Chapter Thirty-Nine

Adele

Cold.

That's the first sensation that penetrates the fog in my mind. A bone-deep, teeth-chattering cold that has me curling into myself before I'm even fully awake.

The next is the pounding in my head, a relentless drumbeat that makes even opening my eyes an uphill task.

When I finally manage it, the world is a blur of unfamiliar shapes and shadows. I blink, trying to bring things into focus. A four-poster bed looms around me, its dark wood starkly contrasting with the bare mattress beneath me. No sheets, no blankets. Just me, shivering in my lacy pink underwear.

Where the hell are my clothes?

I push myself up, ignoring the wave of nausea that accompanies the movement. The room spins for a moment before settling. It's large, opulent even, with high ceilings and what looks like antique furniture. But it's not my room. Not Dante's suite.

Dante.

His name brings a flood of memories. The gym, Aydin's deception, the car ride. And then . . . the pungent smell. The cloth. The driver's cold eyes in the rearview mirror.

My stomach lurches, and this time it's not from the lingering effects of chloroform and whatever else drug they used on me. Aydin. Aydin did this. Has she been working with the bombers all along?

And Dante. God, he'll be livid. I can almost see the rage in his eyes and the tension in his jaw when he realizes I've been kidnapped.

A new smell cuts through my spiraling thoughts—food.

My gaze lands on a table across the room, laden with an array of dishes. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I have no idea how long I've been unconscious. But the memory of that drug-soaked cloth is too fresh, the taste of fear still bitter in my mouth. I'd rather starve than let them poison me.

The soft click of the door opening has me tensing, every muscle coiled tight despite my weakened state. But it's not a threat that enters—at least, not an obvious one.

A small woman with a round face and bone-straight black hair steps into the room and bows slightly. Her smile seems genuine, but the sadness in her eyes makes my chest tighten.

"You wake," she says in broken English, her voice gentle but laced with an undercurrent of something I can't quite place. Pity? Fear?

"Eat?" She gestures toward the table.

I shake my head, fighting another wave of nausea. The woman's smile doesn't falter, but something in her eyes dims. "I, ah . . ." She clears her throat and tries again. "I help you dress," she says, moving toward what I now realize is a closet door.

Dress? For what? Although I'd take any kind of clothes over being half-naked and freezing. The thought dies as she emerges, holding something that makes my blood run cold and my heart stutter in my chest.

A wedding dress.

It's beautiful, an ivory confection of satin and tulle, tiny rhinestones catching the light like teardrops. In another life, I might have gasped in awe. Now, all I can do is stare in horror as the pieces start to fall into place.

Dante's words from what feels like a lifetime ago echo in my head, a cruel mockery:

He also told me to back off because you were his daughter and that you were promised to someone else.

I'd brushed off his concern at the time, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions he stirred in me.

Oh God. This is really happening. I'm meant to be married. Tonight.

Dread hits me like an icy wave. I lunge for the fruit bowl on the table, barely registering the woman's startled exclamation as I empty the contents of my stomach—what little there is—right onto the grapes and raspberries.

As I retch, tears streaming down my face, one thought burns through the panic and confusion in my mind: I have to get out of here. Somehow.

The small-boned woman is at my side in an instant, her touch surprisingly gentle as she supports me. She guides me to a chair, then fetches a glass of water from the table. I eye it warily, paranoia and thirst warring within me. My parched throat wins out. I take small sips, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat but doing nothing to calm the storm raging inside me.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar to my own ears. "What's your name?"

"Mezhen," she replies, her smile, a mirror to the conflict I feel. "I help you dress now?"

Fighting another bout of nausea, I stare at the wedding dress, wrapping my arms around myself. The cold is seeping into my bones, my teeth chattering audibly.

"I'm not wearing that rubbish." I stand and walk past Mezhen to the closet, throwing open the door to get my own clothes, stopping in my tracks when I find it's completely empty. Not even a single sock is in there. Nothing except what the woman is holding.

Suddenly, I get it. This is why they took my clothes, why the room is so frigid. I'm being left with no choice but to put on that dress.

Fury, so intense that it's almost blinding, fills me.

Fucking bastards.

With trembling hands, I reach for the gown. Mezhen helps me into it, her movements quick but not unkind. The long-sleeved material warms my skin, and the weight of the skirt is oddly grounding. I catch a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror and have to look away. The woman staring back at me is a stranger—pale, wide-eyed, and draped in finery like a lamb dressed for slaughter.

