Once we arrive at the villa, we go straight to the chopper and my wife-to-be says nothing as she is bundled into it. I have a few more business calls to make, so I spend the flight to Sicily making them and putting out the fires that my bride stealing has ignited. I order Elio, myconsiglieri, to get Giovanni Salvatore’s vow of loyalty to me by sundown in return for the life of his daughter, and then I double-check my security.
An hour or so later, we’re coming down onto the rolling green lawn of the Argenti family villa. It’s built on the clifftops overlooking the Aegean, with stone terraces descending amid cliffs and greenery, all the way down to the sea. A deep blue-green infinity pool reaches the edge of one terrace, shaded by olive trees and white outdoor umbrellas.
The villa itself is two storied and made of whitewashed stone, surrounded by lawns and beautifully manicured gardens. It was my mother’s pride and joy, and so I employ a couple of expert gardeners to keep it looking as she would have wanted it.
Caterina stares out the window as we land, her expression guarded. She didn’t say a word on the way over and I find myself wondering what she thinks of the villa, though why I care I have no idea. I love the place myself, but my little crusade doesn’t leave me with as much time to spend here as I’d like.
The helicopter touches down, my various staff all lined up, waiting for me to disembark so we can get the ceremony started immediately. The Argenti family priest, Father Giuseppe, is also waiting.
I open the door, get out, then extend a hand to Caterina. She glances at it, and with that same mutinous expression I saw in the car back in Rome, she ignores it and slips from the helicopter without help.
Stubborngattina.
Again, I’m amused, though I will be less so if she’s going to be this stubborn during our marriage ceremony.
I stride over the grass to greet my staff and Father Giuseppe. Caterina follows me, looking around her warily.
‘Come,gattina.’ I indicate for her to stand beside me.
A ripple of shock crosses her face as she looks at me, then the priest, then back again. ‘What?’ Her voice has risen. ‘You want to get married here?Now?’
‘Of course. I kidnapped you already dressed for a reason.’
She’s standing there as stiff as a post, her back rigid, yet there’s something oddly commanding about her. Something proud. And a part of me, the darkness that lives inside me, the wolf, finds that impressive. That even though she’s been kidnapped from her wedding by the man she thought killed her family, here she is, standing brave and strong rather than cowering in fear.
She will make an excellent Argenti wife.
The thought snakes through my head, despite having never given much thought as to what kind of wife I wanted. I knew I would marry one day, but I didn’t want to do that until I’d consolidated my power base, and that has taken me longer than I thought it would.
So when I received intel that Caterina Salvatore would be marrying Carlo Bianchi in a bid to bolster Salvatore alliances, it was clear what I needed to do and quickly. Too quickly to think about what kind of wife she’d make for me.
But now I’ve been in her company a few hours, I’m coming round to the idea that yes, shewouldmake an excellent Argenti wife. She certainly has the force of will to be one.
She will make an excellent mother, too.
Oh yes, she will indeed. She’s fiery and brave, at least what little I’ve seen of her has been, and those are excellent qualities in a mother. My own, for example, was both before my father’s treatment of her crushed the life out of her. He’d wanted another child, but after three miscarriages, he lost patience with her and abandoned her here at the estate.
I won’t do that to Caterina, though. I’ll need heirs—someone has to carry on my legacy after I’m gone—but if we can’t conceive naturally there’s always adoption. I’m not as wedded to blood ties as my father was.
‘Your father’s life depends on your cooperation,’ I remind her gently. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’
She glares at me then moves, coming to stand beside me, regal as a queen. She very determinedly does not look at me and as the priest begins the ceremony, I find myself staring at her profile, noting the soft curve of her cheek and the lush fullness of her mouth. Her silky black brows and the slight tilt of her nose.
Prettygattina.
When the time comes for her to face me and say her vows, she does so even though her whole body radiates negation and reluctance and fury. Her green eyes burn with rage, and her voice is full of venom as she spits the vows at me. With her tiara askew and her hair half down, she should look ridiculous, yet she doesn’t. She looks like a murderous goddess, and I’m confounded by my growing interest in her.
When I planned this, I didn’t think of her as a person—or at least, if I did, it was the five-year-old girl I was thinking of, not the woman. But it’s the woman I’m marrying now and she’s forcibly bringing me face-to-face with the fact that she’s not a puzzle piece or a pawn. First with the screaming, then with her flailing hands. Then her quick-fire sarcasm and obvious fury.
She’s intriguing, nothing like the women I bed who tend to fawn on me, or the wives of my men and those in other families, who smile sweetly and make no fuss, embracing their roles as adjuncts to their husbands.
You didn’t want that kind of wife anyway.
No, I didn’t.
She puts out her hand for a ring to put on my finger, but I don’t have one for myself. The only ring I wear is my father’s heavy gold signet with the Argenti crest, so I take that off and put it in her hand.
It looks huge in her small palm and when she looks up at me, I can see her battle the overwhelming urge to fling the ring in my face. I dare her to silently, but she only sniffs and pushes the ring back onto my finger.
