Chapter 19

NINETEEN

Sabella

The Eiffel Tower is a dazzling display of twinkling lights from the car window. The driver who fetched us at the airport is speeding along the Seine River. My husband sits next to me, engrossed in his phone. As always, he's tense. The most relaxed I've seen him was with Sophie. I'm not even sure that was real. Maybe he was just pretending to put her at ease.

I steal a sidelong glance at his strong, handsome features. Angelo didn't tell me our destination when we caught a flight in Bastia this morning. We landed in Marseille. The city brought back unpleasant memories. My husband left me under guard at the same hotel where we'd stayed on our wedding night. Then he disappeared to conduct business. He only came back for me after dark, whisking me to the airport again to board a national flight.

I didn't expect to land in Paris. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. I look through the window again. At night, the city is beautiful. I suspect it will be more breathtaking in the daylight, even in the starkness of winter with the plane trees stripped of their leaves. Or maybe especially because of that.

The driver drops us off at the Ritz where the cocktail party will take place. A bellboy takes our luggage and escorts us to one of the suites. Angelo tips him and locks the door when he's gone.

"Hungry?" he asks, scrutinizing me with his dark eyes.

I walk to the window and draw back the curtains. "No."

People wrapped up in coats and hats walk arm-in-arm in the street below, couples on their way to an exciting or happy destination. I never thought I'd be in Paris and not be excited. Not happy.

"I'm going to check on the security downstairs," he says. "We have to be ready in an hour."

I turn and rest my back against the cold windowpane. "How badly do you want Thomas Powell to sign this deal?"

His eyes tighten in the corners. "I told you it's important to me."

"If I help you, I want something in return."

He raises a brow. "Are you negotiating with me, wife?"

I shrug. "If I play my part in convincing Mr. Powell to do business with you, it's only fair that you do something for me."

"I disagree with your understanding of what's fair and what I owe you, but I'm curious." He studies me with a tilted head. "What do you want?"

"I want you to give the local school a chance."

A tinge of anger laces his tone. "Don't you want me to send Sophie to a prestigious school and give her a better chance at having a good future?"

"I think sending her away is a mistake."

"Yes," he drawls. "You made that clear."

Lifting my chin, I ask, "Do we have a deal?"

He comes closer. "What if I say no?"

I hold his gaze bravely, without blinking. "Then you're on your own tonight."

He narrows his eyes. "I'll drag you to that ballroom if I must."

"Oh, I'll come. Just don't expect me to pave the way for you. Isn't that why you brought me? To smooth-talk Mr. Powell? To do something useful with my family name?"

"Sabella."

I ignore the warning that's clear in the way he says my name. "Deal or no deal?"

An unfriendly smile curves his lips. "You drive a hard bargain."

"If it doesn't work out at the local school, you can try the other one. At least then you'll know. What do you have to lose? The way I look at it, the only thing you'll miss out on if you decline my proposal is a chance at putting that deal to bed."

"Fine," he grumbles. "I suppose you'll make an effort if I dangle a carrot in front of your nose."

"I'll try my best," I say, keeping my head high as I grab the clothes bag with the gown and the portable suitcase with my toiletries on my way to the bathroom.

I only blow out a breath when I lock myself in. The door in the bedroom slams hard enough for the sound to reach my ears. Will it always be like this? Will the sight of my face alone be enough to ignite my husband's anger? Will I always see the distaste in his eyes when he looks at me? The answer to all those questions is yes. Yes, because I know what I feel when I remember what he did.

I shake off the hurt, reminding myself of my promise to make my own happiness. It's more difficult than I thought, especially with such a controlling husband.

While I get ready, I ponder his decision to send Sophie away. He's good with her. I do believe he has her best interest at heart. I understand why he wants to spare her any potential teasing. Ignoring the problem won't make it go away though. Addressing it is the only way to make it disappear forever. Sophie has to learn to stand up for herself. The other kids have to learn to accept her. I'm confident she'll earn not only the people's respect but also their liking. And if anyone has a problem with her, they'll have to go through me first.

As I step into the red dress, I think back to how Angelo behaved with Sophie. He's different with her, kind and gentle. It's beautiful. I like watching him with her. It reminds me so much of my dad that tears spring to my eyes. What kind of a father will Angelo make? Hold on. What am I thinking? Children will never be in the cards for us, not with the life we're leading. Pushing the notion away, I focus on applying my make-up and doing my hair.

