The rain drummed against the window like impatient fingers matching the rhythm of my racing heart.
My reflection stared back at me from the smudged glass.
Pale face, hollow eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun that had once been neat.
I barely recognized myself anymore.
Just another ghost haunting the penthouse of the Bellini Tower, the most exclusive address in the city.
3 weeks.
That’s how long I’d been.
Mrs.
Russo.
3 weeks since I’d signed my life away in an austere courthouse ceremony with no guests, no flowers, and definitely no love.
Just a mountain of debt vanishing with the stroke of a pen and the cold press of a platinum band around my finger.
You’re just my wife on paper.
His words still echoed in my ears, delivered with such casual cruelty on our wedding night, as he straightened his tie and walked out the door without a backward glance, leaving me alone in this gilded cage with its marble floors, designer furniture, and empty echoing rooms.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching raindrops race down the pain, 60 floors below, the city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors through my tears.
I’d agreed to this arrangement out of desperation, to save my father, to protect my little sister.
And now I was trapped, bound to a man whose true nature I was only beginning to understand.
The sudden click of the front door lock sent ice through my veins.
I froze, fingers spled against the glass, breath caught in my throat.
He wasn’t supposed to be back tonight.
His business, whatever that truly entailed, had taken him to Miami for the week.
I listened to the precise measured footsteps crossing the marble foyer, the soft thud of something heavy being set down, the rustle of fabric, his overcoat, probably.
I’d learned to identify the sounds of his movements, to anticipate his presence before he entered a room.
A survival instinct.
Sophia, his voice carried through the penthouse like smoke.
Dark, intoxicating, and dangerous.
I didn’t turn around immediately.
I couldn’t.
My body refused to obey.
locked in place by a fear I couldn’t quite name because it wasn’t entirely fear, was it? There was something else tangled with it.
Something I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I know you’re there.
Closer now.
In the doorway to the living room, I turned slowly, my silk robe whispering around my legs.
He stood framed in the archway, the city lights silhouetting his tall figure.
Antonio Russo, my husband in name only, the most feared man in the city.
You’re back early.
I managed, hating how my voice trembled.
He stepped into the room and I caught the subtle scent that always accompanied him.
Expensive cologne with notes of cedar and something darker underneath.
Like most predators, he moved with an economy of motion, purposeful and controlled.
His charcoal suit was immaculate despite the downpour outside.
Not a drop of rain on his broad shoulders, not a hair out of place.
Change of plans.
His eyes, so dark they were almost black, scanned me from head to toe, his expression unreadable.
Pack a bag.
I blinked, certain I’d misheard.
I’m sorry.
Pack a bag.
Each word precisely annunciated, as if speaking to someone particularly slow.
We leave in an hour.
My hands instinctively clutch the edges of my robe tighter.
Leave.
Where does it matter? He raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, not a kind smile, the kind that made my stomach clench.
You’re my wife.
Where I go, you go.
But you said, I know what I said.
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just inches from me.
Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Plans change.
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to step back, to show weakness before Antonio was to invite disaster.
I’d learned that lesson quickly.
For how long? I asked, proud that my voice stayed steady this time.
He reached out and I flinched involuntarily, his jaw tightened at my reaction.
But he merely tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek a moment too long.
Two weeks somewhere warm.
His eyes never left mine.
Consider it a honeymoon.
The word hung in the air between us, absurd in its normaly.
Honeymoons were for couples in love, for real marriages, not for business arrangements brokered in desperation.
I don’t understand, I whispered.
His hand dropped from my face and he stepped back, restoring the careful distance he always maintained between us.
You don’t need to understand, you just need to be ready in an hour.
wear something appropriate for the tropics.
And then he was gone, moving back through the penthouse with those measured steps, leaving me trembling by the window.
An hour later, I stood in the private elevator that serviced only our floor, a small suitcase at my feet.
I’d chosen a simple navy dress with a white cardigan, an outfit that could pass for elegant but unremarkable, the kind that wouldn’t draw attention, the kind that said, “I am nobody important.
” which was the truth, wasn’t it? I was nobody, just collateral in a game played by powerful men.
The elevator doors opened directly into the underground garage, revealing not the usual sleek black sedan, but a gleaming silver Bentley.
Antonio stood beside it, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidly in Italian.
Behind him loomed Marco, his everpresent shadow, driver, bodyguard, and possibly executioner if the rumors were to be believed.
I hesitated at the threshold of the elevator, suddenly reluctant to step into whatever new chapter of this nightmare was about to unfold.
Antonio glanced up, his dark eyes finding mine, and the conversation ceased immediately.
“We’re ready,” he said into the phone, then slipped it into his pocket.
“Tomorrow,” he nodded once, the larger man took my suitcase and placed it in the trunk without a word.
“Where are we going?” I asked as Antonio opened the car door for me.
a mockery of chivalry from a man who had purchased me as surely as he had purchased this vehicle.
You’ll see when we get there.
The interior of the Bentley smelled of leather and Antonio’s cologne.
I slid across the back seat, putting as much distance between us as possible.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
And that ghost of a smile returned, sharp as a blade.
Marco took his place behind the wheel, and we pulled out of the garage into the rainy night.
The city stre in a blur of neon and shadow, but instead of heading toward the airport as I expected, we drove toward the harbor.
We’re not flying.
I ventured after 20 minutes of tense silence.
Antonio, who had been scrolling through messages on his phone, glanced up.
No, one word.
That was all I’d get, apparently.
I turned back to the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass, just like in the penthouse.
except now I was moving, going somewhere unknown, with a man who had made it clear I was nothing more than a contractual obligation to him.
The car slowed as we approached the marina, not the commercial docks where cruise ships lined up like floating cities, but the exclusive yacht club where the truly wealthy mored their personal vessels.
My stomach tightened with anxiety.
We pulled up to a private gate where two men in dark suits stood century despite the rain.
They straightened as our car approached, eyes alert and watchful.
One stepped forward, bending to peer into the window as Marco lowered it.
A brief exchange in Italian, and the gate swung open.
We proceeded down a long dock illuminated by soft lights.
At the end, gleaming white against the dark water, waited a yacht that took my breath away.
Not some modest pleasure craft, but a floating mansion.
At least 150 ft of luxury, bobbing gently on the night black harbor.
“That’s that’s yours?” I couldn’t help asking as Marco stopped the car.
Antonio’s gaze slid to mine.
Something like amusement flickering in those dark depths.
Of course, it’s mine.
Before I could respond, my door was opened by yet another suited man.
How many people worked for him? And I was helped out into the light rain.
Antonio appeared at my side, his hand finding the small of my back, guiding me forward with a touch that burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
More men appeared, taking our luggage, murmuring respectful greetings to Antonio, all avoided looking directly at me as if I were something forbidden or perhaps merely insignificant.
We boarded via a gang way that led to a deck of polished teak.
Glass doors slid open automatically, revealing an interior that rivaled the penthouse in opulence.
“Your stateoom is this way,” Antonio said, his hand still at my back, propelling me forward through a main salon with cream leather sofas and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than my father’s entire house.
We descended a curved staircase to a lower deck, the yacht humming to life around us as the crew prepared for departure.
Antonio led me to a door at the end of a carpeted hallway, opening it to reveal a suite bathed in soft light.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, finally removing his hand from my back.
“We sail in 30 minutes.
” I stepped into the room, taking in the king-sized bed with its pristine white duvet, the panoramic windows that would offer a view of the sea in daylight, the door that presumably led to a private bathroom.
“And where will you be staying?” I asked, turning to face him, unable to keep the edge from my voice, that dangerous almost smile again.
This is the master suite, Sophia.
He gestured to a door on the far side of the room that I hadn’t noticed.
My quarters are through there.
My heart stumbled in my chest, but you said on our wedding night.
I know what I said.
He stepped closer and I caught that scent again.
Cedar, spice, power.
As I told you earlier, plans change.
I backed away until my legs hit the edge of the bed.
