Forced Bride of the Mafia King のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Salvador Silver Mendoza. She left me to suffer.Why wouldn’t she? No young woman in her right mind would have stayed, especially after coming face to face with the stroke of my rigidity. Now, in the dim morning light, she sleeps—curled up on the couch in my pristine space, completely oblivious to the way I stand over her. She doesn’t know that I see the slow rise and fall of her breath, the way her body curls inward, as if she’s subconsciously protecting herself even in sleep.Last night was a torment. I was soaked in veins. Yet, because I am a man of discipline. I did not seek release on my own. I never have. A man should find it in a woman, not in his own hands. It may seem ironic, given the violence I am capable of, but there are lines I refuse to cross, boundaries I will never break. This is one of them. My body is sheen with water for I just left the bathroom. A towel is in my hand and as if she senses that someone is looking over her, Catali parts her eyes open. The first thin

Salvador Silver Mendoza. “Why the hell can’t I find Diego in this whole damn house!?” is the question I raise when Sabrina walks in, carrying a few ledgers—the job I pay her to do. Sabrina is…I’ve never quite known what box to put her in. She isn’t a friend, not quite an employee in the traditional sense, and the fact that we had sex once complicates things further. I was drunk. That’s the only excuse I have. I don’t even remember the details, just waking up to her naked beside me with red hair spread over my pillow like flames. And the first word out of my mouth was fuck. That was three years ago. Sabrina’s been working for me for six. Her father was my father’s accountant, so we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. My old man had strict rules—no personal relationships with anyone working for us. Not that it mattered for I was never interested. But Sabrina? She had a crush on me and it was obvious to everyone. I’ve never gone for women below my age. I’ve always preferred

Salvador Silver Mendoza.From the color in her eyes, I know exactly what I am—the nightmare she can’t afford to provoke, yet here she is, doing just that.I scan the room and take my time. The grey-bearded man must be her father. The sour-faced woman clinging to him must be his wife. Then there’s Lucas and his pathetic brother, hovering like flies over rotten fruit. Did they gather here to plot an escape? Perhaps with my diamond in tow?No one speaks. No one dares. Not when their throats has clenched shut against better will.“Salvador, I—” Catalina tries, but I turn my gaze on her, and the words wither on her tongue.“Go outside.” I say.“My daughter is not going with you! I’m calling the cops.” Her father steps up like a dog with no teeth.Bruno chuckles behind me, amused at the man’s bravery—or stupidity.“Your daughter is my wife…” I say, as if explaining the obvious to a child. His mind must be rusted over if he can’t remember.As I study him—and the trembling woman by his side—I

Salvador Mendoza.How do I tell her I want to kiss those pouty lips? That’s not even the question she asked. She wants my trust. My trust. After she tried to run or take some little college test—whichever story is the truth.I have no reason to give her anything but yet here she is, standing in my space with that beautiful face and my favorite food. Something about that combination has me sitting here, actually having a conversation with her, without threats or reminders of who holds the power. Me.She burns under my gaze when I don’t reply. I see it in the way her fingers twitch, like she needs something to hold onto, some kind of leverage against the weight of my silence.“Um—”“You want my trust.” I push off the table, folding my arms as I break the silence. She nods.“Then come here.”I know she’s afraid—of me, of my tattoos, of everything I’ve done. I’ve seen her eyes trace the ink on my skin too many times. Slowly, she steps forward. One. Two. She stops. I flick my fingers, beck

Salvador Silver Mendoza.I know what I saw when I walked in. She didn’t notice me at first—not the moment I entered my own damn closet and found her displayed like a present, waiting for me.The girl I forced into marriage is wearing my shirt—an oversized thing that swallows her small frame but does nothing to hide the heft of her ass as she bends over my watch counter. I always knew, from the way her hips moved that her ass was a handful. But now, I see it for myself—the swell of it, flawless, except for a birthmark the color of a ripe tomato.My eyes are sharp. I don’t miss the black lace thong peeking between her thighs as she shifts, the fabric disappears into the cleft of her body. But even without the details, the image is enough to make a man release.Then she notices me.The devastation on her face is almost amusing especially when I step closer.Catali stutters, hesitates, flounders for an explanation—one that won’t come because she knows, just as I do, that there isn’t a goo