A DEADLY ALTAR KISS

Marco's POV

The first thing I was aware of was water.

Warm, perfumed, and completely incorrect.

I was hauled upright into a sitting position by hands, my head still spinning from whatever purgatory I'd gone through since last night. My shoulder burned where Dante Russo's knife had sunk into me, my forearm hurt where it had been slashed open, and my skull pounded with the memory of his pistol knocking me out cold.

I tried to fight, but there were too many of them.

They stripped me, threw me into a claw-foot tub, and began scrubbing me with coarse rags like I was a prize horse being cleaned up for a contest. Soap stung in every cut and bruise.

"Fuck—!" I spat as they pressed hard into my shoulder wound.

One of the men grunted in Italian, clearly unimpressed by my reaction.

They bathed me till my skin was sore, my hair clean and oily. Then came the bandages — fresh white gauze wrapped around my arm and shoulder, bound tightly like my fingers tingled.

I might have spat at them, cursed them all to hell, but the barrel of a gun rested against the rim of the tub. A silent reminder that I wasn't the boss here.

When they were done, they dressed me.

Not in the bloodied suit I had been wearing, but in a starched white tuxedo, the kind that probably cost more than my monthly allowance. The jacket was perfectly fitted, the shirt stiff, the bow tie tied so tightly I could barely breathe.

When they thrust me in front of a mirror, I almost laughed.

My image stared back at me — gleaming, unblemished, as though nothing had taken place. They'd managed to erase all visible signs of the torture I'd endured since being taken here, save for the red, inflamed bruises creeping their way around my neck.

I was groomed.

A decidedly unwilling groom.

"What the hell is this?" I muttered to myself, but no one responded.

Two men grabbed my arms instead and half-dragged me out of the room. I stumbled, my weak legs barely keeping up. The muzzle of a gun pressed into my back — a silent threat — and I swallowed.

We stepped out into the open air, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

The garden spread out before me, impossibly beautiful. Lanterns hung from carved wooden beams, the light burning golden in the air that was growing dark. There were flowers everywhere — roses, lilies, jasmine — their scent heavy and sweet, almost intoxicating.

There was an archway in the center, covered in white flowers, so stunning I almost forgot that I was being dragged into whatever the hell this was.

Almost.

My chest constricted as I looked toward the horizon. The sun was dipping, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. And then—

He was there.

Dante Russo.

He stepped out of the shadows like he owned the world, and maybe he did. The last bit of sunlight hit him, teasing across the sharp angles of his face, glinting off the black tux that clung to him like sin. No tie tonight — his collar open just enough to reveal the hint of that scar etched down his neck. His black hair was perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place.

I hated him.

I hated the way he walked — slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. I hated the way those chilly gray eyes imprisoned me in their stare.

And I hated that for one awful, humiliating moment, I wanted him.

My body betrayed me, heat flickering low in my abdomen. My fists clenched. I would rather die than let him see what he was doing to me.

He stopped in front of me, a sardonic smile spreading across his lips.

"Perfect," he muttered under his breath.

They forced me up onto a low wooden podium. a pulpit, I realized with a sinking heart. Dante climbed the stairs and stood in front of me, hands loosely clasped together in front of him, as if this were a social gathering on a Sunday evening.

A second man followed him, tall and lean, with sharp green eyes and a black book in his hand. The rings were in a velvet box he carried with an almost ceremonial reverence.

My heart was racing so hard I could feel it in my throat.

"What is this?" I spat, my voice harsh.

Dante just smiled. "A wedding."

The green-eyed man opened the book and began to speak, his voice low and official, but it didn't really register.

"So you, Dante Russo, take Marco Powell to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health…"

"I do," Dante replied smoothly, his smile widening.

The man turned to me.

"And you, Marco Powell—"

"Absofuckinglutely not," I cut in, my voice echoing across the garden.

For a second, there was silence. Then Dante stirred.

In the time it took me to blink, his hand darted out and clamped around my throat.

My breath caught as he tightened, cutting off my air.

His face was inches away, his voice low and lethal. "Do you, Marco fucking Powell, take me, Dante Russo, to be your husband… in sickness… and in health?"

I clawed at his wrist, panic hurrying me as black spots spun in front of my eyes.

"Yes!" I wheezed. "Yes, I do!"

His hand loosened, and I pitched forward, sucking in air like I'd been drowning.

The officiant didn't flinch.

What the hell was this place?

I barely had time to recover before the man said, "You may now kiss the bride."

My head jerked up, eyes wide. "The what—"

Dante didn't let me finish.

He grabbed my suit jacket, yanking me forward, and crashed his mouth down on mine.

I tried to fight off, but the gun ground further into my back, a bitter reminder that struggling was not an option. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, overwhelming, claiming, until I was dizzy with it.

And god damn me, I hated the way my body responded.

Heat seethed through me, twisting in my belly, making my knees weak. I hated him. I hated this. And I hated the fact that I wanted so desperately to kiss him back.

When he finally let me go, I stumbled back, gasping, my lips damp and swollen.

Dante looked at me like a man who'd just conquered a war on a battlefield.

“Take him to the west wing,” he said to his men, already turning away.

And just like that, he was gone.

I stood there, trembling, clutching my bruised throat, my pulse still hammering in my ears.

My father better come up with a fucking plan soon.

Because if he didn’t…

I wasn’t sure if I’d survive Dante Russo — or myself.