What does that mean exactly? Antonio reached out, his fingers catching my chin, tilting my face up to his.
His touch was surprisingly gentle, at odds with the intensity in his gaze.
It means, my paper wife, that perhaps it’s time we rewrote the terms of our arrangement.
He released me and stepped back, straightening the cuffs of his shirt with meticulous precision.
rest.
We have a long journey ahead.
Then he was gone.
The door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone with the gentle rocking of the yacht and the thundering of my pulse.
I sank onto the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me.
What had I gotten myself into? What game was Antonio playing now? Two weeks on this yacht, sharing a suite with a man who had made it clear I was nothing more than a business transaction to him until now.
Plans change, he had said.
The words echoed in my mind as I felt the engines of the yacht rumble to life beneath me.
Wherever we were going, whatever Antonio had planned, one thing was becoming terrifyingly clear.
The boundaries he had so carefully established between us were beginning to blur.
And I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of him crossing those lines or of how desperately a part of me wanted him to.
Sleep evaded me that night, chased away by the gentle rocking of the yacht and the knowledge that Antonio was just beyond that connecting door.
I lay awake, watching moonlight filter through the blinds, casting silver patterns across the luxurious bedding.
The engines had settled into a steady hum hours ago as we slipped away from the harbor and into open water, bound for a destination I still didn’t know.
Around dawn, exhaustion finally pulled me under.
But it seemed only minutes later when a soft knock at the door jolted me awake.
“Mrs.
Russo,” a woman’s voice accented and differential.
I sat up, disoriented, hair tumbling around my shoulders.
“Yes.
” The door opened to reveal a petite woman in a crisp uniform.
“Good morning.
I’m Elena, the chief stewardess.
Mr.
Russo asked me to assist you with anything you might need during the voyage.
I pulled the sheets higher, suddenly conscious of how vulnerable I looked.
What time is it? Just past 9, ma’am.
We’ve been at sea for approximately 6 hours.
She moved efficiently around the room, opening the blinds to reveal a stunning expanse of blue.
The sea stretched to the horizon, no land in sight.
Breakfast is served on the aft deck whenever you’re ready.
I’ve laid out some options in the wardrobe for today.
She indicated an ornate wardrobe in the corner that I hadn’t properly noticed the night before.
Mr.
Russo mentioned you packed hastily.
The slight pause said everything.
My simple navy dress and cardigan, my hastily packed suitcase with its modest contents.
All had been noted, judged, and found wanting.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, determined not to show how out of place I felt.
“I’ll be up shortly.
” Elena nodded and withdrew, leaving me alone once more.
I slipped from the bed and padded across the plush carpet to the wardrobe.
Inside hung at least a dozen outfits, all in my size, all with designer labels I recognized but had never been able to afford.
Sundresses, flowing pants, silk blouses, even several swimsuits, all in soft, feminine colors that contrasted sharply with the stark black and white Antonio himself always wore.
He’d planned this.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
This wasn’t some impulsive trip.
Antonio Russo didn’t do impulsive.
He had orchestrated this honeymoon down to the clothes I would wear.
The connecting door to his quarters remained closed.
No sound coming from the other side.
Was he watching me even now through some hidden camera? Nothing would surprise me anymore.
I selected the most modest of the swimsuits.
A one piece in deep emerald and a gauzy white coverup.
The adjoining bathroom was a marvel of marble and glass with a shower large enough for four people and amenities that probably cost more than a month’s rent at my old apartment.
20 minutes later, feeling slightly more human after a shower and with my hair twisted into a neat braid, I made my way up to the main deck.
The yacht was even more impressive in daylight.
Gleaming surfaces, state-of-the-art technology discreetly integrated into classic nautical design.
Crew members nodded respectfully as I passed, their eyes carefully averted.
I found the aft deck easily enough, following the scent of coffee and fresh bread.
It was a beautiful space, open to the sea breeze, but sheltered from direct sun by an elegant canopy.
A table had been set for two, laden with fruits, pastries, and a silver coffee service.
Antonio was already there, standing at the railing, looking out over the water.
He wore linen trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, more casual than I’d ever seen him, yet still emanating that unmistakable aura of authority.
The morning sun caught in his dark hair, highlighting threads of bronze I’d never noticed before.
He turned as I approached, his eyes sweeping over me in that assessing way that always made my skin prickle with awareness.
You slept well? Not really a question, more a prefuncter greeting.
Not particularly, I answered honestly.
That almost smile appeared briefly.
The sea takes some getting used to.
He gestured to the table.
Sit.
Eat.
I took the chair farthest from him, noticing how even here, surrounded by endless ocean, he positioned himself with his back to the wall.
A clear view of all entrances, constant vigilance, even in repose, a steward appeared silently to pour coffee and then vanished just as quickly, leaving us in a bubble of strained privacy.
Are you going to tell me where we’re going? I asked, selecting a grape from the fruit platter, needing something to do with my hands.
Antonio took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of the cup.
Antigua, my private island just off the coast, to be precise.
I nearly choked.
You have a private island? Among other properties, he set down his cup with deliberate care.
We’ll arrive late tomorrow.
I digested this information along with the growing realization of just how powerful Antonio truly was.
I’d known he was wealthy, of course.
The penthouse, the cars, the careful difference everyone showed him, all spoke of money and influence, but a yacht like this, a private island, this was wealth beyond imagining.
Why? I finally asked the question that had been burning inside me since last night.
Why this sudden honeymoon? Why the change in in our arrangement? Antonio’s dark eyes held mine.
Unreadable as always.
Circumstances have evolved.
Certain business associates needed convincing of our marriage’s legitimacy.
My heart sank.
Of course, this was just another business move.
So, I’m to play the adoring wife for your associates.
No.
His voice hardened.
My island is private.
We’ll be alone there apart from the staff.
This isn’t about appearances, Sophia.
The way he said my name sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
Then what is it about? He leaned forward slightly, those dark eyes never leaving mine.
Perhaps I simply decided it was time to claim what’s mine.
The words hung in the salt laden air between us, heavy with implication.
My pulse quickened, whether from fear or something else.
I couldn’t tell anymore.
I’m not yours,” I whispered.
But the words sounded hollow, even to my own ears.
On paper, I was exactly that.
His wife, his possession, bought and paid for with my father’s debt.
Antonio’s expression didn’t change.
But something flickered in the depths of his eyes.
“Finish your breakfast, then Elena will show you around the yacht.
I have business to attend to.
” He rose in one fluid motion and left without another word, leaving me alone with the endless blue sea and the echo of his claim.
What’s mine? The day passed in a strange haze of luxury and isolation.
Elena gave me a tour of the yacht named Vendetta, I discovered, pointing out the gym, the cinema room, the library, even a small pool on the top deck.
Six crew members lived aboard permanently, she explained, all hand selected by Antonio and sworn to absolute discretion.
Mr.
Russo values his privacy above all else,” she told me with a meaningful glance.
I understood the message.
“Whatever I saw or heard on this voyage was never to be repeated, as if I had anyone to tell, Antonio remained elusive throughout the day.
Closeted in what Elena called the office, a state-of-the-art communication center from which he apparently continued to run his empire, even at sea.
I glimpsed him once through a half-open door, speaking rapidly in Italian on a satellite phone, his expression thunderous.
He looked up, caught me watching, and the door was promptly closed by Marco, who seemed to have materialized from nowhere.
I spent the afternoon on the sund deck, ostensibly reading a book from the library, but actually watching the endless procession of waves and wondering how my life had led to this moment.
One year ago, I’d been a normal 25-year-old, working as a physical therapist, living in a tiny apartment, dating occasionally, but focused on helping my father raise my teenage sister after my mother’s death.
Then came my father’s accident at the construction site, the mounting medical bills, the revelation that he’d borrowed money from people no one should ever be indebted to.
And finally, the offer from Antonio Russo.
All debts forgiven.
My father’s medical care guaranteed.
My sister’s college fund secured in exchange for one thing.