When my husband knocks on the bathroom door forty-five minutes later, I'm ready. I give my reflection a last once-over in the mirror. The red dress is made of a light material that glimmers softly. The cut is tight-fitting, dipping low in both the front and the back. It's impossible to wear a bra, but my breasts are small and firm enough not to need one. I applied a dusting of eyeshadow and a darker lipstick. The make-up is natural but suitable for a fancy dinner. I took my hair up, leaving my neck bare. I chose not to wear jewelry. The dress is striking enough.

"Sabella." Angelo knocks again. "We have to leave in fifteen minutes." When I open the door, he drags a gaze over me. "You look beautiful. Fabien did well with the dress."

"Thank you." I grab the shoes and the matching clutch bag Fabien provided. "The bathroom is all yours."

"In a minute."

His tone makes me pause.

"I have something for you," he says, taking a flat, narrow box from the dresser. He flips it open, revealing a ruby and diamond choker. "Turn around."

Obeying, I say, "That looks expensive."

He walks up behind me. "It is."

"What if I lose it?"

He drapes the necklace around my neck and secures the clasp. "You won't. The fastening system is secure."

I trace the ridges of the big ruby in the center. "Fabien said you'd get something on loan. I don't want to take unnecessary risks."

Brushing a thumb over my shoulder, he says, "It's not on loan. It's yours."

I turn around quickly. "Why?"

His expression becomes closed-off. He shrugs, the gesture casual, but the energy underlying his demeanor is strained. "It goes with your dress."

The reply disappoints me. What did I expect? For him to look at me as someone he doesn't hate? Not for the first time, I wonder how things would've been if my dad had simply allowed us to get married. If he'd honored the deal, would Angelo and I have had a chance at happiness? If my family didn't kill his and he didn't kill mine, could we have looked at each other differently? Will I ever see approval in his eyes instead of contempt?

He steps away. "You'll find matching earrings on the dresser." Backtracking to the bathroom, he adds, "I need a shower. I'll be ready in ten."

The earrings are as classically beautiful as the necklace with a big ruby surrounded by smaller diamonds. I fit the earrings and dab perfume on my wrists. I wish I had a phone to check on Sophie. I wouldn't mind calling my family either. Angelo only let me speak to Ryan that once.

Exactly ten minutes later, he enters the room dressed in a bespoke suit cut to the latest fashion. The pants and jacket are fitted, showing off his muscular shape. A crisp white shirt and black bowtie round off the outfit.

He offers me his arm. "Shall we?"

The cocktail party is hosted in the big ballroom. The guests are dressed in flamboyant evening gowns and tuxedos. My mom would've approved. Angelo takes two glasses of champagne from a waiter and offers me one.

"Thank you," I say, scanning the crowd, not that I'll find any familiar faces. My dad never introduced me or anyone in our close family to the players in his business circles. The reason why he took such pains to keep his professional and private lives apart leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Whatever happened to Daisy and Laura, my dad's second family? How is Mom coping with that?

"All right?" Angelo asks softly in my ear, brushing a thumb down my spine.

I shiver. "Can I have a phone?"

"No." He sips his champagne, keeping his gaze trained on the partygoers. "You shouldn't ask when you know the answer."

"Can we call Heidi?" I stare at his profile, noticing the straight line of his nose, the high cheekbone, and the square jaw. "I just want to know how Sophie is doing."

His eyes soften marginally as he turns his face toward me. "She'll be fine. You have to stop worrying about her."

"What about my family?"

The warmth vanishes from his gaze. "What about them?"

"Will you let me call them again?"

"If you behave." He brings the glass to his lips, watching me with an intense, dark look as he swallows. "You better put your best foot forward tonight."

A lump lodges in my throat, pulsing there with suppressed anger. "Do you expect me to embarrass you?"

His lips quirk. "I'll put nothing past you."

Before I can reply, a group of people descend on us. Angelo introduces me to everyone as Mrs. Russo, his newly acquired wife. I swallow my dislike at being portrayed as a possession, which, in truth, I am.

