Page 23 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

Iadjust my tie for the third time, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The black suit is perfectly tailored, the shirt crisp, the cufflinks gleaming. I look every inch the successful don that I’m attempting to be—polished, sophisticated, marriageable.

That last thought makes my stomach turn, twisting in on itself at the thought of having to continue to play along with Konstantin’s schemes to marry me off.

The woman I want to marry is just down the hall, as intractable as ever, and I wonder how she’d feel if she knew where I was going tonight.

She’d say she didn’t care, of course, but I wonder how she’d really feel.

If some part of her would be jealous that I’ll be talking to other women tonight, looking at them as prospective brides, even if I’m pretending.

Isabella Torrino’s father is hosting the dinner tonight, but that doesn’t mean that Catherine and Elisa won’t be there. In fact, I expect they will be, and possibly other options too. I’m sure Konstantin wants to make sure that I have all I could hope for to choose from.

My jaw tightens. I hate being managed, being made to feel as if I’m being told what to do, backed into a corner with no way out.

In the past, my solution to that has been to run or to use violence, but neither of those are options now.

This is a whole new world that requires new strategies, and I can admit that I’m woefully underprepared.

I hadn’t expected to find so much resistance when I returned home.

I check my appearance in the mirror once more, and then head down the hall to check on Bridget.

It's been two days since her comment about the fall from the window, and I haven't been able to shake the image of her sitting there, calculating the drop. She said she wasn’t serious, and I don’t truly think she was, looking back on it.

But still—every time I think about it, I feel a cold chill run through me.

The thought of anything happening to her is… well, it’s unthinkable.

I’ve had Marco watching her more closely while I’ve been gone, just in case.

It hasn’t improved her mood, although she’s finally started eating.

I want to let her out of the room, to give her a chance to explore the penthouse and see for herself what else I have to offer her, but I don’t trust her not to try to escape, or to cause some other chaos.

It feels like a vicious circle. The longer I keep her confined to the guest room, the angrier she gets, but I don’t feel that I can give her any freedom until she gives me some sign that she’s coming around. And now I’m in so deep that I’m not sure what to do next.

The penthouse is quiet as I make my way to her room, my footsteps thudding softly against the gleaming wooden floors.

I can hear the soft murmur of the television through her door—she finally accepted the entertainment system I had installed, though she's using it more for background noise than actual viewing.

I knock softly. "Bridget? I'm coming in."

There's no response, but I unlock the door anyway.

She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing the silk pajamas I had delivered yesterday—a soft ivory set that makes her skin glow and her hair look like honey sliding over her shoulders. She glances up when I enter, and her face instantly hardens into an expression that I’m becoming all too familiar with.

"Let me guess," she says, taking in my formal attire. "Hot date tonight?"

"Business dinner," I correct, though the distinction feels meaningless.

"Ah." She turns back to the television, where some mindless romantic comedy is playing. "The kind of business where you check out the eligible daughters of your criminal associates? Does this have something to do with that marriage that you wanted to make me a side piece for?"

I blow out a sharp breath. She’s perceptive, I’ll give her that. Sometimes too much so. “You don’t need to make it sound so crude.”

Bridget raises an eyebrow, still staring at the television. “How else should I describe your terribly romantic offer to make me your mistress?”

My jaw tightens. “I made that offer because I wanted you, bellissima. Because of how you made me feel after an hour together. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Most women—”

Bridget snorts. “As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, Caesar, I’m not most women.”

The sound of my name on her tongue, even spoken with such disdain, makes my cock twitch. “I’m very aware of that, Bridget.”

Her throat moves as she swallows hard, but she still doesn’t look at me.

I file that away for later, though, something to think about.

Me saying her name affected her, too. She’s not impervious to me, even if she likes to pretend that she is.

“You should go then. You’re going to be late.

I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your arranged marriage. ”

I ignore the sarcasm in her voice and move closer to the bed. "Have you eaten today?"