Me.
A marriage of convenience.
He’d called it.
A business arrangement.
Nothing more than signatures on paper until now.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in spectacular shades of orange and pink, Elena appeared at my side.
Mr.
Russo requests your company for dinner, she said.
In the main salon at 8, I’ve laid out an appropriate dress in your suite.
The appropriate dress turned out to be a slip of black silk that clung to every curve with a neckline that plunged lower than anything I’d ever worn.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back, hair loose around my shoulders as Antonio preferred it, lips tinted rose, eyes wide with apprehension.
At precisely 8:00, I made my way to the main salon, where the lighting had been dimmed to a soft golden glow.
The large dining table had been replaced by a smaller, more intimate setting, candles flickering in the center.
Antonio stood by the windows, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He turned as I entered, and for the first time since I’d known him, I saw a reaction he couldn’t quite control.
A slight widening of the eyes, a momentary stillness, as if the sight of me had caught him off guard.
Sophia, my name again, but different this time.
Lower, almost like a caress.
You requested my presence, I said, aiming for cool detachment, but hearing the tremor in my own voice.
He crossed to where a bottle of champagne waited in an ice bucket.
A request implies the option of refusal.
The court came free with a soft pop.
This was more of a command, wasn’t it? I accepted the flute he offered.
our fingers brushing momentarily.
Is there a difference in your world? That dangerous almost smile.
You’re learning.
Dinner was served by a staff that appeared and disappeared with choreographed precision, delicate seafood courses, perfectly paired wines, decadent desserts I barely tasted.
Antonio asked me questions throughout the meal about my work as a physical therapist, about my childhood, about books I’d read and places I’d visited.
On the surface, it was the normal conversation of a couple getting to know each other.
Beneath, it felt like an interrogation, as if he were mining for weaknesses, for points of leverage.
I found myself responding in kind, asking about his business interests, his childhood, his family.
Each question was deflected with practiced ease, redirected back to me.
By the time dessert was cleared away, I knew he preferred his coffee black, disliked technology despite using it extensively and could quote Makaveli from memory.
Beyond that, he remained an enigma.
“Walk with me,” he said after the last of the staff had withdrawn.
“It wasn’t a request, so I followed him out onto the deck.
” Night had fallen completely.
The sky a canopy of stars unlike anything I’d ever seen in the city.
The moon cast a silver path across the water, and the air was warm against my bare shoulders.
We stood at the railing, the only sounds the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the distant hum of the engines.
“Do you know why I chose you, Sophia?” Antonio asked suddenly.
I tensed.
We had never discussed the specifics of how I had come to his attention.
Because my father owed you money.
Your father owed many people money.
His voice was matter of fact.
I could have left his debt collection to others.
I usually do.
I turned to look at him, his profile sharp against the night sky.
Then why? Antonio’s gaze remained on the horizon.
I saw you once at the hospital, sitting beside your father’s bed, reading to him, even though he was unconscious.
Your sister had fallen asleep in the chair beside you, and you draped your coat over her.
You looked exhausted, defeated.
He paused, but still fighting.
I remembered that night, one of many spent in the antiseptic gloom of the ICU.
But I didn’t remember seeing Antonio.
You were wearing a blue sweater with a hole in the sleeve, he continued.
Your hair was in a braid like you wore it today.
You had dark circles under your eyes, and your hands were chapped from the hospital soap.
And still, you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
My breath caught in my throat.
Why are you telling me this now? He turned to face me and in the moonlight his expression was almost gentle.
Almost.
Because tomorrow we reach the island and things will change between us.
I wanted you to understand that this was never just business for me, Sophia.
Not from the first moment.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw with exquisite care.
You’ve never been just my wife on paper, not to me.
Before I could respond, before I could process the implications of his words, his hand slid to the nape of my neck, pulling me toward him with inexurable strength.
And then his mouth was on mine, claiming, possessing, branding.
Everything inside me said to resist, to pull away, to remember what this man was, what he represented.
But my body betrayed me, melting against him as if it had been waiting for this moment since our farce of a wedding.
My hands found his shoulders, the solid warmth of him anchoring me as the yacht seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing hard.
His eyes had gone even darker, pupils dilated with desire.
“Now you understand,” he said, his voice rough.
“Why I had to keep my distance, why I couldn’t trust myself to be alone with you.
” Antonio, I began, not sure what I wanted to say.
He stepped back, putting space between us, his self-control visibly reasserting itself.
Go to your cabin, Sophia.
Lock the door.
I stared at him, confusion warring with the lingering heat of his kiss.
What? Lock the door? His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides.
Because if you don’t, I can’t promise I’ll stay on my side tonight.
And despite what you might think of me, I won’t take what isn’t freely given.
He turned away, dismissing me, his posture rigid with restraint.
We reach the island tomorrow.
Make your decision.
Then I fled back to my stateateroom, heart pounding, lips still burning from his kiss.
The connecting door to his quarters loomed large in my consciousness as I changed out of the black silk dress with trembling fingers.
True to his word, Antonio didn’t come through it, though I heard him moving about his room, the occasional clink of glass suggesting he was drinking.
I did lock the door in the end, not because I feared what he might do, but because I feared what I might allow, what I might want.
Because in that kiss, in that moment under the stars, something had shifted irreversibly between us.
My paper marriage was catching fire, and I wasn’t sure if I would survive the flames.
Morning came with blinding sunlight and the distant cry of seabirds.
I woke disoriented.
Memories of Antonio’s kiss still lingering like a fever dream.
Had it really happened? The slight swelling of my lips in the bathroom mirror confirmed it wasn’t my imagination, as did the tension coiled low in my abdomen, a physical reminder of desires I’d tried to deny.
I dressed in one of the sundresses from the wardrobe, a pale blue slip of fabric that somehow made me look both innocent and alluring, and ventured up to the main deck.
The crew moved with heightened energy.
Preparations clearly underway for our arrival.
Elena appeared at my elbow with a cup of coffee.
We’ll be docking in about an hour, Mrs.
Russo.
Mr.
Russo asked that you join him on the bridge.
The bridge, the yacht’s command center, was a space of hush deficiency, dominated by screens and equipment I couldn’t begin to understand.
Antonio stood with the captain.
Both men bent over a chart, speaking in low voices.
He looked up as I entered and for a heartbeat something unguarded flashed across his face.
Then it was gone, replaced by his usual inscrable mask.
“Come,” he said, extending a hand toward me.
“You can see the island from here,” I hesitated, then crossed to stand beside him at the expansive windows.
His hand settled at the small of my back, warm and possessive, as he guided my gaze to the horizon.
At first, I saw nothing but endless blue.
Then, gradually, a dark smudge materialized in the distance, growing more distinct with each passing minute.
A private island.
His private island.
It’s beautiful, I said softly, as details began to emerge.
White sand beaches, lush tropical vegetation, an elegant structure nestled into the hillside.
It’s secure, Antonio replied, revealing his priorities, completely isolated with controlled access points and comprehensive surveillance.
His hand pressed slightly firmer against my back.
No one comes or goes without my knowledge.
A reminder, perhaps that there would be no escape from whatever awaited me there, as if I needed reminding.
The main house has everything we need, he continued.
The staff is minimal and discreet.
And how long do you plan to keep me there?” I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
His dark eyes met mine, unreadable as ever.
That depends on you, Sophia.
Before I could ask what he meant, the captain approached with a question about the docking procedure, and Antonio’s attention was diverted.
I was dismissed with a nod and made my way back to my suite to prepare for arrival.
An hour later, I stood on the main deck as the yacht glided into a private marina nestled in a sheltered cove.
The island was even more beautiful up close.
A perfect tropical paradise with palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze and crystal clearar water lapping at pristine beaches.
A golf cart waited at the end of the dock along with two security personnel whose bulging jackets did little to disguise their weapons.
Antonio guided me into the cart, his hand at my elbow, his touch proprietary.
I noticed how the security men averted their eyes, careful not to look directly at me.
