Page 9 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

ROCCO

G rowing up, Lucia probably never envisioned her wedding day like this. But then again, I doubt she ever imagined a man like me would be the one standing across from her, waiting for her surrender.

She likely imagined worldwide debuts as a classical pianist.

She craved standing ovations and awards, not parties celebrating the ultimate prize of a man's name.

My name.

I imagine there were no fantasies of white dresses or Rolls-Royce Phantoms delivering her to lifelong purgatory. Her career and independence meant too much to her to get caught up in the fairytale of matrimonial bliss.

Still, you can't be a woman in America without the wedding machine being jammed down your throat. Thanks to cable television, she knows what a wedding is supposed to look like. However, nothing on TLC or Bravo could prepare her for this moment.

Lucia stands beautifully in my office, trying to ignore her sore behind, wearing the same filthy dress in which she was kidnapped.

She’s also nursing a growling stomach. I hear the evidence as I hold tightly to her wrist. She’s reached behind her and snuck no less than five mints from my desk since we’ve been here.

She’s trembling, not with fear, but with fury. I admire it, truly. She holds her head high despite knowing there’s no way out. She’s magnificent in her defiance—an inferno refusing to be extinguished. And God help me, I crave her submission just as much as I desire that fire.

The priest clears his throat. I prefer to use a judge in a situation like this. And that was my plan, until the judge I hired was found slaughtered in his chambers an hour ago.

Leo.

“Shall we begin?” He presses.

Lucia doesn’t even look at him. Her gaze is locked onto mine, those deep brown eyes seething with hatred. She speaks before I can, her voice steady.

“I won’t do this.”

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Oh, but you will.”

“I’d rather die.”

I step closer, closing the space between us, my grip tightening around her wrist. “Dramatic, la mia piccola palla di fuoco. But we both know you don’t mean that.”

She jerks, trying to free her arm, but I don’t budge. And then I see it. The flicker of something calculating in her eyes. She’s planning something.

I let her believe I don’t notice as she subtly shifts, her fingers inching toward her sleeve. It’s almost admirable, her desperation. The way she’s willing to grasp at any possibility of escape, even when the odds are stacked against her.

Then, in a flash, she moves, fingers closing around a hidden ice pick. My little warrior. Clumsy but brave.

She lunges, aiming straight for my throat, but she’s predictable. Before the blade can touch me, I catch her wrist in midair, twisting just enough to send the weapon clattering to the floor. Her sharp cry of pain barely registers.

The priest steps forward, ready to intervene, but I lift a hand.

“No,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Let her have her fight.”

Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. She’s panting, her entire body rigid with anger, but I see that flicker of regret behind her bravado.

I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “That was a mistake, Lucia.”

“Go to hell,” she spits.

I chuckle, stroking my thumb over her jaw. “Oh, Lucia. You are going to learn, my love. You will fight, you will rage, but in the end? You will submit.”

She shudders, and for a split second, I wonder if fear courses through her-or something else.

The priest, looking increasingly uncomfortable, clears his throat again.

“Priest, leave us,” I command him. “Wait outside the door. It seems my Piccola Ragazza needs a reminder of why we’re here.”

Lucia gasps and pulls against my grasp. "Hold on," she shouts. "I thought you said we were coming upstairs to meet a judge. Do you mean to tell me you dragged an actual man of the cloth into this blasphemous sham of a wedding?”

Looking uncomfortable, the priest quickly exits the room, and Mario comes out of the shadows and steps closer to Lucia and me. From the surprised look on her face, she must not have realized he was in the room.

I turn back to Lucia, my hand still firm on her arm, anchoring her in place. “Now, about your inquiry.”

She stiffens as I tilt her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Judge Robertson was supposed to be here tonight, but plans changed.”

Mario clears his throat, stepping forward. “Roc, do you think this is wise?”

His voice cuts through the air, triggering something in Lucia. Her entire body stiffens, and her breath hitches. I see the realization dawn on her face—the recognition.

