Sold To The Mafia King

Chapter 2

The elevator climbed sixty floors without stopping once.

Serena pressed herself against the mirrored wall, watching the masked man who now claimed to be her husband. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, but she could feel his attention on her like heat from a fire.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"Home."

"This isn't my home."

"It is now." The elevator dinged softly. "After you, Mrs. Valentino."

The doors opened onto a private foyer that screamed money and power. Black marble floors reflected crystal fixtures that probably cost more than her car. Ahead, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city sprawling below like scattered diamonds.

"Welcome to the penthouse." His voice held dark amusement. "All thirty-thousand square feet of it."

Serena stepped out on shaking legs. The space was massive—vaulted ceilings, modern furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum, and artwork she was pretty sure she'd seen in galleries. Everything was black, white, or deep red. Like a vampire's lair.

"This is insane," she whispered.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true!" She spun to face him. "You can't just buy a person!"

"I just did." He moved closer, and she caught that scent again—expensive cologne with an edge of something dangerous. "Would you prefer I'd let the Russian win? He has interesting hobbies involving chains."

Serena's stomach turned. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He tilted his head, studying her. "You really have no idea what your husband got you into, do you?"

"Ex-husband," she corrected automatically.

"Smart girl." Something in his voice made her shiver. "Though technically, he was never legally divorced from his first wife. So your marriage was invalid anyway."

The room tilted. "What?"

"Marcus has been committing bigamy for three years. Lucky for you, unlucky for wife number one." He gestured toward the windows. "She's buried in a very nice cemetery in Connecticut."

Serena's knees buckled. She grabbed the back of a leather chair. "He killed her?"

"He had her killed. There's a difference." The masked man moved behind the bar, pouring amber liquid into two glasses. "Marcus doesn't like to get his hands dirty."

"You're lying." But even as she said it, memories surfaced. Marcus's late-night phone calls. His sudden wealth after marrying her. The way he'd flinch when she mentioned his "late" first wife.

"Drink this." He held out a glass.

"I don't want—"

"It wasn't a request."

His tone made her look up sharply. Even with half his face hidden, his presence filled the room like a storm front. She took the glass with trembling fingers.

"What is it?"

"Whiskey. You look like you need it."

She took a sip and coughed as it burned down her throat. But the warmth helped steady her nerves.

"Better?"

"I want to go home."

"This is home now." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the dark stubble along his jaw beneath the mask. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

"Easy?" She let out a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. "Nothing about this is easy!"

"No," he agreed. "But it could be pleasant."

The way he said 'pleasant' made heat pool in her stomach. She blamed the whiskey.

"What do you want from me?"

"Everything." The word was soft, but it hit like a physical blow. "Your time, your attention, your body warming my bed."

"I'll never—"

He was suddenly there, backing her against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city lights blurred below them as his hands braced on either side of her head.

"Never is a very long time, Mrs. Valentino."

His body was solid heat in front of her, and she could feel his breath through the mask. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Let me go."

"Can't do that." His finger traced along her collarbone, and she gasped. "You see, I've been waiting a very long time for this moment."

"What moment?" The words came out breathless.

"The moment Marcus finally overplayed his hand." His touch burned through the thin fabric of her dress. "The moment he gave me exactly what I wanted."

"I'm not a what, I'm a who!"

"Are you?" His head tilted, considering. "Marcus treated you like a what. A trophy. A political asset. A commodity to be sold."

She wanted to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. Because he wasn't wrong.

"I, on the other hand," his voice dropped to a whisper, "know exactly who you are."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?" His finger traced her jaw. "Princeton graduate, summa c*m laude. Art history major with a business minor. You speak French, Italian, and enough Spanish to get by. You take your coffee black, you hate romantic comedies, and you've been sleeping in the guest room for eight months because your husband's touch makes your skin crawl."

Serena's breath caught. "How could you possibly—"

"I make it my business to know things, Mrs. Valentino. Especially things that belong to me."

"I don't belong to you!"

"The papers say otherwise." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Your husband's signature says otherwise. The hundred million dollars say otherwise."

She jerked her head away from his touch. "Money doesn't buy people!"

"It just did." He stepped back, giving her room to breathe. "But don't worry. I'm not Marcus. I don't want a trophy wife or a political asset."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile was visible even beneath the mask—sharp and predatory.

"I want a queen."

Before she could ask what that meant, he was moving away, heading toward what looked like a home office.

"Your room is the master suite. Second door on the left. Your things will be delivered tomorrow."

"My things?"

"Everything from the house. Well, everything worth keeping." He paused in the doorway. "I had the rest burned."

"You burned my house?"

"Marcus's house," he corrected. "And only the parts that smelled like him."

Serena stared at him in shock. "You're completely insane."

"Probably." He turned back to her, and even from across the room, she could feel the weight of his gaze. "But I'm your insanity now."

"This is k********g!"

"This is marriage." His voice carried across the space like dark honey. "The papers are already filed. As of one hour ago, you're Mrs. Dante Valentino."

"Dante," she whispered. The name felt familiar on her tongue, but she couldn't place why.

"Sleep well, wife. Tomorrow we discuss the rules."

"Rules?"

He paused at the office door, head turning slightly. Even in profile, the mask made him look like something from a Gothic novel.

"Your husband didn't tell you?" His voice held dark amusement. "He owes me more than money. He owes me you."