Was that respect or fear of their employer’s reaction? We rode in silence up a winding path through lush gardens.
Tropical flowers perfumed the air, and exotic birds called from the canopy above.
In any other circumstances, with any other man, it would have been breathtakingly romantic.
The main house appeared through a break in the vegetation, a modernist marvel of glass and stone that somehow blended perfectly with the natural surroundings.
Not ostentatious like the penthouse, but elegant and understated, a true refuge.
This is where you come to escape? I asked as we pulled up to the entrance.
Antonio’s mouth quirked in that not quite smile.
This is where I come when I need to think clearly, when decisions must be made without distractions.
A chill ran through me despite the tropical heat.
What decisions was he contemplating now? The interior of the house was cool and airy with polished concrete floors, minimalist furniture, and floor to ceiling windows that framed the spectacular ocean views.
A small staff waited in the foyer, a housekeeper, a chef, and another security man who exchanged a meaningful glance with Antonio.
Show misses.
Russo to the master suite.
Antonio instructed the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who introduced herself as Mariana.
I have matters to attend to.
And just like that, I was dismissed again.
Left to follow Mariana through the house while Antonio disappeared with his security team.
My husband, ever the enigma, ever just beyond my reach.
The master suite occupied the entire second floor of one wing.
A massive bedroom with a king-sized bed facing the ocean, a sitting area with bookshelves built into the walls, a bathroom larger than my old apartment, and a private terrace with an infinity pool that seemed to merge with the sea beyond.
Mr.
Russo had everything prepared just as he specified,” Mariana said, opening a closet to reveal more clothing in my size.
“If you need anything at all, please use this.
” She handed me a slim tablet.
It connects directly to the staff quarters.
I took it suddenly overwhelmed by the stranges of my situation.
Thank you.
She hesitated, then added in a softer voice, “The house can be isolating.
If you would like company or simply someone to talk to, I am always available.
The kindness in her eyes nearly undid me.
” “When was the last time someone had spoken to me with genuine concern?” “Thank you,” I repeated, this time with real gratitude.
Left alone, I wandered the suite, trailing my fingers over luxurious fabrics and cool surfaces.
Unlike the penthouse, which felt like a showpiece designed to intimidate, this space had a livedin quality.
Books filled the shelves, classics, histories, philosophy texts with cracked spines and dogeared pages.
A worn leather chair sat angled toward the windows.
A half empty notebook on the small table beside it.
This was Antonio’s sanctuary.
I realized his true home where he allowed himself to be what? Not vulnerable.
I couldn’t imagine Antonio truly vulnerable.
But perhaps more authentic than the cold, controlled crime lord he presented to the world.
I found myself drawn to the notebook, knowing I was crossing a boundary but unable to resist.
The pages contained notes in Antonio’s precise handwriting, observations about books he’d read, fragments of poetry, strategic thoughts on business matters described in careful euphemisms.
Nothing overtly incriminating, but enough to give me glimpses of the mind behind the mask.
One page caught my attention particularly, a list of dates and events.
I recognized some as key moments in my life.
my graduation from physical therapy school, my mother’s funeral, my father’s accident, the day Antonio had first approached me with his proposition.
He’d been watching me, tracking me, long before I ever knew he existed.
The knowledge should have terrified me.
Instead, it awakened a confusing mixture of emotions.
Anger at the invasion of privacy, yes, but also a strange fluttering sensation in my chest to be the focus of such intense attention from a man like Antonio.
I closed the notebook quickly and moved away, stepping out onto the terrace to clear my head in the seab breeze.
The sun was high now, the heat intense, but not unpleasant.
Below, staff members moved discreetly about the grounds.
And in the distance, I could see security personnel patrolling the perimeter, a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.
I changed into one of the swimsuits, a white bikini that left little to the imagination, and slipped into the infinity pool, hoping the cool water would help me think clearly.
What was Antonio’s game? Why bring me here after weeks of careful distance? What had changed? I floated on my back, staring up at the perfect blue sky, letting the water cradle me.
I’d been a competitive swimmer in high school, one of the few luxuries my working-class family could afford.
The water had always been my refuge, the one place where problems seemed to dissolve, if only temporarily.
“You didn’t tell me you could swim,” I startled, flailing momentarily before regaining my composure.
Antonio stood at the edge of the pool, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
He’d changed into linen pants and an unbuttoned white shirt that revealed a tanned muscled chest marked with several scars.
Old bullet wounds perhaps, or knife injuries, hazards of his profession.
You didn’t ask, I replied, treading water, suddenly conscious of how exposed I was in the white bikini.
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face.
There are many things I haven’t asked, Sophia.
Many things I don’t know about you.
Isn’t that how you wanted it? A wife on paper only, remember? No need to know each other beyond the necessary details.
He crouched down at the edge of the pool, his gaze intense.
And if I’ve changed my mind about what’s necessary, my heart stuttered in my chest.
Why? What’s different now? Antonio was silent for a long moment, his expression contemplative.
Threats have emerged.
Enemies looking for weaknesses to exploit.
And I’m a weakness.
The thought was almost laughable.
Antonio Russo, vulnerable because of me, you could be.
He stood, unbuttoning his shirt completely and letting it fall to the ground.
If I allowed it.
Then he dove into the pool in one smooth motion, barely creating a ripple.
He surfaced directly in front of me, close enough that I could see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.
Close enough that I had to resist the urge to reach out and touch him.
“Is that why you brought me here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“To eliminate a potential weakness?” His hand found my waist underwater, scorching hot despite the coolness surrounding us.
“I brought you here because I was tired of denying myself what’s mine.
” Before I could protest this claim of ownership again, he pulled me against him, his mouth capturing mine with a hunger that stole my breath.
This wasn’t the controlled kiss from the yacht.
This was raw, primal, a man staking his claim.
“And God help me,” I responded with equal fervor, my arms twining around his neck, my body molding against his as if we’d been designed as matching pieces of the same puzzle.
Water sleuth around us as he backed me against the edge of the pool.
his hands sliding down to grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my throat, his voice rough with desire.
“Tell me you don’t want this.
” The rational part of my brain screamed, “Warnings! This man was dangerous.
This attraction was madness.
This could only end in heartbreak or worse.
” But my body had its own wisdom, its own needs, and those needs had been awakened by Antonio’s touch in ways I’d never experienced before.
I can’t, I whispered.
And it was the truth.
I couldn’t tell him to stop because I didn’t want him to.
Whatever spell he’d cast over me, whatever dark magic bound us together, I was powerless against it in that moment.
His eyes nearly black with desire, locked with mine.
Then be very sure, Sophia, because once I take you, there’s no going back.
You’ll be mine in every way.
No more paper marriage.
No more pretense.
The ultimatum hung between us, heavy with implication.
This was the crossroads, the moment of decision.
I could pull away now, retreat behind the careful boundaries we’d established.
Or I could step into the fire, knowing I might be consumed.
I’m sure, I said, the words barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against the pool’s edge.
Something flashed in his eyes.
Triumph, relief, hunger.
And then his mouth was on mine again.
his hands everywhere, igniting flames across my skin.
We didn’t make it back to the bedroom.
There, on the terrace, with the infinite blue of sky and sea as our witnesses, Antonio claimed what he had always considered his.
Afterward, wrapped in plush towels on one of the lounge chairs, my head resting on his chest, I listened to the steady beat of his heart, and wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, or if perhaps I’d finally made the first right choice since this whole arrangement began.
What happens now? I asked, my voice small against the vastness of the ocean spread before us.
Antonio’s fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
Now you truly become my wife.
And what does that mean exactly? He shifted, tilting my chin up so I had to meet his gaze.
It means you’ll be by my side in public, in private.
It means you’ll have my protection, my name, my resources.
his expression hardened slightly.
It also means you’ll accept certain realities about my business.
A diplomatic way of saying I would need to accept that I was married to a criminal, a man whose empire was built on violence and fear.