Mario. He was the one who took her from her home, the one who shoved her into the car and brought her here.

Her eyes snap to him, wide and filled with something darker than anger. Something close to terror.

He would never harm her. But it’s not in my interest for her to know that right now.

Mario glances at me but doesn’t step back. “The more she knows, the bigger a target she becomes.”

I exhale sharply, ignoring his concern. “She’s already a target, Mario.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, flipping the screen toward her. The image of the judge, carved up and left in his blood, makes her visibly pale.

But still, she looks at the photo closer and then huffs in shock. “Is that an LR carved into his chest?”

I nod. “Yes, Piccola Ragazza, Leo Romano killed him before he could serve us this evening. So, I called our family priest.”

Lucia stares at the mutilation, realization dawning behind her horrified expression. She finally understands what she’s running from, what I’m protecting her from.

Her breathing grows shallow, panic threatening to take over.

“He’s going to kill me,” she croaks.

I grip her tighter, my voice dropping. “No. Breathe, little one. You’re safe.”

She swallows hard, her hands trembling. But when she looks up at me, there’s something else in her eyes.

It’s not trust.

It’s need. Dependence. Fear.

Good. She’s learning.

* * *

A few moments and two shots of whiskey later, the priest returns to his spot in front of my desk.

Lucia is more relaxed, and I’m getting impatient.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say, turning back to him.

The vows are simple and move quickly. I say I do, but unsurprisingly, Lucia refuses to. Her fear doesn’t force her into compliance.

“I don’t consent to this,” Lucia hisses under her breath. “You can force me to stand here, but you can’t make me agree.”

I’m impressed. But this is not the time to admire her strength.

I sigh, shaking my head. “Lucia, I was hoping you’d show some grace now that you know what’s at stake. But you insist on making this difficult.” My voice drops, smooth and hypnotic. “Very well. We’ll do it the hard way.”

She doesn’t see it coming.

With a swift motion, I pull her flush against me, my hand wrapping around the nape of her neck. Her breath hitches, her body going still. I lean in and grind my hard dick against her center, my lips brushing her ear.

“Say it,” I command, my voice low and firm.

She shakes her head, her nails digging into my chest.

I trail my fingers down her spine, slow and deliberate. “You are mine now, Lucia. Whether you fight or not.”

Her body betrays her, arching slightly at my touch before she catches herself. I sense her hatred, but I also feel her confusion, her body at odds with her mind.

I pull back slightly to look into her eyes. “Say it, Lucia. Or I will put a call through to Leo and tell him exactly where you are.”

Her breath stops.

For the first time, genuine fear flickers across her features.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispers, her voice breaking slightly.

I smile, but it isn’t kind. “Try me.”

She knows I won’t let him have her. But she also knows I will make her believe I would. That’s all I need. Her fight isn’t worth her life, not when she’s smart enough to know better.

Her lips tremble, her fingers clenching into fists.

“I…” She swallows hard. Her pride is thick in her throat, choking her.

I press a hand against the small of her back, keeping her close. “Say it, Lucia.”

She exhales sharply, hatred burning in her gaze. “I do.”

The priest rushes through the rest of the rites, sensing the volatility in the air. And when it’s done, I tilt her chin up, claiming her gaze before I claim her mouth.

“There,” I murmur. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Then I take her mouth, firm, deliberate, mine.

Not a kiss. A claim. A warning. A promise.

Her lips tremble against mine, soft and defiant, but I don’t give her space to think, to breathe, to pull away. When she finally yields, I devour her like she’s already mine—because she is.

This isn’t tender. This is possession.

I kiss her like I own her body, her breath, her future.

And when she gasps, I swallow it whole—the sound, the surrender, the last bit of air she has left.

She’ll remember this.

She’ll remember me .

Because from this moment on, there is no going back.

She is mine now.

And I will break her beautifully.