Page 13 of Until You Break

EMILIO

“To the married couple!”

Alessandro flicked ash into his glass, then raised it toward us.

“To the Bellandi heir and his bride,” he said, voice smooth as smoke.

Luca’s knife tapped once against his plate, sharp and approving, like a gavel sealing the vow.

A hundred glasses lifted in answer. Champagne burst. Glitter rained from the balconies like confetti at a coronation.

Children darted under tables, chasing one another with stolen strawberries.

Someone fired a cork into the chandelier.

Damiano held my hand in plain view, the Bellandi heir parading his prize. His grip was firm, steady, deliberate. And though guards flanked me, no one acknowledged them. My captivity had been rewritten into devotion. Into a marriage I hadn’t chosen. But the ring burned like proof anyway.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, silk-draped tables stacked with towers of caviar and oysters. Smoke curled from cigars. Women in velvet lounged across the arms of men in tailored suits. The champagne never stopped. Neither did the surveillance.

Damiano didn’t release me once. He walked beside me like I was already his property, his arm slung around my waist in open possession.

Every few steps, his mouth brushed my throat, my jaw, the curve of my shoulder.

A kiss. A scrape of teeth. A murmur meant for my skin, not my ears.

None of it subtle. All of it deliberate.

I burned. With shame. With something worse. The suit felt like armor that didn’t belong to me. Too tight. Too sheer. Every line of me showed through. I hated it. Hated him. For making me feel it more.

I tried to pull my hand free once, jerked hard enough that my knuckles popped. A guard moved instantly, hand brushing his holster. Damiano only smiled and drew me closer, forcing my fingers to lace with his.

He walked slightly ahead, like I was his shadow. He greeted no one. Only touched me. He kissed my fingers, slow. Then my wrist. Then the corner of my mouth. He didn’t care who saw. He wanted them to.

“Every part of you tastes better when you’re scared,” he whispered.

“Keep shaking for me, piccolo. I’m going to make a masterpiece out of that mouth one day.

When I break you in that bed upstairs, I’ll keep the lights on so the walls remember too.

You’ll scream, and every guest here will know it’s for me. ”

I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to tell the room this wasn’t real. That I wasn’t his. That I’d never be. But my throat stayed tight, and the shame burned worse for it.

I’d only ever been with girls. Predictable.

Practiced. None of them had made me tremble.

And then there was him. Danger wrapped in velvet.

Command without words. The fire I wasn’t supposed to crave.

He looked at me like he already knew. And the heat in my gut wasn’t confusion.

It was recognition. I wanted him. And the shame of that want burned deeper than anything else.

“Emilio.”

“Enzo!” My brother’s voice cracked across the room.

I found him at the edge of the ballroom, between two guards.

Our eyes locked. For a breath, I wasn’t alone.

Beside him, Papà didn’t rise. His stillness bent the air.

Salvatore stood close, arm still bound in its sling.

His mouth moved once—“We’ll keep fighting for you”—before the guards closed in.

“Get the fuck away from my husband,” Damiano said, voice flat and final.

“Your husband is my brother.”

The guards moved.

“Escort the Valenti family out,” Damiano said.

Enzo fought them, elbows sharp, voice breaking raw. “He’s my brother…he’s my—” For a breath I thought he’d reach me, that I’d feel his hand close around mine like when we were boys. My throat swelled, desperate to call out, but nothing left my mouth except silence.

My chest hollowed. He was right there, and I still couldn’t reach him. Not my brother anymore. Not even mine to miss. Just another thing Damiano had stolen while everyone watched.

Marcella’s voice slid in, warm and deliberate. “You were brave tonight, figlio,” she said, low. “Don’t let him take without earning it. Even my son needs to bleed for what he keeps.” Her mouth curved, secretive. “You remind me of her.”

The words hit like a knife, sharper because of who she meant. Mama. Marcella’s best friend. My mother. Gone. In that moment I missed her more than my heart could take. The ache hollowed me, raw and unhealed, and Marcella’s gaze only twisted it deeper.

Damiano reclaimed my hand, turning us toward the crowd.

“Bellandi gold fits him well, doesn’t it?” The roar swallowed me.

“Get ready, amore mio. Let’s give them a show for our first dance.”

The music surged, the opening notes of Luna Amara flooding the ballroom. Slow. Sensual. Meant for sin.

Damiano tugged me into the circle of watching eyes. My knees locked. The room silenced. He wrapped one hand around my waist, the other gripping mine. The ring still weighed heavy, too bright, too binding.

Damiano’s thumb traced the band, pressing just hard enough to leave an ache. “You’ll never take it off, piccolino. Even when it’s gone, you’ll still feel me here.”

He dragged my hand up between us, forcing the gold to glint under the chandeliers. The light caught on the ring, on his rings, on my flushed skin, turning the binding into spectacle. My pulse hammered against it. Loud. Erratic. Too loud. I swore he could hear.