You still haven’t told me what changed, I said, needing to understand.
Why now? After weeks of keeping me at arms length.
Something shuddered in his expression, and he sat up, reaching for his discarded pants.
Get dressed.
There’s something I need to show you.
Confused and slightly hurt by the sudden shift, I gathered my swimsuit and returned to the bedroom to change.
I selected a simple sundress from the closet.
Sensing that whatever Antonio wanted to show me required more dignity than a bikini would afford.
He was waiting for me in the hallway, once again the controlled, impenetrable figure I’d first married.
No trace remained of the passionate lover who had claimed me so thoroughly just moments before.
He led me downstairs and through a series of corridors to a part of the house I hadn’t seen during my initial tour.
A reinforced door required his fingerprint and a code to open, revealing what could only be described as a command center.
Screens lined the walls, security feeds from around the island, news channels from various countries, financial data streaming in real time.
Two men in suits nodded respectfully as we entered, then withdrew at a gesture from Antonio.
This is where I conduct my real business, he said, moving to a central console, away from prying eyes and listening devices.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the tropical heat.
Why, show me this? Antonio tapped a series of commands on a keyboard, and one of the largest screens flickered to life, showing what appeared to be security footage.
Because you need to understand the stakes.
The footage showed a hospital corridor I recognized with a jolt, my father’s rehabilitation facility.
The timestamp indicated it was from just 3 days ago.
A figure in scrubs moved down the hallway, entering my father’s room.
Who is that? I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.
An assassin, Antonio said flatly.
Sent to eliminate your father as a message to me.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
Is he? He’s fine.
Antonio’s voice was grim.
My men intercepted the killer before he could act.
Your father was never in danger.
Relief flooded me, quickly followed by confusion and fear.
But why? Who would? Alexander Vulkoff.
Antonio spat the name like poison.
A rival who believes he can take what’s mine.
First my territories, then my business connections.
His gaze shifted to me, intense and possessive.
And now, apparently my wife.
Me? I whispered, unable to process what he was saying.
Why would he care about me? Antonio’s laugh was without humor.
Because despite my best efforts to appear indifferent, someone noticed how I look at you.
How I’ve arranged every aspect of your life with obsessive attention to detail.
How I’ve kept you separate from my business as if you were something precious.
The word hung in the air between us, revelatory and terrifying.
Vulov decided that you were my weakness.
Antonio’s jaw tightened.
He was right.
I stared at him, struggling to comprehend the implications.
So, you brought me here to protect me? I brought you here because I was tired of pretending.
He moved closer, his hand coming up to cut my cheek.
Tired of denying what I’ve wanted since the first moment I saw you.
But yes, also to protect you.
Here on my island with my security, you’re untouchable.
For how long? I asked, a hysterical edge creeping into my voice.
Am I supposed to live in this golden cage forever? because some rival criminal has decided I’m your Achilles heel.
Antonio’s expression darkened.
Not forever.
Just until Vulkoff is dealt with.
The euphemism wasn’t lost on me.
You mean until he’s dead? I mean until he’s no longer a threat.
Antonio’s voice was still to you, to your family, to what’s mine.
I stepped back, needing distance to think clearly.
This is insane.
This whole situation, it’s like I’ve fallen into some twisted crime novel.
Three months ago, I was a normal person with a normal life.
Now, I’m the wife of a mafia boss, hidden away on a private island, targeted by rival killers.
This isn’t real life.
This is my life, Sophia.
Antonio’s expression was implacable, and now it’s yours, too.
The sooner you accept that reality, the safer you’ll be.
I never asked for any of this.
The words burst from me, hot and desperate.
Didn’t you? His voice was soft but cutting.
When you signed those marriage papers, when you accepted my protection for your family, when you took my name, you chose this life.
And today, in that pool, you chose it again with open eyes.
I had no answer to that because he was right.
Each step of the way, I had made choices that led me here.
Choices born of desperation, yes, but choices nonetheless.
Antonio moved toward me again, his expression softening marginally.
I will keep you safe, Sophia.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it costs.
No one touches what’s mine.
I’m not a possession, I whispered.
But the protest sounded weak even to my own ears.
No, he agreed, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek.
You’re much more dangerous than that, his eyes held mine.
dark and fathomless.
You’re the one thing in this world that could bring me to my knees.
The admission so at odds with the controlled, ruthless man I’d first married stole my breath.
Before I could respond, a discreet knock sounded at the door and Marco entered, his expression grave.
“Sir, there’s been a development.
” Antonio straightened immediately, all traces of vulnerability vanishing.
What is it? Volkov’s men have been spotted in Antigua.
They’re asking questions about the yacht.
A muscle ticked in Antonio’s jaw.
Increase security protocols.
No boats approach without my direct authorization.
Double the patrols.
Marco nodded and withdrew, the door closing with a decisive click behind him.
Antonio turned back to me, his expression now unreadable.
It seems our honeymoon may be interrupted sooner than I anticipated.
Fear coiled in my stomach.
Not for myself, but for him.
What are you going to do? That dangerous almost smile appeared, sharp as a blade.
What I always do, Karamia.
Eliminate the threat.
He reached for me, pulling me against him with sudden urgency.
His kiss was fierce, almost punishing, as if he were branding me one last time.
“Stay in the house,” he ordered when he finally released me.
Do not leave for any reason.
Do not trust anyone except Mariana and Marco.
Antonio, I began suddenly afraid this was goodbye.
This will be over soon, he promised, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.
And then we can begin our life together properly.
No more paper marriage, no more pretense.
As he walked away, back straight and shoulders squared like a warrior heading into battle, I realized with startling clarity that somewhere along the way, despite everything I knew about him, despite all the reasons I should fear him, I had fallen for Antonio Russo.
Not just physically, not just sexually, but completely.
And now I might lose him before our real story had even begun.
Night fell over the island like a velvet curtain, bringing with it a silence so profound it seemed to press against my ears.
I paced the master suite, unable to settle, torn between fear and frustration.
Antonio had left hours ago with Marco and most of the security team, giving me no information beyond his stern order to stay put.
Mariana had brought dinner, a delicate seafood dish I couldn’t eat, and gentle reassurance that Mr.
Russo always prevails.
Her confidence should have been comforting, but the worried crease between her brows told a different story.
The last rays of sunset had long since faded, leaving me alone with the distant sound of waves and my increasingly dark thoughts.
What was happening on the mainland? Was Antonio facing Vulov directly? Was he in danger? The questions circled my mind like hungry sharks? I moved to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
The grounds below were eerily still, the remaining security personnel visible only as occasional shadows moving between flood lights.
Beyond the manicured lawn, the wild jungle of the island loomed dark and impenetrable.
And beyond that, the sea stretched black and endless.
A sudden flash of light on the water caught my attention, distant, brief, like a signal.
I squinted, trying to make sense of it.
when a second flash came, more distinct this time.
A boat approaching? My heart rate quickened.
Was Antonio returning or was it someone else? I grabbed the tablet Mariana had given me and tapped the call button frantically.
No response.
I tried again, switching to different staff quarters.
Nothing.
The house felt suddenly, ominously empty.
A soft thud from somewhere below sent ice through my veins.
Moving on instinct, I switched off the lights in the suite and crept to the door, pressing my ear against it.
Silence.
Then, very faintly the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Not Antonio’s footsteps.
I’d learned to recognize his precise, measured tread.
These were lighter, cautious.
The steps of someone trying not to be heard.
Panic surged through me.
I backed away from the door, searching desperately for a weapon.
A hiding place.
An escape route.
The terrace.
too exposed and a dead end.
The closet, first place they’d look, under the bed, childish and feudal, the bathroom.
It had a heavy door with a lock and a window that might just might be large enough for me to squeeze through.
I slipped inside just as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, closing the door with painful slowness to avoid any sound.
The lock engaged with a soft click that seemed deafening in the silence.
My breath came in short, shallow gasps as I pressed my back against the door, listening.
The sweet door opened, footsteps entered.
