“Am I supposed to trust that?” he said. “To let you go so you can stab me in the back? Ruin my name? Make a fucking joke out of me in front of my men?”
I slammed my fist against his arm, my voice shaking with fury. “I’m not Lucia, you bastard! You don’t get to punish me for whatshedid! You have no right!”
His face went blank. Eyes narrowing with something more dangerous than rage. A flicker of something venomous sparked in them. “You’re right. You’re not Lucia. And I’ll never let you become her. I won’t give you the chance I gave her.”
I didn’t dare ask what he meant by “chance.”Before I could even process the words, his hand shot out, grabbing my shoulder and slamming me down onto the floor. He straddled me, his weight pressing me down.Then his mouth crashed onto mine.There was nothing tender about it.It wasn’t a kiss, it was punishment.
His lips crushed mine with brutal force. I moaned in pain, but he didn’t stop. Terror gripped me, flooding every nerve.This savage, unhinged man, trying to break me, wasn’t the man I loved. He was completely lost.
His hand grabbed my breast, rough, and merciless, squeezing until I gasped for breath. Panic took over. I lashed out, punching him in the neck with everything I had.
He recoiled in shock, and I broke free, scrambling out from under him. But he was faster. His hand clamped around my legs, yanking me back across the floor. Pain exploded through me as I hit the ground.
I didn’t stop fighting and kicking.My foot connected with his facehard, making him release me with a grunt. I bolted. My mind screamed one word:Library.Maxim had told me to go there. It had to mean something.
“Emily!” Carlo’s voice thundered down the hallway, fury dripping from every syllable.
I reached the corner the exact time he lunged, arms outstretched. I dodged, and he crashed into the wall behind me with a roar, the sound reverberating through the corridor. But he was relentless. He recovered fast, closing in on me with terrifying speed.
Right as I reached the library door, his hand clamped around me from behind. He yanked me back, the force knocking us both off balance. We crashed to the floor, then he pinned me down, shoving my cheek against the cold white marble. Breathless. Trapped.
It all happened in a matter of seconds.His weight crushed the air out of my lungs. I felt him behind me, too close, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. A sharp, metallic sound split the hallway.
His zipper.
My stomach dropped.
Before I could even think, his hand yanked at my underwear, dragging the thin fabric down my thighs. Panic detonated inside me. His body pressed harder, and then I felt him, the hard length of his body sliding against me, nudging between my legs, searching, ready.
“Carlo, stop!” I choked out, the words ripping from somewhere deep and terrified.
And he did.
Instantly.
His entire body froze above me, breath catching, muscles locking like he’d been shot. But it didn’t matter. It was already too late. The feel of him there, the weight, the heat, the impossible closeness, sent me spiraling.
Everything around me collapsed inward. The marble blurred beneath me, and suddenly, I was somewhere else. It was like time folded back, hurling me straight into that hellish night of rape all over again.
I was watching what that disgusting man was doing to Jill, and after a few seconds, I realized it wasn’t her anymore, it was me under him.
Then I saw my hands bend at the wrists against the white marble. It felt like someone had plunged my head into a bucket of ice water. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t save myself. I was living my worst nightmare.
Carlo’s voice broke through, distant, yelling Maxim’s name, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. But it wasn’t black, it was red. The color of blood.
TWENTY-FIVE
Carlo
The Day Before
It had been six days since my fight with Emily. Now I was sitting in the VIP section of one of my strip clubs, with Maxim and Lorenzo seated across from me. The room was dim, the air thick with alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume.
Six dancers were moving over and under them. Maxim was the definition of a manwhore. By twenty-eight, he’d seen more tits and asses than Casanova could’ve dreamed of at seventy-three.
But for me, sex was a transaction, a means to an end. I could’ve had the most beautiful, famous supermodels under my cock without breaking a sweat. Still, I always picked the whores, because they knew their place. I didn’t have to waste time seducing them or pretend I gave a damn.
Unlike me, Maxim indulged. He fucked his way through every model and escort in the city, collecting women like trophies. But his favorites were always redheads. That’s why our brothels were crawling with them.