“Let them watch,” he murmured. “Let them see how perfect submission looks on you.”

“I’m not—” The word died under his gaze.

I tried to step back, but another guard shifted closer. Damiano’s grip tightened, his smile patient and cruel.

Across the room, Papà’s jaw clenched when Damiano’s hand slid lower. He didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t rise. His fingers whitened against the stem of his glass. The fury I searched for wasn’t there. Only silence.

His palm spread wider at my back, steering me through the turn so my chest brushed his with every pass.

His hand slid lower, territorial, practiced, pressing just above the swell of my ass, guiding my hips against his.

The ridges of his cock pressed hard, unapologetic, grinding in time with the music.

Dread tangled with a heat I couldn’t smother.

My cock stiffened, confused, hungry, ashamed.

The silk dragged cruelly as I shifted. Wet. Visible. Shame everywhere. My arousal seeped through, staining. If anyone looked closely they’d see it. My body’s betrayal on display.

Urgent. Begging without my permission.

“You move like you’ve been mine for years,” Damiano murmured. His lips ghosted my ear, hot and cruel. “Tell me, piccolo, is this where you wanted to end up? Bent around my hand in front of them all?”

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because they need to see what happens when a Valenti is made honest.”

“I didn’t choose this marriage,” I spat.

His smirk cut clean. “Your body’s making vows your mouth can’t keep.”

He rolled his hips, sharp, deliberate. My breath stuttered. His knuckles brushed my cock through the silk. The wetness made every stroke louder. Filthier. Undeniable.

“No?” he said. “Then why are you so hard for me right now?”

“Fuck you.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s the part you’ll miss when it’s gone.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know how you taste when you’re shaking. I know how you breathe when you’re about to beg.” His gaze dropped to my mouth. “That’s all I need to know.”

“One more roll of my hips,” he growled, “and you’ll come in your pants in front of your whole legacy.”

I yanked away. A guard shifted instantly, hand at his sidearm. Damiano didn’t signal. He just caught me again, grinding his claim against me in front of them all.

“Say it,” he whispered, hot at my ear. “Say amore mio for them.” The demand froze my tongue. Panic locked my throat. When I stayed silent, his grip tightened until I rasped the words out, shame catching in every syllable.

“Chin up, piccolino,” Damiano murmured. He pressed my stance wider, trousers pulling tight, the outline of my arousal more visible with every sway. His thumb tipped my jaw higher. “They’re watching.”

And they were. Faces turned. Wine glasses caught midair.

My uncle’s gaze cut through, disbelief sharp.

Nonna leaned toward Luca, voice low enough to carry only to him.

“Bellandi theater. But the boy bleeds honest.” Luca’s knife tapped once more in answer, steady and cold.

A phone flashed once, catching me arched against him, my humiliation immortalized in pixels I would never reclaim.

The thought crashed over me, what the gossip would sound like tomorrow. My name dragged through whispers in every hall. My ruin rehearsed in mouths that would never let me forget.

The crowd clapped. They laughed. He bit my shoulder through the shirt, then lingered, sucking a bruise into my skin. Possessive. Erotic. A mark that would last.

My hips jerked forward. Grinding harder against his thigh. Betrayal. Another ripple of laughter cut through me.

“You’ll remember this dance.”

Then he caught my wrist and forced it higher, palm against the hard plane of his chest, right over the thud of his heart. To anyone watching, it looked like I’d reached for him willingly. Applause swelled.

“You think this is what power looks like?” I hissed. “Making someone unravel in front of strangers?”

“No,” he said. “Power is making you want it. And you do.” His hand pressed flat to my spine, forcing my hips harder against his. “Feel that? You’re leaking for me in front of your father. Staining your fine suit for everyone to see. Every twitch of your cock is a confession.”

Then he rolled his hips slow, angling me so my cock dragged against his thigh, friction sharp enough to make my breath stutter.

The music swelled. My chest heaved. Heat licking up my neck, pooling low, undeniable. I could see our reflection in the shine of the parquet floor, his mouth at my throat, my body arched against him. Shame written in the line of my hips.

“And look,” Damiano whispered, lips grazing my jaw. “They’re all watching you fall.”

And I would remember. Every detail already burned into me. The press of his hand at my back. The heat of the ring against my skin. The scent of his cologne laced with sweat and wine. Irrevocable. Terrifying. Intimate. Like something inside me had just started to live. Or die.

His breath curled against my mouth. “This is just the beginning. Upstairs, I’ll make sure you never forget who owns you.”

Terror. Heat. Need. I couldn’t breathe. And under it, the ache of Mama’s absence, a ghost threaded through the shame.

The night wasn’t done breaking me yet.

My ruin was already written, and it was wearing his name.