"Mezhen," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, "where are we?"

She shakes her head, eyes downcast. "Not to say."

My heart sinks further. "Who am I . . . who am I supposed to marry?"

Again, that sad shake of the head. "Not to say."

Frustration and fury clench my fists, and I open my mouth, ready to demand answers, when the door swings open.

Benjamin O'Shea strides in, and my breath seizes in my chest. "Daddy?"

This is what I've been wanting for so long—a confrontation, a chance to demand answers. But as I take in his flat hazel eyes, the red mop of his receding hair, I find I have nothing to say to this lying piece of shit. The man I once idolized, the father I thought I knew, is a stranger wearing familiar skin.

"Well," he says in Gaelic, his gaze raking over me with a coldness that chills me to the bone, "don't you look lovely for a dead woman."

"How did you find me?" The words tumble out, a child's question from a woman who should know better.

Benjamin faces Mezhen and jerks his head toward the door, and for a second, I wonder what the point is; I doubt she understands Gaelic.

Mezhen immediately slips out of the room, eyes glinting with an unnamed emotion. I know she's a servant, but I'm sure the circumstances of her employment are darker than meets the eye.

"I was hoping you'd have a more serious question for me, considering you have very little time to meet your groom." His casual tone, as if we're discussing the weather and not my forced marriage, makes me sick to my stomach.

"How on earth can you even think this is okay? How could you do this?"

"Again, wrong questions." His dismissal ignites a fire in my chest.

"If you think kidnapping me," I spit, the venom in my voice surprising even me, "and decking me up in some fucked up wedding dress is going to make me willingly marry some cunt and play your sick games, you've got the wrong fucking pawn.

He grunts. "Your time with the Italians has generally improved your manners, hasn't it?"

His sarcasm cuts deep, reminding me of happier times when his teasing was affectionate, not cruel.

"Why?" I demand, my voice shaking with rage.

"Finally, a good question. Now, if only you'd done as you were told and moved back into the house. If only you'd stuck within the boundaries I gave you. This wouldn't happen."

"What? You're doing this because I moved out of the house?"

"No, you. You are going to have to do this because, like your mother, you can't stop panting after some Italian vermin. They played their tricks and forced us to start an unfinishable war."

He shakes his head in disgust. "And to think that you were supposed to marry a good, honorable man from a respectable family. Now I'll need you to clean up your own mess and pay for an army large enough to wipe out those vermin once and for all. You're marrying the leader of the Shadow Gang."

His words are like many knives, cutting deep into me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unraveling. I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. "Oh, I see. This was an impromptu brokerage. You actually had another loser lined up for me. I wonder, when were you going to inform your broodmare of that match made in Mob heaven?"

His expression hardens, a mask sliding into place. "This is no joke, Adele. This is happening. And if you'd waited that day instead of running off in a childish snit, you would have heard everything you needed to."

A bitter laugh escapes me, surprising us both with its harshness. "Oh, stuff it. I now know everything you were hiding, including who my real father is."

His features contort into something ugly and terrifying. "Who is he?"

I can't believe he doesn't know. The thought is so absurd that I laugh. "You mean your sister had an affair with your enemy for more than five years, and you never found out who it was? I'm almost embarrassed for you. The Italians would have figured it out within days."

"Oh, we know it's Vito Vitelli. Naomi was a sneaky little bitch, but she wasn't half as smart as she thought she was." The casual cruelty in his voice hurts, but I steel myself against the feeling.

He continues, his mouth twisting, "Which also means that the scum you were whoring yourself with back in college is your half-brother."

I see disgust written all over his face, and something in me breaks. "Yes. Well, as you failed to mention that crucial detail to me, guess what, Benjamin? I've been doing a lot more than whoring, and I'm now pregnant with his child."

The silence that follows is thick and overwhelming. His eyebrows fly up, shock stamped on his rapidly paling face. Whether it is from hearing his first name again or the news of my pregnancy, I can't tell. And there's something else in his face. An unmistakable terror.

In an instant, he's across the room, his index finger held up against my lips. "You'd do well to keep your mouth shut," he hisses, "otherwise you will not leave here with your tongue. And if you dare mention your connection with the Italians to your new husband and his people they won't hesitate to cut that bastard out of you."

I jerk my head away from his finger, my heart pounding as I realize that Benjamin is afraid of something going wrong with this arrangement.

Just who the hell is this asshole bartering me to?

