Page 17 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

Her proclamation feels like a slap in the face, but I absorb it, maintaining my calm.

She’ll understand eventually. She’ll forgive me. She’ll come to terms with this being the best thing for everyone.

She’ll want me again.

She won’t hate me.

I repeat it all like a mantra in my head, calming myself. When I speak again, I’m able to keep my tone soft, coaxing her.

"Think about what I can give you," I murmur, like I’m trying to calm a wild animal. "Security. Comfort. Our child will never want for anything. You'll never have to worry about money again, never have to struggle the way you have been."

"I don't give a damn about your money," Bridget snaps. "And I wasn't struggling. I was building something. Something that was mine."

“It isn’t gone,” I tell her calmly. “I told you I’ll pay the mortgage. There will be other customers—”

"That garage is my life! It's my father's legacy!" Bridget seethes at me, her hands curled into fists. The scratches she left on my face sting, but I ignore them for now. I need to make her see reason.

“Nothing will happen to it. I promise you that,” I tell her as calmly as I can. “Right now, the focus is you, Bridget, and the child you’re carrying. I’m trying to help us both—”

"By forcing me into a marriage I don't want?" She spits the words at me, and I feel my jaw clench. This is going to be more difficult than I expected it would.

"By giving you and our child the protection of my name. My family’s name."

Bridget laughs humorlessly, her eyes sparking with rage. "Your family? You mean the criminal organization that your father ran? The one that probably got him killed?"

My entire body goes rigid, anger rippling through me at her assumptions. The things she’s speaking of that she knows nothing about.

"My family has survived and thrived in this city for generations," I say tightly. "We protect what's ours. And you're mine now, whether you like it or not."

"I'm not yours," Bridget snaps. "I'm not anyone's. And I sure as hell won't be trapped in some mafia marriage, living in fear for the rest of my life."

“You’re not going to live in fear!” I let out an exasperated breath. "I would never let anything happen to you. Never."

“I’m talking about living in fear of you!” she spits out. “You’ve taken away my freedom now. My choices. My life. All because you think you have some kind of claim on me—”

“I do!” The words come out as a roar, and Bridget shrinks back, the first time I’ve seen her cower away from me.

It makes something ache in my chest, makes me wonder if I need to step back and reconsider how far this has gone—but what can I do now?

She’d run at the first opportunity, and I can’t let her go.

“You are carrying my child. My heir. That’s all there is to it. ”

“You don’t have any claim on me.” Bridget’s voice has gone flat. “You have a prisoner. That’s it.”

We look at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard. I draw mine in slowly, trying to calm down as I look at this woman who has completely upended my life.

And, I suppose, I’ve done the same to her.

“Eat,” I say tiredly. “Get some rest. I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment for you—a house call,” I add, when I see a gleam enter her eyes. “You’re going to stay in this room until you can prove to me that you’re not going to try to run.”

Bridget crosses her arms over her chest. “I guess I’m staying in here forever, then.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I guess so.”

We’ve both run out of fight for the moment, it seems. I look at her for a long moment—beautiful and wild and ready to claw my eyes out—and turn back to the door, letting myself out into the hall without another word.

With the door closed and locked again, I lean back against it, waiting to hear her shrieks and curses. But she’s quiet, evidently as exhausted as I am for the time being. My hands curl into fists as I try to regain my self-control, to remind myself that this is necessary.

I don’t know why I thought she would come easily. She was a spitfire when I met her. Kidnapping her was never going to go over well. But I thought she would see sense once I got her here.

Hell, I didn’t think it would get this far. I thought that she’d accept my offer before I knew she was pregnant, and after, when I was no longer asking her to be my mistress but to be mine completely—

I'm offering her everything. Wealth beyond her wildest dreams, security for her and our child, protection from a world she can't even begin to understand.

I'm handing her a life that most women would kill for, and she's throwing it back in my face like it's garbage. Last night I was at a party with gorgeous, connected, influential women vying for exactly what I’m trying to give Bridget, and she’s behaving like I’m putting her on death row.

The frustration burns through me like acid, making my jaw clench so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. I've never met anyone so stubborn, so determined to fight against their own best interests. It's maddening. It's infuriating.