I've never been a fan of cocktail parties. I almost missed my own sixteenth birthday party because I hate these gatherings so much. Come to think of it, if I hadn't been late, I wouldn't have run into Angelo at the service entrance. He wouldn't have manipulated my mom into letting me keep my stray cat, Pirate, and I wouldn't have fallen so hard for him that night.

If only I'd been more like Mattie, I would've been dressed in the gown Mom had chosen, and I would've been mingling with the guests by the time he arrived. My introduction to my future husband would've been very different. Although, I doubt I would've been unaffected. Angelo's presence is too huge to leave anyone untouched. I'd like to think I would've been repelled, but deep down, I know that's not true. I would've been curious about him regardless. I would've let my heart rule my mind ten times over. If I'd met him in a hundred different scenarios, I would've left my heart right there at his feet every single time. It's what happened afterward that changed everything.

Absent-mindedly, I place a hand over my stomach and slide it down to rest over the mark Angelo burned into my skin. He steps in front of me, his gaze trained on the action, and brushes my hand away to trace the mark with his thumb. The touch is too intimate for a public gathering, but I can't bring myself to push him off me because underneath his fingertip, my skin tingles. I need his hand there for reasons I can't explain.

As he looks over my head, he pulls away and sets his features in a polite expression. I turn sideways. A man in his late fifties with an attractive woman on his arm makes his way to the bar.

Angelo offers me a hand. "Come."

He intertwines our fingers and pulls me across the busy floor. The woman veers off toward the ladies' room while the man heads straight for the liquor table.

"Mr. Powell," my husband says as he almost bumps into the man, pretending not to have seen him. "I didn't expect to run into you here."

He's lying so smoothly, it's hard not to believe him.

"Mr. Russo," the man says, pulling up his nose. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

He makes to walk away, but Angelo stops him with a hand on his arm. "Have you met my wife, Sabella Edwards–Russo?"

"Oh. Yes." The man turns to me with renewed interest. "Mrs. Russo." He shakes my hand. "What a pleasure to meet you. I was a big admirer of your father. My condolences for your loss. I do miss his company."

Tension creeps into my shoulders at the mention of my dad's death, of his murder that was staged as a suicide. Angelo places a hand on my lower back as if sensing my turmoil. Does he think I'll take comfort from the gesture?

"Thank you," I say, fighting the urge to shove Angelo away. "I miss him too."

The pressure of my husband's palm increases on my flesh, but the smile he offers Mr. Powell doesn't waver.

"I have no doubt he would've been here tonight if he was alive," Mr. Powell says.

"My dad was always a big supporter of marine life conservation. I'm sure he would've donated handsomely." I give Angelo a sweet smile. "But my husband will match your donation."

Mr. Powell raises a brow. "Is that so?" He glances in Angelo's direction.

"Of course," Angelo says, meeting my smile with a tightlipped one.

"That business with the second family came as a shock." Mr. Powell shakes his head. "Who would've thought?"

I stiffen to the point of feeling as if my spine is about to snap. Angelo rubs his palm over my back.

"Say, aren't you studying marine biology?" Mr. Powell asks. "Your father was boasting about it the last time I saw him."

"I was," I say, trying hard not to let my smile falter.

"Was?" he exclaims. "Why on earth did you drop out? You should never be a quitter. Always finish what you start, no matter what it is."

"Things changed when Sabella and I got married." Angelo brushes his hand up my arm and over my shoulder to cup my nape in a possessive hold. "First of all, she moved to Corsica. Secondly, we're hoping to start a family soon."

I look at my husband quickly, heat pushing up in my neck. He has no right to flat out lie about something like that.

"Ah." Mr. Powell frowns. "Well, it's a pity. You're still young. There's plenty of time for a family. Then again, I suppose a good education doesn't carry the same importance with everyone."

Angelo's fingers tighten on my neck. I clear my throat. The conversation isn't going how it should. Instead of getting my husband in Mr. Powell's good books, I'm only making the business tycoon's opinion of Angelo worse.

"There you are," a woman says, walking toward us with a big smile.

"This is my wife." Mr. Powell looks at her adoringly. "Letitia, let me introduce you to Sabella and Angelo Russo. You remember Benjamin Edwards, don't you?"

