I close the distance between us. "The point is that I'd rather have you hating me and alive than loving someone else and dead. The point is that I will burn this entire city to the ground before I let anyone touch you. The point is that you're mine and I don't give back what's mine."
"That's not love."
"No. It's better. It's permanent."
She's crying now with tears streaming down her face. I hate it. I hate that I put that look on her face. But I don't take back a single word.
"I want to hate you," she whispers.
"Then do it."
"I should hate you."
"Probably."
"But I can't." The admission comes out raw and broken. "I can't hate you and I don't understand why."
I pull her against my chest. She fights for a moment, then collapses into me with her whole body shaking. I hold her while she cries, my hands moving over her back, anchoring her to me.
"You're mine," I say against her hair. "And I don't let go of what's mine."
"This is wrong."
"Wrong is relative."
"You're ruining my life."
"I'm saving it." I tilt her face up to mine. "And one day you'll understand the difference."
She doesn't argue. Just stands there in my arms, broken and beautiful and mine.
I lean down and kiss her. Hard. Claiming. She kisses me back like she's drowning and I'm air. Like she hates me and needs me and can't decide which feeling is stronger.
When I pull back, her eyes are still wet but clearer.
"I don't even have a dress."
"I'll get you a dress. I'll decide what you wear, what you say, how this happens." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, wiping away tears. "All you have to do is show up and say yes."
"And if I say no?"
"I'll assume you meant yes and proceed accordingly." I kiss her forehead. "This is happening, Francesca. You can fight it or you can accept it. Either way, by Friday night you'll be my wife."
She closes her eyes. "You're a monster."
"Yes," I agree. "But I'm your monster now."
I keep holding her. Her tears soak into my shirt. My phone is buzzing somewhere—Sal, probably, or one of the guys with updates on the Bratva situation. Fires that need putting out. Bodies that need burying. War that needs waging.
All of it can wait.
She's shaking in my arms, broken and furious and mine. In a few days she'll have my ring on her finger and my name attached to hers and every legal chain I can wrap around her to make sure she never escapes.
The Bratva want a war? They'll get one. But first I'm making sure they can never take what's mine.
14
FRANCESCA
