Chapter 6 I Hate You

Dante's POV

The conference room overlooks the Chicago River. I picked this city for a reason. New York and Boston are overcrowded; Vegas is all show. Chicago has bones, history, and enough corruption for men like me to build empires.

My father was smart about it. Until someone got to him. Now I have to find out who that someone is before they get to me while fighting off other wolves that want his position.

I push the thought away because I have eight underbosses staring at me and waiting for an explanation I do not owe them.

"A wife." One of them leans back in his chair like he owns it. "Forgive me, Dante, but this seems sudden. Your father was killed six months ago. You take over, make enemies, and now you marry a girl whose father owes you money? It looks weak."

He is good-looking in a polished way I don't trust. Symmetrical. Safe.

"It is not your concern what I do. Any of you."

"Of course not." He spreads his hands. "But the other families will have questions. The Moretti girl is nobody. No connections. Unless-" He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Unless you are going soft, Boss."

The room goes silent. Even Luca, standing by the door, tenses. Going soft. The worst thing you can accuse a man like me of being.

I stand up slowly. I walk around the table until I am looming over him.

"Stand up," I say.

"Boss, I did not mean-"

"Stand. Up."

He stands. He is six feet tall, fit. He probably thinks he can take me in a fair fight. But I do not fight fair.

My fist connects with his nose before he can blink. The crunch of cartilage is satisfying. Blood explodes across his face and he stumbles back. I grab him by his expensive tie and pull him close.

"You think I am soft? You think marrying Isabella makes me weak?"

He tries to pull away but I do not let him.

"She is mine. That makes her valuable. And if I hear you or anyone else disrespect my wife again, I will do more than break your nose. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he gurgles, blood dripping. "I understand."

I let him go and he collapses into his chair. "Anyone else have questions? Good. Get out."

They leave quickly. Only Santino stays behind.

Santino stretches. "So. This wife of yours. Is she pretty?"

I think about Isabella. The fear in her eyes last night. The way she begged me to stop.

"She is mine," I say finally. "That is all that matters."

Santino grins. "So she is pretty. Good for you, cousin."

He leaves before I can throw something at him.

I finish my drink, looking out at the gray city. Somewhere down there, Isabella is locked in my house. I should feel nothing about that. Guilt is a luxury I cannot afford. But I keep seeing her face. The way she looked at me like I was a monster.

Maybe I am.

I head home to Lincoln Park. The house is quiet, filled with secrets my father left behind. I find Isabella in the library, curled up in a leather chair by the window.

I did not expect that. I expected her to be in the bedroom. Still crying. Still making herself small.

Instead she is curled up in one of the leather chairs by the window. A book in her lap. Her dark hair falling over her shoulder in waves that catch the afternoon light. She is wearing clothes someone must have brought her. A simple sweater and jeans that actually fit her properly. Nothing fancy. But on her it looks right.

She is biting her bottom lip. A habit I am starting to notice. She does it when she is concentrating. When she is nervous. When I touch her.

I lean against the doorframe and watch her. She traces her finger along the words as she reads. Like she is savoring each one. Her eyes move across the page slowly. Carefully.

Beautiful.

The thought comes unbidden and I push it away. I do not need her to be beautiful. I need her to be obedient.

But watching her like this. Unaware and unguarded. Something shifts in my chest.

She turns the page and sunlight catches her profile. Small nose. Soft jaw. Those ridiculous eyelashes that make her look younger than she is. Her skin is that warm olive tone that speaks of Mediterranean blood. Italian, probably. Or Greek.

Mine, something primal whispers in the back of my head.

I clear my throat.

She jumps so hard the book nearly flies out of her hands. Her head snaps toward me and those big brown eyes go wide with panic.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to-I found this room and I thought-I can leave. I am sorry. I should have asked-"

"Stop apologizing."

She closes her mouth so fast her teeth click together.

I push off the doorframe and walk into the library. It is one of my favorite rooms in the house. Floor to ceiling bookshelves. First editions I will never read. A fireplace that actually works. The chair she is sitting in belonged to my father.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

She looks down at the book like she forgot it was there. "Jane Eyre. I hope that is okay. I did not think-"

"It is fine." I stop in front of her chair. She has to tilt her head back to look at me. I like that. The way I tower over her. The way it makes her neck look long and vulnerable. "Do you like it?"

"I-yes. I have read it before but-" She stops. Starts again. "Yes. I like it."

"Good." I check my watch. Platinum. A gift from my father on my thirtieth birthday. Two years before someone murdered him. "Get your shoes. We are going out."

Panic flashes across her face. "Where?"

"Shopping."

"For what?"

"Your wedding dress." I watch her process this. Watch the color drain from her face. "The ceremony is tomorrow. You need something appropriate to wear."

"I do not-I cannot-" She stands up and the book falls to the floor. "I do not want to go shopping. I do not want a wedding dress. I do not want any of this."

"That is unfortunate."

"You already made me sign the papers. You cannot just-"

"I can." I step closer and she backs up until her legs hit the chair. Trapped again. "And I will. Now get your shoes or I will carry you out of here in bare feet."

"No." It comes out shaky but defiant. "No. I am not going."

There it is again. That word. No.

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark way only I can appreciate. "Isabella. Do you remember what I told you this morning?"

She swallows hard. I watch her throat move. "You said many things."

"I said no one tells me no." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinches but does not move away. Cannot. "Not my enemies. Not my men. And definitely not my wife."

"This is insane." Her voice rises slightly. "You are insane. And I told you I'm not a dog-"

I bend down and lift her over my shoulder in one smooth motion.

She shrieks. Actually shrieks. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

"No."

I walk out of the library with her draped over my shoulder. She weighs next to nothing. I could carry her for hours and not feel it.

"Dante! Put me down right now!"

"No."

"This is-you cannot-" She starts kicking. Her small fists pound against my back. "Put me down!"

I carry her through the hallway. Past the staff who wisely look away. Down the main staircase. She is still kicking and hitting me and yelling.

"I will scream," she threatens.

"You are already screaming."

"I will scream louder!"

"Go ahead. No one will stop me."

She makes a sound of pure frustration and pounds her fists harder against my back. It does not hurt. If anything it is amusing.

Luca is waiting by the front door. He takes one look at Isabella dangling over my shoulder and his expression does not change at all.

"Car is ready, boss."

"Good."

"I hate you!" Isabella yells. "I hate you so much!"

"I know."

I carry her outside into the cold March air. The car is idling at the curb. Black SUV with tinted windows. Bulletproof. The only kind I drive anymore.

I set Isabella down on her feet and she immediately tries to bolt. I catch her around the waist and pull her back against my chest. She fits perfectly. Small and soft and trembling with rage.

"Let me go!"

"Get in the car, Isabella."

"No!"

I lean down until my mouth is at her ear. "You can get in the car willingly. Or I can put you in the car. Your choice."

She goes still. I can feel her heart hammering against my arm. Her breath coming fast.

"I do not want to go shopping," she whispers.

"I know."

"Then why-"

"Because you are going to be my wife this afternoon. And my wife will look like she belongs to me."

I open the car door and guide her inside. She goes without fighting. Probably because she knows fighting is pointless.

I slide in beside her and Luca gets behind the wheel.

Isabella presses herself against the far door. As far from me as she can get in the confined space. Her hair is messy from being carried. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

She has never looked more beautiful.

"I hate you," she says again. Quieter this time.