"Ben's daughter," she cries out, taking my hand. "I'm so happy to meet you."

"Likewise," I say.

"Sabella dropped out of school to have babies," Mr. Powell says to his wife. "What do you think of that?"

She gives him a chiding look. "I think everyone must do what's right for them." Swatting his arm, she says, "Don't be so judgmental, you old snob."

Mr. Powell winks. "She keeps me on my toes. I wouldn't be half the man I am without her." Kissing her cheek, he asks, "Would you like a drink, darling? I was just about to get you something from the bar."

"Allow me," Angelo says.

"You're too kind." Mrs. Powell hooks her arm around her husband's. "Gin and tonic, please. No ice."

"Mr. Powell?" my husband asks.

"I'll have what she's having," Mr. Powell says with a grin.

"Coming up." Angelo plants a kiss on my neck before whispering in my ear, "I'll be right back." He deposits his empty glass on the nearest table and makes his way to the bar.

"He looks smitten with you," Mrs. Powell says when he's out of earshot.

"Oh." I shift my weight, trying not to show how uncomfortable I am with that untruth. "I won't say that." Trying to change the subject, I say, "My husband told me you're putting measures in place to prevent the entanglement of dolphins in fishing nets."

"Indeed." Mr. Powell rolls on the balls of his feet. "We launched a non-profit organization that provides acoustic pingers to fishing boats." He shoots his wife a proud look. "In fact, it was Letitia's idea. We're also advocating against the use of gill nets, testing new materials as we speak."

"I'd love to hear more."

"Are you also a dolphin lover?" Mrs. Powell asks just as Angelo arrives with two drinks that he hands to the couple.

"I love all sea life, but I have a special affinity for sharks," I say.

"You too?" Mrs. Powell exclaims. "So do I. They must be the most misunderstood poor creatures on Earth."

"I always tried to educate the public whenever I could."

"Did you manage to make a change?" she asks. "It's difficult to expel the old urban legends."

"I gave speeches at the aquarium when I was a student in Cape Town. I dare say I managed to convert a few souls. But there will always be people who can't tell fact from fiction."

"Exactly," she says, snapping her fingers. "That's just how I feel. It's very difficult to make a real difference. I'm working with a team of scientists on writing a few articles that are due for publication on online sites and in seaside accommodation brochures. Would you like to give me your input?"

"I'd love that," I say. "If you'd like, I can send you my notes. Maybe some of the data will be useful."

"Yes, please. You do that." Turning to my husband, she says, "This one is a good catch, excuse the pun. You better hold onto her."

"Oh, I intend on doing that," he replies darkly.

"We should donate more money to shark research," she says. "It's extremely worrying that no less than seventy-five percent of the species are in danger of extinction."

"That's a great idea." I nudge Angelo. "Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely." Angelo nods at Mrs. Powell. "Seeing how passionate my wife is about the subject, I'll organize a monthly donation when we get home."

"That's very generous of you." Mr. Powell scrutinizes him. "Businesses like ours that rely on sea freight have a responsibility to conserve the ocean life."

"Indeed," Angelo says. "All cargo ships should switch to low-sulphur fuel and implement an exhaust scrubber system. I only use the best anti-fouling hull paint for my own ships."

Mr. Powell raises his glass. "Cheers to that, my good man."

"I hear you're a keen sailor yourself," Angelo remarks.

Perking up, Mr. Powell asks, "Do you sail?"

"I do. As a matter of fact, I come from a long history of sailors."

"In that case, I have to introduce you to another dear friend who's a sailboat fanatic." Mr. Powell turns to his wife. "Will you excuse us for a moment, darling? I don't want to bore you with boat talk."

She waves a hand. "You go along. Sabella and I have much to discuss, it seems."

The men wander off, engrossed in their conversation.

"Do you mind if we sit for minute?" she asks. "I'm suffering from bad blood circulation, and the old legs don't support standing for so long."

"Of course," I say, taking her arm and leading her to a cocktail table with a couple of chairs.

After making herself comfortable, she launches into a conversation about sharks. When I tell her about my one and only encounter with a great white that I filmed, she asks if she may see the video. I make up an excuse of having left the USB key with the clip with my marine vertebrate professor in South Africa. Our exchange is stimulating. I'm enjoying myself so much that I don't see the time go by.

