Page 18 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

Kingston versus me.

I wander deeper into his penthouse, which looks exactly how I expected a man like Kingston Viacava would live. It’s dark, sleek, and meticulously designed to impress all who enter but not welcoming them to stay long.

Cold marble floors stretch beneathdesigner furniture that looks unused. The walls are bare, the color palette stuck somewhere between gunmetal and midnight.

I find my way to the bedroom. To our bedroom now, apparently.

He made that very clear earlier, when I’d asked if there was a guest room I could use. He promptly told me the spare bedroom was converted into a high-tech home gym.

Of course it was. Because why would Kingston need space for a guest, when everything in his world bends to serve him?

When I walk into the bedroom, it’s like crossing into the enemy's lair.

I’m sure the many women who pass through the sheets would think it’s impressive. The kind of space designed by a man who cares more about looks than substance. However, I don’t like anything about my prison.

The view from my penthouse was better and the soft furnishings turned it into a home.

This place is masculine and clearly maintained by staff. Every surface is polished to a shine. The walls are a deep charcoal, broken only by massive squeaky-clean windows that showcase the New York City skyline in all its glittering glory.

A monster-sized bed dominates the center of the room, covered in dark sheets and perfectly fluffed pillows like it’s waiting for a magazine shoot.

The room smells faintly of him—rich cologne and leather. I ignore how my belly swoops at the scent and move farther into the room, taking pins out of my hair as I go.

There’s not a single personal item in sight. No photographs, no clutter, no softness. Just an ugly blackdresser, a chrome valet stand, and a pair of cuff links gleaming on the nightstand like tiny weapons.

I hover in the middle of the room, arms crossed, taking it all in.

This isn’t a bedroom. It’s a command center. Every inch of it is curated and absolutely screams Kingston and his character. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, it’s my cage.

I walk to the bed, pick up one of the silk pillows, and toss it onto the floor. Then another. Then a third.

“Congratulations, Kingston,” I mutter, launching one into the corner. “You and your ego get the floor.”

It’s petty. Childish even. But it makes me feel better, even if the elation is short-lived.

With that small act of rebellion complete, I reach behind me and start undoing the tiny pearl buttons of my dress. One by one, I peel the whole ordeal off my skin and step out of the gown, draping it across a charcoal armchair like a corpse.

Then I shake out my hair, raking through the long waves that fall around my shoulders in tangled, chaotic relief.

Sighing, I pad barefoot into the bathroom and flick on the recessed lights.

For a minor room, it’s nothing short of stunning. All black marble and gold fixtures, backlit mirrors glowing like soft candlelight. The air smells faintly of him. Even in the simplest of spaces, I can’t escape him.

I turn on the shower and step inside before it even finishes heating up and when the icy water hits, it’s like absolution.

Tilting my head back, I let the water streak my mascara, drench my hair, and wash the scent of his cologne down the drain. That heady, expensiveblend that’s been stuck to my skin since I gave in to the fire he lit in my veins.

I scrub it all off. Every trace of his touch, every smear of makeup, and every memory of that brief moment when we weren’t enemies, when the tension between us became a half truce.

When I finally close my eyes, the only thing I let linger is the echo of his voice—tight with irritation when Lorenzo tried to put me in my place.

But I know better.

Kingston wasn’t standing up for me. The asshole was making a mockery of our situation by meeting his father’s expectations. There’s no way I’d believe he was protecting what’s his.

Steam still clings to the air as I step out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel tightly around myself. My skin is flushed from scrubbing, my hair heavy and wet as it falls in damp waves down my spine.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I just stare.