The Butcher's Debt

​The white silk of Bianca’s wedding dress felt like a shroud.

​She stood at the back of the private chapel on the Moretti estate, her bouquet of dark red roses trembling in her hands. Outside, the Sicilian sun was brutal, but inside the stone walls, the air was ice cold.

​"Smile, Bianca," her father whispered beside her. His voice was thin, reeking of cheap scotch and desperation. "If you look like you’re going to a funeral, he’ll kill us both before the 'I do’s'."

​"I am going to a funeral, Papa," Bianca hissed, her dark eyes fixed on the man standing at the altar. "My own."

​Dante Moretti. He stood six-foot-three, a titan in a bespoke charcoal suit that couldn't hide the lethal power of his frame. His hair was black as midnight, his jawline like carved granite. He didn't look like a groom; he looked like a conqueror. They called him "The Butcher" because he didn't just kill his enemies, he carved their legacies into nothing.

​And now, because of her father’s gambling debts and failed shipments, he owned her.

​As she walked down the aisle, the eyes of a hundred made men followed her. She felt like a lamb walking into a den of wolves. When she finally reached the altar, Dante didn't offer her a hand. He simply watched her, his amber eyes tracking the pulse jumping in her throat.

​The ceremony was a blur of Latin and lies. When the priest finally reached the end, Dante stepped closer. He didn't wait for the prompt. He reached out, his large, scarred hand cupping the back of her neck. His skin was burning hot against her cold flesh.

​"Mine," he whispered, so low only she could hear.

​He didn't kiss her gently. He claimed her mouth with a possessive ferocity that stole her breath. He tasted of expensive tobacco and dark intentions. Bianca tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin behind her ear, forcing her to endure the heat of him.

​When he finally broke the kiss, he leaned down to her ear. "Don't bother looking for the car your father promised you, Bianca. You aren't leaving this estate. Not today. Not ever."

​The reception was a sea of black suits and flowing wine, but Bianca felt invisible. She sat at the head table, a trophy on display. Dante ignored her for most of the night, holding court with his captains, his hand resting heavy and territorial on her thigh beneath the table. Every time she tried to move, his fingers would dig in slightly, a silent reminder of who was in control.

​By midnight, the guests were gone.

​Dante led her up the grand staircase of the villa to the master suite. He threw the double doors open, revealing a room dominated by a massive, four-poster bed draped in black silk.

​Bianca turned to him, her heart hammering. "I won't do it, Dante. You can have the money. You can have the territory. But you won't have me."

​Dante began to unbutton his waistcoat, his eyes never leaving hers. "You think I cared about the money, Bianca? Your father could have owed me a billion and I wouldn't have blinked. I let him stay in debt. I let him fail."

​He stepped toward her, his presence suffocatingly large. "I did it because it was the only way to get you in this room."

​Bianca backed away until her heels hit the edge of the bed. "You’ve been planning this?"

​"For three years," Dante growled. He reached out, his fingers catching the delicate lace at her shoulder. "Ever since you looked at me at that gala and called me a 'filthy animal.' Well, little bird... you were right. I am an animal. And I’m very, very hungry."

​With one swift motion, he ripped the lace of her sleeve, exposing her shoulder to the cool night air.

​Bianca’s breath hitched. She reached into the folds of her skirt, her fingers closing around the small silver stiletto she had hidden there. As Dante leaned in to kiss her neck, she swung the blade toward his throat.

​Dante moved with the speed of a cobra. He caught her wrist in mid-air, his grip like a vice. He didn't look angry. Instead, a dark, wicked smirk spread across his face.

​"A knife, Bianca? On our wedding night?" He twisted her wrist just enough to make her drop the blade. It thudded onto the carpet.

​He shoved her back onto the silk sheets, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. He loomed over her, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, primal heat.

​"I was afraid you’d be boring," he whispered, his free hand reaching for the zipper of her dress. "But a little bit of fight... that just makes the conquest so much sweeter."