When the men return, Angelo's broad smile tells me he succeeded in his goal. We shake hands with a promise to arrange a get-together on Angelo's yacht in the summer. As the Powells have never visited Corsica, they undertake to sail there from Marseille.

We greet a few more people while nibbling on the finger food the waiters offer. My husband chats a couple of minutes with each, just enough not to appear rude, but now that he's achieved his aim, I sense his urgency to escape the party. He did tell me on the night we met that, like me, he didn't care much for them, especially not birthday parties.

Time and again, my gaze lands on the Powells as they do their round of the room. The pride in Thomas Powell's eyes when he looks at his wife fills me with longing for the same. His affection for her is obvious. They seem so happy. I want someone to look at me like that too. I want to know what it feels like to be loved and respected by the man who shares my bed.

"Would you like another drink?" Angelo asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

I turn my face to him. "I've had enough, thank you."

His mouth lifts in one corner. "I recall a time when you didn't say no to champagne. On the contrary."

"That was different." I tense at the memory. "I was nervous."

Taking my empty glass from my hand, he brushes a thumb over my cheek. Something dark and heated slips into his voice. "Did I make you nervous, cara?"

"You know you did."

His deep timbre drops another octave. "How about now? Do I still make you nervous?"

I swallow. Quoting his words from earlier, I say, "You shouldn't ask questions if you know the answers."

He holds my gaze as he puts the glass aside. Not saying a word, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs. The closer we get to the suite, the harder my heart beats in my chest. His intentions changed in the blink of an eye, going from networking to something entirely different, and as much as it frightens me, I can't say it doesn't excite me too.

Another memory jumps to mind, the one of the night he took my virginity. That was so wrong. I was drunk, and he was angry. Yet everything about it seemed right too, even the part where he branded me. A very dark, very depraved part of me has always been drawn to that side of him. Even now, as he locks the door and ushers me into the bedroom, the sinister promise in his eyes captivates me. His smell wraps around me just as of old, a mixture of cedar and citrus that holds both ecstatic and bad memories, but it's no less addictive.

"I owe you two punishments," he says, pulling his bowtie from the collar of his shirt.

Zings of anticipation needle my stomach. Heat gathers between my legs. Perhaps it's the alcohol, but I'm more turned on and less scared. Less angry. I realize with a start that I crave this, whatever he's got in store for me. I yearn for this when he gives me a choice, and he does. He stands, waiting. When I don't back away or say anything, he closes the distance and puts our bodies flush together.

"What shall I do to you, bella?" he asks in low voice. "Make you kneel? Swallow my cock? Spank you? Fuck your ass?"

My inner muscles clench. I both shake my head and nod, not sure what I'm asking. I didn't enjoy our wedding night, but I did like it when he fed me his second-hand smoke. Not the smoking part. The rest of it. I liked how he took control. I liked the bite of pain with my pleasure.

So when he asks, "Shall I decide?" I nod again.

He cups my jaw. "I think you liked the last two options." He drops his gaze to my breasts. "Your nipples turned rock-hard when I mentioned those." He releases my face and brushes his knuckles over a hardened tip as if to affirm his assessment. "I can see your tits through the fabric." Gripping the front of the dress, he tears it right down the middle to my navel.

A gasp catches in my throat.

"No one should ever see you in this dress again. I didn't like how the men stared at you. Did you notice?"

I shake my head.

He juts his chin at me. "Take it off."

I step out of the dress.

"Thong too," he says. "Keep the jewelry. I'll let you decide if you take off the shoes."

The heels make me feel sexy. I slide the thong down my thighs and over the elegant red evening shoes.

"Perfect," he says, cutting a path with his gaze over me from top to bottom. He takes a cushion from the sofa and throws it at the edge of the bed. "Kneel."

He grips my hand and helps me down.

"Push your upper body down on the bed. I want to see your ass and your pussy."

I glance at him from over my shoulder as I comply. My throat goes dry when he unbuckles his belt. I remember how much it hurt, but I also remember the heat that crawled into my skin and through my body to gather between my legs.

"Mr. Russo," I croak, suddenly scared.

"Shh," he says, pulling the belt from the loops of his waistband and settling me with a hand on my lower back. "You deserve this punishment."