Two sets now, moving with purpose across the bedroom.
Check the closet, a man’s voice ordered softly, the accent distinctly Eastern European.
She must be here somewhere.
Volkov’s men.
They’d found me.
Antonio’s fortress had been breached.
I backed away from the door toward the window, my bare feet silent on the marble floor.
The window was set high in the wall, designed for light and privacy rather than escape, but wide enough that I might be able to slip through.
Below would be a drop of unknown height into darkness.
A better option than facing Vulov’s assassins.
I climbed onto the vanity, reaching for the window latch, when a voice outside the bathroom door froze me in place.
She’s not in the closet.
Try the bathroom.
The door handle jiggled.
The lock held.
But for how long, Mrs.
Russo? The voice called mockingly polite.
We know you’re in there.
We have no desire to harm you.
We simply need you to come with us.
Mr.
Vulov wishes to speak with you, I said nothing, frantically working at the window latch.
It was stiff from disuse, resisting my trembling fingers.
Mrs.
Russo, the voice continued harder now.
Your husband has taken something that belongs to Mr.
Vulov.
He merely wishes to negotiate an exchange you for what was stolen.
The latch finally gave way and I pushed the window open.
A rush of warm night air flooding in.
Outside was a narrow ledge barely wide enough for my feet with a sheer drop beyond.
But to the right, perhaps 15 ft away, was the roof of a lower section of the house.
If I could reach it, a loud thud against the bathroom door.
They were trying to break it down.
The lock wouldn’t hold for long.
I hoisted myself up, squeezing through the window with difficulty, gasping as my ribs scraped against the frame.
For once, I was grateful for my petite frame.
Another thud.
Splintering wood.
No time to think, no time to be afraid.
I balanced precariously on the narrow ledge, my back pressed against the wall, inching sideways toward the lower roof.
The night breeze tugged at my sundress, threatening to unbalance me.
Below, darkness concealed the true height of the drop, but my mind filled in terrifying possibilities.
The bathroom door crashed open behind me just as I reached the edge of the ledge.
A shout of anger, then a face appeared at the window, a hard-faced man with cold eyes.
She’s outside on the ledge.
No more time.
I gathered myself and leaped toward the lower roof.
A scream trapped in my throat.
For one terrible moment, I was airborne, certain I would fall.
Then my feet hit the roof, knees buckling with the impact, and I was rolling, scraping across rough shingles before coming to a stop against a chimney stack.
Pain lanced through my arms and legs, but nothing seemed broken.
I forced myself up, knowing they would be after me.
The lower roof connected to a section of the house I hadn’t explored.
a service wing perhaps or guest quarters.
At the far end was a drain pipe that might serve as a ladder down to the ground.
Behind me, I heard shouting, the sound of the intruders coordinating their pursuit.
I ran across the roof, stumbling on the uneven surface, reaching the drain pipe just as a figure climbed out onto the ledge I’d escaped from.
The pipe creaked under my weight, but held as I half climbed, half slid down its length, my palms burning with friction.
I dropped the last few feet, landing hard on grass, and took off running toward the dense vegetation that bordered the manicured lawn.
The jungle was my only hope now, a place to hide until Antonio returned.
If he returned, I plunged into the undergrowth, immediately enveloped by darkness so complete it was like being blindfolded.
Branches whipped at my face and arms.
Roots threatened to trip me with every step, but fear drove me forward.
behind me.
Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.
Voices calling to each other as they organized the hunt.
I had no plan beyond putting distance between myself and my pursuers.
No knowledge of the island’s geography.
No survival skills beyond basic common sense.
Keep moving.
Stay quiet.
Find water.
Follow it downstream to the sea.
Then follow the coastline back to the dock.
Maybe there would be a boat, a radio, some means of contacting Antonio.
Time lost meaning in the jungle’s embrace.
Minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell.
My sundress caught on thorns.
My bare feet were cut and bleeding.
My lungs burned with exertion, but the sounds of pursuit grew fainter, then faded entirely.
Had I lost them, or were they simply being more cautious now, tracking me silently? A new sound emerged from the darkness.
The musical trickle of water.
A stream just as I’d hoped.
I followed the sound, relief flooding me as I reached a small waterfall cascading into a clear pool.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy here, offering blessed visibility after the oppressive darkness.
I knelt at the pool’s edge, cupping water to my parched lips, then splashing my face.
The cool liquid revived me, clearing my panic-foged brain enough to think more strategically.
The stream would lead to the sea, yes, but following it directly would be the obvious route.
My pursuers would anticipate this.
Better to rest briefly, then parallel the stream at a distance, using it as a guide while staying under the jungle’s cover.
I had just risen to my feet when a twig snapped behind me.
I whirled, heart leaping to my throat, to find myself staring into the barrel of a gun.
Mrs.
Russo, said the man holding it, the same hard-faced individual who had been at the bathroom window.
You’ve led us on quite a chase, but the game is over now.
Two more men emerged from the darkness, forming a semicircle around me, cutting off any hope of escape.
All armed, all watching me with the flat, empty eyes of professional killers.
“Mr.
Vulkoff is waiting,” the first man said.
“Come quietly and you won’t be harmed.
” “Where’s Antonio?” I demanded, my voice steadier than I expected.
“What have you done to him?” A cold smile.
“Your husband is otherwise engaged.
” A distraction was arranged in Antigga to draw him away from the island.
“By the time he realizes the deception, you’ll be long gone.
” Relief mingled with fresh fear.
Antonio was alive, not facing Vulkoff directly as I’d feared.
But I was alone, captured, about to be used as leverage against the man I now knew I loved.
I’ll scream.
I threatened weakly, knowing how feudal it was.
The man shrugged.
There’s no one to hear you.
The house staff has been neutralized.
Mariana, the kind-eyed housekeeper who had offered friendship, my stomach clenched with guilt and grief.
Now, Mrs.
Russo, come with us or things will become very unpleasant.
I had no choice.
No weapon, no plan, no hope of outrunning or outfighting three armed men.
I stepped forward head high despite the fear coursing through me.
If they were taking me to Vulkoff, perhaps I could reason with him, negotiate.
By time for Antonio to find me, one of the men grabbed my arm roughly, pushing me ahead of them back through the jungle.
We moved faster now, no longer bothering with stealth.
They had their prize, me.
We emerged from the jungle near a different section of coastline than the main dock, where a sleek speedboat waited.
Two more men stood guard beside it, cigarettes glowing in the darkness.
“Five against one.
” The odds kept getting worse.
“In,” my captor ordered, shoving me toward the boat.
I climbed in, wincing as the rough fiberglass scraped my already bleeding feet.
The men followed, one taking position at the wheel while the others kept their weapons trained on me.
The engine roared to life, shattering the night’s silence, and we shot away from the shore, leaving Antonio’s island and my brief taste of happiness behind.
The journey passed in a blur of sea spray and terror.
I sat hunched in the bow, arms wrapped around myself, mind racing through scenarios, each more hopeless than the last.
What did Volov want? What had Antonio supposedly stolen? How could I possibly survive this? After what seemed like hours, but was probably less than one, lights appeared on the horizon, the main island of Antigga.
But we didn’t head for the public marina or any of the tourist areas.
Instead, the boat veered toward a secluded cove where a larger yacht waited, lights blazing against the night sky.
Not as large as Antonio’s vendetta, but impressive nonetheless, and undoubtedly belonging to Alexander Vulov, the speedboat pulled alongside, and rough hands hauled me up onto the deck, I was pushed through a door into an opulent salon, my bare feet sinking into plush carpet.
The contrast between my bedraggled bleeding state and the luxury surrounding me couldn’t have been more stark.
“Wait here,” my captor ordered, then left me alone, the door locking with an ominous click behind him.
I sank onto a leather sofa, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming me, my arms and legs were scratched and bleeding from my jungle flight, my sundress torn and filthy, my hair a tangled mess.
I must have looked like a wild creature, cornered and desperate.
which was exactly what I was.