He steps back and continues in a cold, detached tone. "In any case, the situation is easily remedied. Tonight, you only have to do one thing. Spread your legs. Which shouldn't be too hard for you, considering. Tomorrow, I'll take you back to Boston where you will get rid of . . ." He trails off, glaring at my belly, "your problem."

All I can do is stare at him. And here I was, thinking nothing could ever shock or horrify me.

"And, oh. Your new husband will not be returning for you. He has a few bullets with his name on them, courtesy of his very own brothers. That should help you get through tonight."

His words sink in slowly, like poison seeping through my veins. This is really happening. I'm not just playing some sick dress-up game or trying to ward off the cold. I'm going to be forced to marry another man and sleep with him tonight.

The world tilts. My vision blurs, the edges of my sight darkening as my hands begin to tremble. My ears are ringing with the need to flee. My breath comes out in short, ragged gasps, and my legs feel like cooked noodles, threatening to buckle beneath me with every second. It's like standing alone on the deck of a ship in a terrible storm with nothing to hold on to.

Unhelpfully, my mind decides it's time to show me flashes of my immediate future—a faceless man's hands groping me, forcing me—and bile rises in my throat.

Breathe, Addy. Just breathe.

I try to suck in a breath, but I can't. The walls are closing in. My chest tightens, ribs straining under the constricting pressure of doom. And then Dante's voice pierces through the fog, the same words he says every time he's trapped me under him.

Don't panic. You drown faster when you do.

I cling to them, and I force myself to take a breath—then another—until the room steadies and the tightness in my chest begins to ease.

I focus on the air filling my lungs, the way it cools the fire in my veins. Slowly, my vision clears, the dizziness recedes, and my hands stop shaking.

As if sensing that I'm on the verge of losing it, Benjamin switches his tone to the warm comforting one I remember from childhood—the same one he'd use to talk me down the ledge of panic before another surgery. It should be soothing, if only his next words didn't completely shatter me.

"Look. You have no choice but to pay the upfront cost: An exchange of blood vows and one full night with you. But I promise, Adele, tonight will be the last time you ever lay eyes on him."

My eyelids fall closed as a calm settles over me. This is the closure I need. I was nothing but a pawn, an asset to the Mob, and a willing captive. And now, a legal tender to purchase an army.

I was never a daughter to Benjamin O'Shea. No real father would do this to his daughter. My father is Orlando De Luca, a ruthless mafia Capo and a drug lord. And I would take him over this sadistic, lying piece of shit in front of me.

When I open my eyes, they're as cold and hard as the gun I wish I had right now. "Alright. Can I at least know more about the man I'll be marrying besides him being the top gun of some gang?"

A cruel, almost proud smile twists Benjamin's lips. He thinks I've got my shit together and ready to play ball. His mocking tone returns. "All in good time, Adele. You'll have plenty of time to meet him. You'll be spending the whole night with him, after all."

Suddenly, I let out a carefully controlled sob. My eyes, however, remain dry as a bone. The sobs continue, increasing in volume until my entire body is shaking with them.

He stands there, hesitating, watching me like a science project gone wrong. I think a part of him wants to do what he did in the past; take me in his arms and tell me it'll be okay. But the masks are off now, and he doesn't need to hide what an absolute joke of a father he is.

I cradle my lower belly as I think of Dante again. Fierce, dominant, protective Dante. Will he even realize that I'm gone? Will anyone? I'm sure Aydin could spin a tale for everyone to explain my disappearance. I can only pray it's not too late.

One thing is clear, though: I'd rather die than marry this son of a bitch.

When he continues to gawk like a stunned fish, I spit, "How about you get out so I can have a moment to myself before I'm sold off?"

Benjamin shakes his head and huffs, "As long as you remember the stakes." Then he leaves without another word. As if I'm the one being unreasonable.

The moment the door clicks shut, I straighten up, and my sobs cut off abruptly.

I don't know where the cameras are, but I need anything that could be a weapon. My gaze lands on the food table, and suddenly, I'm ravenous. As I approach, my eyes lock on a wooden spoon. There's nothing else on the table. No fork, no knife, no glassware.

Still feigning tears, I reach for a spoon and yogurt. It's not much, but the spoon is surprisingly sturdy. Better than nothing. As I eat, my mind races with possibilities, my thumb brushing over the rounded end of the spoon, making a mental note to find a way to sharpen it.

I have no illusions about escaping before the ceremony. But after? During the "wedding night"?

That's when I'll make my move. That's when I'll fight.