"Do I?" I whisper.

"Did you greet me as you should?"

"You know why I didn't."

He bends over me and kisses my shoulder. "Don't make excuses. You will always greet me naked and on your knees. If there are people in the house, you will do it in the privacy of our bedroom."

My mind gets stuck on the our. Our bedroom. Not your bedroom. Something warm unfurls in my belly. I'm sick for wanting this. I'm weak for craving his affection. His approval. For wanting what the Powells have.

But when the first lash falls over my ass cheeks, I close my eyes and forget everything. Heat blooms over my skin, but it doesn't hurt. Not much. Not enough to draw tears. Only enough to want more. He doesn't disappoint me. He aims the next blow with the same meticulous force, hitting the back of my thighs. More heat seeps into my skin. When the belt falls more gently between my legs, my clit swells and throbs. I'm wet already, the need that builds in my lower body demanding more friction.

He times the next three swats perfectly, one following after the other over the fleshy part of my globes, leaving me breathless and moaning. He taps my clit with the leather, warning me of his intention, and deals another soft blow right between my thighs, following it up with one on the seam of my ass.

"Will you kneel for me, bella?"

"Yes," I cry out, pressing my hips against the bed in an effort to find release.

"Will you take off your clothes and spread your legs to show me what's mine?"

"Yes," I moan.

He whacks me a little harder, stealing my breath, and then the buckle makes a clang as the belt hits the floor. I open my eyes and push my cheek against the cool covers. He unzips and pushes his pants with his briefs over his hips. His cock juts out, hard and thick. He spits in his palm before rubbing himself.

"Do you want this, cara?"

"Yes," I say again. I always wanted him. I hate that I do, but I can't help myself. I can't reprogram my body's reaction.

"Touch yourself," he commands, teasing my dark hole with the smooth head of his cock.

I slip a hand between my legs and rub my clit the way he usually does.

"That's right," he says, stroking his palm up my spine. "Open for me."

His fingers are on top of mine, playing with me, manipulating my movements. I open my legs wider, giving him better access. He gathers my arousal and traces the line of my slit all the way to my back hole. I expect him to take me there, but he shoves his cock with a single thrust inside my pussy. The pressure on my dark hole doesn't vanish. It turns more intense, the fullness increasing as the muscles stretch and finally give with a pop.

I look at him, battling to focus. He's fucking my pussy while stretching my ass with a finger. Two fingers. The sensations are incredible. Overwhelming. I'm burning up inside. Flames crawl over my skin.

He pumps with a leisurely pace, taking his time to prepare me. The pleasure builds already, and just when I think it's going to be too late, that I'm going to come, he pulls out and replaces his fingers with his cock.

"Go on," he bites out, sinking inch by inch into my dark hole. "Play with your clit."

The words barely register. I don't know how I even understand, how I manage to touch myself as he increases his pace. It doesn't hurt less. It hurts differently. Darker. More desperately.

"Please," I say, the breath leaving my lungs with every slap of his groin against my ass.

"Say it, Sabella."

I can't. Even if it means he won't let me come. Never.

I'm close. He pushes my hand away, massaging my clit as he pumps harder. Sweet release coils through my lower body. My inner muscles clench so hard they suck him deeper, breaking his rhythm. He utters a curse and lets loose. I come with a cry as he grunts out his climax and spills his release inside me.

It's different.

I'm not sure what changed or why. All I know is that I'm boneless. Spent.

He pulls out and spreads my ass cheeks, always liking to watch. I turn my face to look at him, smiling internally at his animalistic behavior. He's such a pervert. Such a beast. And I let him watch, giving him a show, because I love it.

He adjusts his clothes and bends over me, covering my back with his chest. He's still wearing his jacket. He hasn't even taken it off. Gathering me in his arms, he carries me to the shower. He lets the water run warm while he undresses. Like the first time, he washes me, and I soak it up because I need this care.

When we're clean, he wraps me up in a towel and drapes one around his waist. He handles me as if I'm made of glass, kissing my lips and my collarbone as he towels me dry before putting me to bed. I'm already dozing off when he slips under the covers next to me. The last thing I register before a deep, dreamless sleep claims me is how safe I feel in his arms.