Time ticked by, measured only by the gentle rocking of the yacht and the muted hum of its engines.
I fought to stay alert, to prepare myself for whatever, whoever was coming.
But fatigue dragged at me like an undertoe.
The door finally opened, and a man entered alone.
Not the hard-faced captor, but someone altogether more elegant and more terrifying.
Tall and lean with silver streaked dark hair and eyes the pale blue of Arctic ice, he wore an impeccably tailored white suit that should have looked ridiculous on a yacht in the Caribbean, but somehow enhanced his aura of cold authority.
Alexander Vulkoff.
I knew it instinctively even before he spoke.
Mrs.
Russo, his voice was cultured, his accent less pronounced than his men’s.
I apologize for the manner in which you were brought here.
My men can be overzealous.
I said nothing, watching him wearily as he crossed to a sideboard and poured two glasses of amber liquid.
Drink, he said, offering one to me.
You look like you need it.
I prefer not to be poisoned.
Thank you, I replied, surprised by my own defiance.
Vulkoff laughed, a sound entirely devoid of warmth.
If I wanted you dead, my dear, you would never have left the island.
He took a deliberate sip from the glass he’d offered me, then set it on the table between us.
“See, perfectly safe.
I left it untouched, focusing instead on gathering information.
” “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” Vulkov settled into an armchair opposite me, studying me with those unsettling pale eyes.
“Fascinating,” he murmured almost to himself.
“I can see why he’s so obsessed with you.
There’s a fire there beneath the fear.
What do you want? I repeated more forcefully.
Direct too, he nodded approvingly.
Very well.
What I want is simple.
The return of what your husband stole from me.
And what was that exactly? A flash drive containing information that could be problematic for my operations.
Information that should never have left my possession.
His eyes hardened.
information that Antonio Russo somehow acquired and is now using to dismantle my business piece by piece.
I blinked, trying to process this.
I know nothing about any flash drive.
I believe you.
Folk leaned forward slightly, but Antonio will trade it for you.
Of that, I’m certain.
How can you be so sure? The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Folk’s smile was cold as his eyes.
because I’ve been watching him watch you for weeks now.
The great Antonio Russo, who has never shown weakness for anything or anyone, looking at you like a starving man at a feast he cannot touch.
He laughed softly.
Until your little honeymoon, of course.
It seems he finally gave in to temptation.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, the intimacy of his surveillance making me feel violated all over again.
You’re his weakness, Bolov continued, echoing Antonio’s own words from earlier.
His only weakness.
And in our world, Mrs.
Russo, weakness gets you killed.
A chill ran down my spine.
Are you threatening me? Not at all.
I’m offering you an opportunity.
He sat back, regarding me with clinical interest.
Antonio Russo is not a man capable of love, of true devotion.
He sees you as a possession, a trophy he acquired, and now must protect because his pride demands it.
But once you’ve served your purpose in this exchange, how long before he tires of you, before you become a liability rather than an asset, I said nothing, but doubt must have flickered across my face because Vulov smiled again, sensing vulnerability.
I, on the other hand, value talent and intelligence.
Your background in physical therapy, your dedication to your family, your obvious resilience.
These qualities could be useful to my organization.
He gestured expansively.
You could have a place here.
Protection, comfort, freedom from the cage Antonio has built around you.
You’re asking me to betray my husband.
My voice was flat.
I’m offering you a choice.
Vulkov’s eyes bored into mine.
More than Antonio ever gave you.
The words hit their mark with painful accuracy.
Had I ever truly had a choice with Antonio from the moment he’d approached me with his proposition? Hadn’t I been maneuvered, manipulated, controlled? But then I remembered the way Antonio had looked at me on the terrace after we’d made love.
The vulnerability in his eyes when he’d admitted I could bring him to his knees.
The careful distance he’d maintained until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
“No,” I said, the word emerging stronger than I expected.
Whatever game you’re playing, I won’t be part of it.
” Volkov’s expression hardened, the facade of civility dropping away.
“A pity! I had hoped you might be reasonable.
” He stood abruptly.
“You have until morning to reconsider.
By then, Antonio will have received my terms for exchange.
” His response will tell you everything you need to know about your true value to him.
He left without another word, the door locking behind him.
Alone again, I finally reached for the glass he’d left, needing something to steady my nerves.
The whiskey burned a path down my throat, warming me from the inside out, clearing my head.
Volkoff was trying to plant seeds of doubt to turn me against Antonio, a classic divide and conquer strategy.
But why bother? If all he wanted was the flash drive, why try to recruit me? Unless Unless the information on that drive was even more damaging than he’d admitted.
Unless Antonio hadn’t stolen it, but had been given it by someone inside Vulkoff’s organization.
Someone who might be in danger if the exchange took place.
My mind raced with possibilities.
Fragments of conversations and observations from my weeks as Antonio’s paper wife clicking into place.
the mysterious phone calls, the heightened security, the sudden decision to bring me to the island, away from the city where Vulkoff’s influence was strongest.
Antonio wasn’t just protecting me.
He was protecting his source.
And I had just walked, or rather been dragged, into the middle of a war between two of the most dangerous men in the criminal underworld.
I curled up on the sofa, too exhausted to explore the room for escape routes or weapons.
Whatever happened now was beyond my control.
All I could do was wait and hope that Antonio valued me enough to find a way out of this trap that didn’t involve sacrificing either me or his mysterious informant.
Sleep claimed me eventually, a fitful dose filled with dreams of dark water and reaching hands.
I woke with a start to find sunlight streaming through port holes and a different man standing over me, younger than the others, with an apologetic expression that seemed out of place.
Mrs.
Russo, Mr.
Vulov requests your presence on the deck.
I stood shakily, running hands through my tangled hair in a feudal attempt to look less disheveled.
What’s happening? Your husband has responded to Mr.
Vulkoff’s terms.
The young man gestured to the door.
Please, this way.
Heart pounding, I followed him through the yacht to an upper deck where Volkov stood at the railing, still immaculate in his white suit despite the early hour.
He turned as I approached, those ice blue eyes assessing me coldly.
Ah, Mrs.
Russo, perfect timing.
It seems your value to Antonio is considerable after all.
He gestured toward the sea.
Look.
On the horizon, cutting through the morning light, was a familiar silhouette, the vendetta, Antonio’s yacht, approaching rapidly.
“He’s agreed to the exchange,” Vulov continued.
“The flash drive for you.
Simple civilized commerce between gentlemen, but his tone belied his words.
A dangerous undercurrent that set my nerves on edge.
This wasn’t going to be simple or civilized.
This was going to be a confrontation between predators, with me as the bait.
when my voice was steady despite my racing heart.
Within the hour, enough time for you to make yourself presentable.
Volkov’s gaze rad over my disheveled appearance with distaste.
Elena will assist you.
To my surprise, Antonio’s chief stewardis appeared at my elbow, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes conveying silent support.
They’d brought her from the vendetta.
Then what did that mean for the rest of Antonio’s crew? Elena led me below to a guest cabin where fresh clothing and toiletries waited.
“Are you hurt?” she asked softly as soon as the door closed behind us.
“Just scratches,” I looked at her searchingly.
“Elena, what’s happening? How did they get you?” “Mr.
Russo sent me,” she whispered, turning on the shower to mask our conversation.
“As a precaution, in case something went wrong, hope flickered to life in my chest.
He has a plan.
Elena nodded almost imperceptibly.
Be ready.
When the time comes, stay close to me.
No further explanation was forthcoming as she helped me clean up and change into a simple white dress.
Vulkov’s choice, no doubt.
The symbolism of the pure sacrifice not lost on me.
My scratches were cleaned and bandaged.
My hair brushed and arranged.
My transformation from wild escapee to presentable hostage complete.
An hour later, I stood on the deck beside Volkoff as the vendetta drew alongside, close enough that I could see figures moving on its deck.
My heart leapt at the sight of Antonio among them, his posture rigid, his expression thunderous even at this distance.