And, in some twisted, fucked-up way, it also turns me on.

Even now, thinking about the way she stood up to me, the fire in her eyes as she told me she'd never marry me, makes my cock twitch, thickening as I remember the way she felt against me when I caught her.

The way her body responded to mine despite her protests, the way her breath caught when I touched her face—she can deny it all she wants, but the chemistry between us is undeniable.

Hell, even her scratching me turned me on. It just made me think of what her nails would feel like on my shoulders, my back, digging into my flesh as I make her come on my cock again.

Fuck. I shove away from the door, heading downstairs and pulling out my phone as I walk. I need to think, preferably with some distance between myself and Bridget so she’s not clouding my thoughts. I can’t think clearly around her.

I could use someone to talk to about all of this, too. And I have at least one friend left in Miami, someone not connected to the mafia and who won’t judge me for the way everything has gone down since I got back.

“You free tonight?” I ask as soon as he picks up after a few rings. “I need a fucking drink and a chat.”

"Caesar fucking Genovese.” Danny chuckles, his voice raspy from years of smoking. "Heard you were back in town. About damn time you called me."

Danny has been my friend since we were kids.

One of that ‘bad crowd’ Konstantin brought up during our first conversation—a punk and a street racer back then, although I’m not sure what he’s up to these days.

Back then, we got drunk and raced cars and chased girls, him riding the high of being young and alive, me riding the high of doing the opposite of what my father wanted.

“Murphy’s tonight?” I suggest. “I can meet you there at eight.”

“Sure thing. I’ve missed hearing from you, man. Fair warning—I'm gonna give you shit about disappearing for twenty years."

I chuckle at that. “Looking forward to it,” I promise him, and hang up.

Murphy’s is exactly the kind of place I need right now—a dark dive full of working-class guys who aren’t going to recognize or give a shit about me.

The bartender back in the day used to let Danny and me drink even though we were underage, and for all the places I’ve been since I left, I’ve always missed it.

When I walk in just before eight p.m., I have the first feeling of home that I’ve gotten since I’ve been back.

Miami itself is full of fraught memories for me, but all my memories of this place are good.

It’s all beer and darts and pool, long nights with Danny and the other guys, using our winnings to get drunk and hit on the girls who followed the street racers around like groupies.

This is the place that, as I walk in and breathe in the scent of cigarettes, old carpet, and yeasty beer, feels like somewhere I’d want to come back to.

Danny is in a back booth, a bowl of pretzels in front of him, and a dark lager in front of him.

He looks a lot like I remember from twenty years ago—still good-looking, if a bit greyer around the edges and with a few more lines in his face.

I get a beer from the bar on my way over, an ale that looks like exactly what I used to drink here.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Danny gets up, giving me a back-slapping hug before dropping back down into the booth. “I fucking missed you, man. Thought you were dead or some shit.”

“It’s been a close call a few times,” I admit. “But I’m still here. What about you? What have you been up to?”

Danny shrugs, taking a long swig of his beer.

“Rebuilding cars. Still racing now and then. Got married and divorced, no kids. You know—life shit. Nothing as exciting as what you’ve probably got going on, now that you’re back in town.

Sorry to hear about your dad,” he adds. “Or not sorry, I guess. Guy was an asshole, but he was still your dad.”

“I’m not sorry.” I shake my head, and he lets out a relieved breath.

“I never know what to say about these things. So you’ve come back to take over, I guess?”

“Something like that.” I let out a long breath. “It’s complicated.”

“I bet it is.” Danny gives me a long look. “You don’t seem all that happy about it.”

I consider how much to tell him. Danny's always been good at keeping secrets, and right now I need someone to talk to who isn't going to try to use the information against me.

“There’s more to it. I met someone.”

Danny whistles. “Already? You’ve been back, what, a few days?”

“A few weeks.”

“And you waited this long to look me up? Shit.” He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. He’s not actually pissed at me. “So, three weeks. And it’s already this serious? Drinking in a bar with an old buddy serious?”

I laugh drily, taking a long drink of my beer. “She’s pregnant.”

Danny’s eyes widen. “Shit. Good thing or bad thing?”