I got them for crying.
“You want men to think you’re weak, Cristian?”
I shook my head.
“Then, don’t ever show someone your weakness. Marchetti men don’t cry. We leave the crying to our enemies before we take their last breath.”
People called my father a cruel man and claimed I had no hope since he’d trained me to be exactly like him. They were right. He taught me to be merciless, to make others fear me. It was Marchettis first, no matter the cost.
Even at that age, I was intoxicated from that adrenaline. I wanted to climb out from under the table and protect my family like the other men. The shots didn’t last long. They never do.
My aunt Ada died on her wedding day. She was the first person I watched die. My mother cried, begging with God not to take her sister, all while blood gushed from my aunt’s chest and mouth. My father stopped her when my mother tried to block me from watching.
I needed to become familiar with death. To witness firsthand what happens when our guards are down for even one second.
They say men like me—those who take over their families—die within twenty years of assuming control. I’ve surpassed that statistic, but I know death is always knocking on my door. Well, my gate. Motherfuckers will have to fight the devil before they make it to my doorstep.
Now, I can sense gunshots from miles away.
But today, my guard was down. All my thoughts were on Natalia as I watched her walk to the car. She wasn’t attempting to strut, to appear sexy, but the ass on her made her sexy without trying.
How is one woman consuming me?
Making me cause scenes at lunches to prove no one disrespects her?
My mind was distracted by all the filthy ways I wanted to touch her, to pleasure her, to fuck her.
Natalia squirms underneath me, but I don’t move. The thought of a bullet tearing through my flesh doesn’t scare me, but my blood runs cold at the thought of it happening to the woman beneath me.
My men return gunfire, but I don’t move from Natalia until the gunshots fade and all violence ceases. Until my future wife is safe. I gulp in deep breaths as I withdraw from her body, and she chokes out coughs.
I kneel next to her as she cries out in panic. She flinches when I rest my palm along her chest, over her heart, and feel her heartbeat. It’s beating faster than the bullets shot at us, but it’s beating. I quickly run my hands along her body, frantically searching for any injuries. She doesn’t have pain, just shock.
Vinny protected her from the ugly side of this world. I won’t do that. She will acclimate to this life. I can’t tackle her to the ground again.
The realization of my mistake crashes into me.
Marchetti men always worry about killing the enemy first.
Then, they check on others.
I went against the very code I’d punished others for breaking.
Natalia isn’t supposed to be my weakness.
Weaknesses are what get men killed.
I glare down at Natalia in frustration and scorn. “We’re getting married ASAP.”
CHAPTER 17
NATALIA
I’m in a real-life Final Destination movie.
Death is determined to get me, and I can only escape it so many times.
I walk into the mansion in what seems like slow motion, with Cristian following. He hasn’t muttered a word to me since our drive from the restaurant.
His attention stayed on his phone as he screamed, “Gut every motherfucker who had the balls to shoot at me.”
My soon-to-be husband exists in a constant state of anger, as if he knows nothing else, but tonight, he’s carrying an intense rage unlike anything I’ve seen.
This is Monster Marchetti.
The man everyone fears more than the boogeyman.
“Bedroom, Natalia,” Cristian orders, his command thundering through the foyer like a storm.
Terror balls into my stomach in warning, but arguing with him would be a death wish. There are already too many death threats knocking on my door. No need to add another. So, I do as I’m told.
Some of that terror unravels when Cristian makes a right into his office, leaving me to go upstairs alone. When I reach the bedroom door, it’s locked.
My only options are to wait for Cristian or go to his office and ask for the code. As much as I’d like to avoid him, I don’t want to wait in the hallway. With a sense of dread, I whip around to find him already stalking in my direction.
I didn’t hear him—didn’t feel him, as I normally do. That further proves how dangerous Cristian is. If he wants his presence known, if he wants to intimidate you, he will. But he can just as easily hide in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to rise from the pits of hell and ruin you.
A bottle of whiskey is clutched in his hand. His glossy eyes and the scent of liquor tells me he’s already made use of the alcohol. I flatten my back against the wall when he reaches me, giving him space to key in the passcode. When the lock clicks free, he steps to the side and uses the bottle to usher me inside.
I gulp as I walk into the room.
I’m either stepping into the safety of the bedroom or the danger of the monster’s den.
How stupid of me.
Agreeing to marry a man I’m constantly worried might kill me.
Cristian slams the door with so much force that it rattles against the hinges. I wince but refuse to turn and face him.
“Strip,” he demands to my back.
I don’t move.
“I said, strip, Natalia. I don’t like repeating myself.”
I’m quiet, searching for the safest words to tell him he’s batshit crazy without getting myself murdered.
“Natalia.” His tone is impatient, louder, angrier.
Fear crushes through me as I work up the nerve to turn around. When I do, my panic-stricken eyes meet his sinister ones. I cast a quick glance at the door when he advances a step toward me, as if escaping is an option.
Cristian would stop me. Overpower me. Force me to do whatever he wants.
He thrums his fingers along the glass and glowers at me as if I’m the cause of every one of his problems. As if he wants to get rid of me yet also keep me.
When I gain the courage to speak, I say, “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Didn’t say I needed or wanted you to.” He takes a swig of the whiskey. “Now, take off your clothes before I do it for you. And trust me, I won’t be as gentle.”
“I was just shot at. Give me a sec.” I wipe my sweaty hands down my dress and hold back the urge to ask him to share the whiskey.
If anyone needs liquid courage, it’s me.
Cristian works his jaw, his grip tightening so firmly on the glass that I’m waiting for it to crush in his hand. My stare penetrates his. I study his eyes, his face, his stance.
The anger is clear, but tonight, there’s something more.
Something different.
He downs the whiskey before violently shaking his head, as if wanting to throw any emotions off his face. I jump when he hurls the bottle across the room. The glass shatters as it smacks into a wall, and liquor pours down the white paint onto the floor.
“I shouldn’t be worried about you dying,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his lips wet from the whiskey.
I stay quiet, uncertain of how to reply to that. Or if I even should.