“Shall we begin?” Volkov called across the water, his voice carrying with unnatural clarity.
Antonio stepped to the railing of his yacht.
Even separated by 30 ft of ocean, the intensity of his gaze as it found mine was palpable.
Something passed between us in that moment.
A current of understanding, of determination, of promise.
The drive first, Antonio called back, then Sophia.
Volkoff laughed.
I think not, Russo.
the woman first.
Then once I’ve verified she’s unharmed, the drive, a tense silence fell, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the holes of the two vessels.
I held my breath, waiting for Antonio’s response, knowing how much he hated to concede control in any situation.
Very well, he finally agreed, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage.
Send her over.
A narrow gangway was extended between the yachts, bobbing precariously with the motion of the water.
Folk’s hand clamped around my upper arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh.
“Remember our conversation,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear.
“This is your last chance to choose the winning side.
” I said nothing, my eyes fixed on Antonio, drawing strength from his unwavering gaze.
Go,” Vulov ordered, releasing me with a slight push toward the gangway.
Elena appeared at my side, supposedly to steady me, but her presence a reminder of whatever plan Antonio had set in motion.
Together, we stepped onto the narrow bridge connecting the two vessels, the two worlds, the two men who now defined my existence.
We were halfway across when everything exploded into chaos.
A helicopter appeared, seemingly from nowhere, roaring overhead, its downdraft whipping the sea into froth.
Men in tactical gear repelled down onto both yachts simultaneously.
Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks that tore through the morning calm.
Now, Elena shouted, shoving me down onto the gangway as bullets whizzed overhead.
I clung to the narrow bridge, frozen in terror as combat raged on both decks.
Through the chaos, I saw Antonio vault over the railing of the vendetta, landing on the gangway with cat-like grace.
He moved toward me with single-minded purpose, dodging bullets, his focus absolute.
Sophia, he shouted over the den.
“Come to me now.
” I scrambled to my feet, fighting for balance on the wildly swaying bridge, and began moving toward him.
Elena had disappeared, presumably back to Volkov’s yacht as part of whatever counter operation Antonio had launched.
20 ft separated us, then 15, then 10.
The crack of a gunshot louder than the others.
A burning sensation in my shoulder, the world tilting sideways as I lost my balance and fell, not onto the gang way, but over its edge toward the churning water below.
I heard Antonio’s shout of rage and despair as I plunged into the sea.
The cold shock of it driving the breath from my lungs.
Salt water filled my mouth, my eyes, my nose.
I thrashed desperately, trying to surface, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate properly.
The white dress billowed around me like a shroud, dragging me down.
Darkness began to close in, my lungs screaming for air.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
Not when I’d finally found something, someone worth living for.
Strong arms encircled me suddenly, pulling me upward with powerful strokes.
We broke the surface and I gasped, coughing, choking, but blessedly alive.
Antonio’s face was inches from mine, his eyes wild with fear and fury.
“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice raw.
“Don’t let go.
” I clung to him as he swam toward the vendetta where a ladder had been lowered.
Hands reached down, pulling us from the water onto the deck where chaos still rained.
Men in tactical gear, Antonio’s men, I realized, or some force allied with him, were securing the yacht, disarming Vulkov’s guards.
Antonio cradled me against his chest, heedless of the water streaming from both of us, his eyes scanning me for injuries.
“You’re shot,” he said, his voice tight with controlled panic as he examined my shoulder.
Just a graze, I managed, though the burning sensation suggested it might be more serious.
Antonio, what later? He cut me off, lifting me in his arms as if I weighed nothing.
We need to get you out of here.
He carried me across the deck toward the waiting helicopter, its rotors still spinning, creating a bubble of deafening noise around us.
Through the haze of pain and confusion, I caught a glimpse of Vulov being held at gunpoint by Marco, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead.
That impeccable white suit now stained red.
The flash drive, I remembered suddenly.
Did you? There was no flash drive, Sophia.
Antonio’s face was grim as he lifted me into the helicopter.
Only you.
It was always only about you.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.
There had been no stolen information, no informant to protect.
Volkov had taken me for the simplest, most primal reason, to hurt Antonio through the one thing he cared about, me.
Antonio climbed in beside me, barking orders to the pilot.
As the helicopter lifted off, I caught one last glimpse of the two yachts below, the vendetta intact.
Vulov’s vessel now swarming with armed men.
A decisive victory in a war I was only beginning to understand.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the roar of the rotors.
Antonio’s arm tightened around me, his lips close to my ear.
Home.
Our real home, where no one will ever touch you again.
Hours later, after a flight and a drive that blurred together in a haze of pain and exhaustion, I found myself in a place I’d never seen before.
A fortress-like mansion nestled in the mountains.
Far from the city, far from the sea, far from anywhere.
A doctor was waiting, treating my wound with professional efficiency.
A deep graze that required stitches, but had miraculously missed anything vital.
Antonio never left my side.
His face a mask of controlled fury that softened only when his eyes met mine.
Finally, we were alone in a suite even more luxurious than the one on the island.
My shoulder bandaged, my body clean, my mind still struggling to process everything that had happened.
“You never told me about this place,” I said, sitting on the edge of a massive four-poster bed wrapped in a silk robe.
“No one knows about this place.
” Antonio stood by the window, silhouetted against the mountain vista beyond.
It’s my contingency for scenarios exactly like this one.
What happens now? I asked the question that had been hovering between us since the rescue.
Antonio turned to face me, his expression more open, more vulnerable than I’d ever seen it.
That depends on you, Sophia.
On me.
He crossed the room, kneeling before me so our eyes were level, his hands taking mine with unexpected gentleness.
You’ve seen now what my life truly is.
The danger, the violence, the enemies who will always be looking for ways to hurt me.
His thumbs traced circles on my palms.
I wouldn’t blame you for wanting out, for taking your family and disappearing somewhere safe, somewhere far from me in my world.
I stared at him, stunned by what he was offering.
You would let me go.
Pain flashed across his features.
I would die a thousand deaths every day without you.
But yes, if that’s what you want, I would let you go.
His gaze held mine, intense and sincere.
Your freedom for your heart.
That’s the only trade I’m interested in making now.
In that moment, looking into the eyes of the man who had bought me like property, who had kept me at arms length for weeks only to claim me with devastating passion, who had moved heaven and earth to rescue me from his enemies.
I knew my decision had been made long ago.
Perhaps from the first moment he saw me in that hospital, reading to my unconscious father with a hole in my sweater and exhaustion in my eyes.
“What if I don’t want to go?” I whispered.
“What if I want to stay to be your wife? Not just on paper, but in every way that matters.
” Something broke open in Antonio’s expression.
Relief, joy, wonder, all emotions I’d never thought to see on his face.
“Then I would spend the rest of my life making sure you never regretted that choice.
protecting you, cherishing you.
” His voice dropped lower, rougher, loving you as you deserve to be loved.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth that was finally finally forming a real smile instead of that dangerous almost smile I’d grown accustomed to.
I choose you, I said simply with open eyes, knowing everything.
Antonio rose in one fluid motion, gathering me into his arms with exquisite care for my injured shoulder.
His kiss was different from any we’d shared before, not claiming, not possessing, but a mutual surrender, a promise sealed without words.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead resting against mine, he whispered, “No more paper marriage, Sophia.
From now on, every vow between us is written in blood and bone and breath.
” “And heart,” I added.
My fingers spled across his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat beneath.
“And heart,” he agreed, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, as if he’d never had cause to say it before.
Perhaps he hadn’t.
Perhaps we were both learning a new language, creating a new world between us out of the ashes of the old.
As he laid me gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever dangers lay ahead, whatever enemies might come for us, we would face them together.
No longer predator and prey, no longer owner and possession, but partners in a dance as old as time.
Two souls who had found each other against impossible odds and who would burn the world down before letting go.
Our paper marriage had ignited, transformed by fire into something unbreakable, something real, and not even death would part us now.
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