CHAPTER 4:Mine

The ride home was not silent.

It was dangerous.

Lily had fallen asleep on the other seat, her little tiara crooked. The driver had the partition up. It was just me and Luciano in the back, in that red dress, with his diamonds on my neck that said MINE.

He had not let go of my waist since we left the ballroom.

"Look at me," he ordered.

I looked. His eyes were black in the dark car.

"You did well, my queen. You made Vanessa cry. You made the board approve my new hospital wing. You made every man want you."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry. Be mine."

He leaned closer. The red dress had ridden up my thick thighs. His hand — that surgeon's hand that saves lives — slid onto my bare knee.

I shivered. The whole penthouse, the gala, the champagne — it was too much. I was a girl from the Bronx who took taxis. Now I was in a Maybach with a billionaire who bought me diamonds because I was chubby.

"Luciano, this is fake, remember? You said one night—"

"It stopped being fake when you put on that dress," he growled. "It stopped being fake when you let me touch you and you didn't slap me. It stopped being fake when my daughter called you mommy in her sleep just now."

My breath caught.

He moved his hand higher — not too high, just enough to make my thighs tremble. His other hand cupped my chubby cheek.

"House rule number four, Isabella. When I call you my queen, you don't say 'it's fake.' You say 'yes, Luciano.' Understand?"

"Yes, Luciano," I whispered, because I couldn't say anything else.

"Good girl."

Then he kissed me.

God, he kissed me like he owned my mouth. Possessive, deep, one hand gripping my soft waist hard, pulling my chubby body into his hard chest. His tongue demanded, and I — who had never been kissed like this — gave.

I tasted whiskey and obsession.

I moaned. I couldn't help it. The sound was soft and needy.

He groaned against my lips. "That sound. That f*cking sound. Do you know how long I've waited to hear my queen moan?"

"How long?" I breathed, lips swollen.

"Since I saw your application photo. Three days. Three days of not sleeping, thinking about that soft belly, those hips. My hand—" He stopped, jaw tight.

Lily stirred.

We froze.

He pulled back, but his hand stayed on my thigh, thumb stroking.

"Tonight you sleep in my bed," he whispered.

"What? You said second floor—"

"My bed. Lily will sleep with Mrs. Potts. You will sleep with me. Because if you sleep alone in that red dress, I will come to your room anyway, and I don't want to scare you."

He said it like a promise. Like a threat.

"You can't just—"

"I can. I am a De Luca. We take what is ours. And you, Isabella Reyes, with your size 16 and your soft laugh and your cheap vanilla perfume — you have been mine since you walked into my interview."

The car stopped. Fifth Avenue penthouse.

He got out, carried Lily in one arm, and offered me his other hand like a gentleman who had just ruined me in the backseat.

"Come, my chubby queen. Let's go home and break rule number three."

I didn't lock my door that night.

He didn't have to come.

I went to him.

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