"Yes, daddy. I had the salmon you sent up for lunch. And the fruit salad. And I took my prenatal vitamin like a good little prisoner." She smiles sweetly up at me, her eyes finally locking onto mine, and I do my best to ignore my body’s response to her.

“Good.” I reach out despite myself, my fingers grazing along her jawline. “I’m not actually going to marry anyone other than you, Bridget. This is all just for show, until I can—”

“You should get used to being single, then.” She jerks her face away from my touch, but I don’t miss the shiver that runs through her, almost imperceptibly.

I ignore that statement. "The doctor will be here tomorrow morning for your first official prenatal appointment."

Bridget presses her lips together. “What if I want to choose my own doctor?”

"You’ll see this one. It's not optional."

"Everything about this situation seems to be 'not optional,'" she snaps. "When exactly do I get to make a choice about my own life again?"

"When you start making smart choices," I reply, immediately regretting the words when her face darkens.

"Smart choices?" She stands up abruptly, the silk pajama shorts stopping far too high up on her thighs. My cock reacts instantly, swelling in the confines of my boxer briefs uncomfortably. "You mean choices that benefit you. Choices that make your life easier."

"I mean choices that keep you and our child safe," I reply tightly, trying to keep my voice level.

"Safe from what, exactly?" She crosses her arms over her chest, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way the movement accentuates her breasts. "From the big bad world that somehow managed not to kill me for twenty-seven years before you showed up?"

"From people who would use you to get to me," I explain, though I can hear how worn the argument sounds even to my own ears. "From enemies who—"

"What enemies?" she interrupts. "You keep talking about these mysterious threats, but I don't see anyone breaking down the door. The only person who's hurt me, who's taken everything away from me, is you."

The accusation hits harder than it should. "I haven't hurt you."

"Haven't you?" She steps closer, and I can see the tears building in her eyes.

"Caesar, I haven't been outside in a week.

I haven't breathed fresh air or felt grass under my feet.

I don't know if my friend Jenny is worried sick about me, or if my garage is falling apart without me there to run it.

I don't know if the bills are piling up, if the bank is going to foreclose, if everything my father worked for is being destroyed while I sit here in your ivory tower. "

Each word is like a knife twist, and I find myself taking a step back. "I told you already that I have your financial obligations—"

"I don't want you to handle them," she says fiercely. "I want to handle them myself. I want my life back, Caesar. My choices, my responsibilities, my freedom."

“If you would just—” I take a deep breath. “Listen to me, Bridget. It’s not just about danger. You’re carrying my heir. Once word gets out, there are expectations, and if I were to marry someone else, our child—”

"Then maybe we shouldn't let word get out," she interrupts. "Maybe I should just go home, raise this child in peace, and you can go find yourself a nice mafia princess to marry."

The words feel like a slap. It’s all but exactly what Konstantin told me to offer her. To pay her off, have her and the child disappear. But the difference is that even paid off, she’d be expected to leave. To walk away from everything that she’s clamoring so loudly to go back to.

“Even if I let you go,” I say quietly, “you can’t just go back home. Even if I gave you money and sent you away, you’d have to leave Miami.”

Bridget goes still. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because you’re carrying my child. A threat to any other child I have, and everything they stand to inherit.”

Bridget’s jaw tightens. “I don’t give a fuck about your hierarchy or your archaic rules, Caesar. I want to go home.”

I remember what Danny told me. What Konstantin wants. I could protect her, probably, even if she went home. I could make her continued safety here part of my conditions if I agree to what Konstantin wants. But that would mean letting her go.

Letting my child go.

"No," I say quietly. “You're mine. You and the child you're carrying."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her processing the raw possessiveness in my voice—a sound that startled even me, as it came from my lips. "I'm not a possession, Caesar."

"Aren't you?" I move closer, drawn by some force I can't control. She draws me, every time, like a magnet to iron. "From the moment you told me you were pregnant, from the moment I realized you were carrying my blood, you became mine. Whether you like it or not."

"That's not how it works," she whispers, but I can hear the uncertainty creeping into her voice.