes his hand on a dish towel hanging on the stove before turning back around to lean against it and face me.

“I know you do. That’s why I’m playing her music for you.”