She tries to look away but I don't let her. "What if I say no?"
"Then I marry you anyway." I let the words land. "This isn't a negotiation, Francesca. This is me telling you what's going to happen. You can walk down the aisle willingly or I can carry you. Either way, you're becoming my wife."
The color drains from her face. "You're threatening me."
"I'm protecting you. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
"Then let me explain it better." I step closer, backing her against the counter. "Right now, you're just a woman I'm keeping in my penthouse. No official status. No family protection. If the Bratva wants to grab you off the street and put a bullet in your head to hurt me, there's nothing stopping them except my ability to get there first."
Her breath catches.
"But if you're my wife, you're a Santoro. You're under the family's protection. Touching you becomes an act of war, not just against me but against the entire Outfit. It changes the equation." I pause. "And there's another advantage. Spousal privilege. The cops can't make you testify against me."
"That's what this is about? Strategy and legal protection?"
"That's part of it. The other part is that I want you bound to me in every legal way possible. Married. Mine. Unable to leave even if you wanted to."
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm practical." I release her face and step back. Not giving her space out of kindness—letting her feel the cage before I close it again. "And before you argue that you can just disappear, let me save you the time. You can't. I'll find you. And when I do, I'll drag you back here and we'll have this same conversation until you stop fighting the inevitable." I pause. "And if I can find you, so can the Bratva. So can every other family in this city who nowknow you're my weakness. Out there, you're a target with no protection. In here, you're mine. Choose."
She's shaking now with her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her. I watch her cycle through options. Her eyes dart to the door—run. Impossible. Back to me—refuse. Pointless. She closes her eyes—fight. Exhausting.
When she opens them again, something has shifted. Not surrender. Calculation.
"When?"
The question catches me off guard. "When what?"
"When is this supposed to happen? This forced marriage?"
"Soon. This week. I'll make the arrangements."
"Do I get any say in this at all?"
"No." The word comes out hard. Final. "You stopped having a say the moment you saved my life in that ER. You became mine then. Everything since has just been making it official."
She stares at me for a long moment. I can see her mind working, trying to find the angle that makes this make sense, the loophole that lets her escape.
There isn't one.
Finally, she takes a shaky breath. "My parents are going to love this."
"You won't be inviting your parents."
"Of course not. Why would I want my family at my forced wedding to a mob enforcer?" She pushes past me, heading toward the living room. "This is insane. You're insane. I'm insane for even standing here listening to this."
"You're not insane." I follow her. "You're accepting reality. There's a difference."
She spins to face me. "You really think forcing me into marriage is going to make me fall in love with you?"
"I don't need you to love me. I need you safe. I need you mine. Love is optional."
The words hit her like a slap. I see it in the way her expression shifts, the way her eyes go bright with unshed tears.
"Then what's the point?" Her voice breaks. "What's the point of any of this if all you want is ownership?"
