8.

~NICO~

The boutique is silent in the way expensive places always are.

Sound dies here. Even time slows down, respectful, waiting to be told what to do.

I sit back in the leather chair, phone in my hand, attention split between the room and the screen. Business does not pause just because my future wife is sitting ten feet away pretending she doesn’t exist.

Enzo: Sienna just called. She’s flying in from New York for the wedding. Says she intends to stay.

I stare at the message for a full three seconds.

Me: No.

Me: She’s not coming here until I finish dealing with Tomaso.

His reply comes immediately.

Enzo: She’s your sister, not a soldier.

Enzo: And she’s as stubborn as you.

Enzo: You know she won’t listen to me. Tell her yourself.

I exhale slowly through my nose.

Me: I will.

I lock the phone and finally look across the room.

She has not moved in five minutes. She is sitting straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap like she is holding herself together by force alone. Her eyes are fixed on the far wall.

For someone who uses her tongue like a weapon, she is awfully quiet.

A low sound leaves me before I think better of it. Not a laugh, just a breath of amusement.

Her eyes snap to me instantly.

I lower my phone, resting it on my thigh. “You’ve been very well behaved.”

“I’m counting to ten,” she says flatly.

“Only ten?”

“Repeatedly.”

That earns her a corner glance from me. Still defiant, just contained.

Interesting.

I lean back, folding one leg over the other, fingers steepled loosely. The silence stretches again, and my mind drifts backward, to last night.

To Day 51.

I had not intended to read it. That is the lie I tell myself. The truth is simpler. I wanted to know what she sounded like when no one was watching.

Her handwriting had been tighter on that page. Less playful, and more deliberate.

Day 51,

I bought a new vibrator today. And an anal plug.

I told myself I didn’t need them. That the old one worked just fine.

That this wasn’t becoming a habit.

I lied.

The new one is heavier in my hand. The plug made me blush just buying it. Like the cashier could see exactly what I was thinking.

I want to use them.

I want to see how far I can go before I lose control.

Or maybe I don’t want to be alone when I do. Maybe I want a man who won’t ask if I’m ready.

Who will make me keep them in.

Who will watch me shake and still not stop.

I don’t know when this became about more than release.

But it has.

And I don’t think it’s going away.

~C.C

I close the memory the same way I closed the journal. Firmly. As the boutique door opens.

Four women, all impeccably dressed and visibly tense, roll in the racks carefully, as if sound itself might offend me.

The first rack is mine. It had my suits, shirts, ties and pant trousers, all of the same color. Black.

The second rack is hers. It consisted of event dresses, silk, satin, and structured pieces meant to be seen.

The third follows immediately. It had day dresses, skirts, blouses, things meant to soften her. Civilize her.

Then the fourth, and the last one. They hesitate before wheeling it in. The wedding gowns.

Cake inhales sharply.

Her body leans forward before she can stop herself, eyes wide, and her lips parted. For just a second she looks young, and intrigued.

I fold my arms across my chest and watch.

“Leave them,” I say calmly. “And bring champagne. Two glasses.”

They nod too fast and retreat like prey.

She does not turn away from the dresses. “Try them on,” I tell her.

She blinks, looking at me like I have lost my mind. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She gestures helplessly. “Wasn’t this just about the wedding dress?”

I reach into my jacket, pull out my gun, and place it gently on the table between us.

Then I lean back again, crossing my leg, perfectly at ease.

The staff return with the champagne. Pour it, and leave without meeting my eyes.

“Seems you’ve forgotten what happened earlier,” I say, lifting the glass.

She swallows. “No.”

“Good.” I take a slow sip. “All the clothes are yours. Try them on. We see what fits. You are going to be a Vescari. You will dress like one.”

Her hands curl into fists. She walks to one rack and pulls out a tag, thrusting it towards me like I’m supposed to see the price on it from across the room.

“This dress alone costs six thousand dollars. I don’t have that kind of money. I already owe you. I don’t even have a job. I had money and it disappeared and I gave my mother her share and I agreed to pay you back five thousand and now this? I’ll work forever and I—”

“Miss Coogan.”

She stops, breathing heavily.

“Even if you worked twenty years,” I say calmly, “you would not pay for half of what’s on those racks. So don’t insult either of us by counting money you will never touch.”

I meet her gaze. “I didn’t ask you to pay me back,” I say evenly. “They come with the contract. You will not sell them. You will only repay what you stole.”

“I didn’t steal it,” she snaps. “Our bags got swapped. What about my things? I had clothes. A journal. Other items.”

“And by other items,” I say calmly, “do you mean the vibrator that wouldn’t stop buzzing?”

Her face drains of color.

“I threw the bag out the moment I realized it wasn’t mine.”

“That wasn’t mine,” she blurts. “It belongs to a friend.”

“Of course it does.”

I clear my throat. “You will fight in my ring. Your face in a new mask, and contacts to not give your eyes away. Your identity as my wife remains. With your amber and icy blue eyes. My wife does not fight publicly, more so in my ring. So you will fight as Belva, with green eyes.”

I pause. “And Belva doesn’t exist outside that ring.”

“But she does,” she says tiredly.

“After the wedding, you’ll be properly briefed. Until then, you will be where I ask, when I ask. And you will do what I ask.” I pause. “If you would like to continue breathing.”

A knock interrupts us.

Perfect timing.

“My cake has arrived,” I say.

The door opens and a red velvet cake is wheeled in. Frosted perfectly. Knife, plate, cutlery arranged with care.

I stand. “I have a meeting at seven. The changing room is that way. Move.”

She grabs an armful of dresses and disappears behind the door.

The staff leave quickly.

I sit back down, digging into my cake and enjoying it, while I wait for my soon-to-be to step out dressed like a Vescari.

Rich. Proud, and fucking stubborn.