Chapter 11 Luca's POV

As rage consumed me, an inappropriate thought intruded—when did her wrist get this thin?

I could feel her bones pressing into my palm, skin thin as paper.

I shook the thought away.

"Speak!" I demanded, staring into her eyes, searching for even a flicker of wavering, fear, or that familiar tearful submission.

But she just looked at me calmly.

That calm made me angrier.

"What do you want me to say?" Her voice dripped with mockery, growing sharper. "That I'm so grateful for your 'leniency'? That I love being treated like garbage? Or maybe that I love you so much, even when you lock me up here and knock up another woman, I should still be thankful?!"

"Elena—"

"Or maybe," she cut me off, voice rising, "you want to hear me say I love you, so I'm willing to endure all this?"

Her tone stabbed at my brain, making it spin.

I suddenly remembered the first time I saw her.

Not at some formal social event. At an underground racing track. She wore a leather jacket, hair in a high ponytail, pointing at some guy who'd said her championship wasn't legitimate because she was pretty, cursing him out in rapid-fire Sicilian.

When she turned and saw me standing nearby, she paused, then lifted her chin, eyes challenging, as if to say: You want to try too?

Back then I thought she was proud, sharp, like a beautiful butterfly knife.

If I ever have a wife, she'll be a woman like this.

But when I finally possessed her, she became pale, silent, like a plant drained of water.

"...I'm done with you, Luca." Her voice pulled me back to reality.

Done with me?

Fury burned through that strange moment of distraction. I slammed her against the desk.

"You don't get to say you're done!" I growled, chest heaving with rage. "You drugged me! You climbed into my bed! You married in for money, to save your grandmother! This is all your doing!"

Yes. That's right.

I hate her.

Hate that she destroyed whatever I felt for her, twisted our marriage into this deformity. And now she acts like she's been pushed to the breaking point, like she can't take anymore.

What I hate even more is that despite my fury, despite wanting to strangle her—her lips flushed with anger, those unnaturally bright eyes... still draw me in.

Her eyes reddened at my words, but she didn't cry. Instead she tilted her head back and laughed coldly.

"Yes. I climbed into your bed. I married you for money. But what about you? Great Don, if you don't want me, why won't you let me go? Does tormenting me make you happy? Or is it..."

She paused, something almost vicious flashing in her eyes.

"You actually can't let go?"

My mind went blank.

Can't let go?

Absurd!

How could I possibly be attached to a woman who schemed and lied her way into my marriage?

But she's mine. My wife. My possession. Even if this was a mistake, she doesn't get to declare it over!

I crushed my mouth against hers to shut her up before she could say anything worse. The taste of blood spread between our lips—I couldn't tell whose.

She fought back, fists pounding my back. But that weak force felt more like teasing. I easily pinned both her wrists above her head with one hand, the other roughly tearing open her blouse.

"Look at yourself." I panted, forcing her legs apart and driving into her without preparation. She arched in pain, a strangled whimper escaping her throat.

But I didn't stop. My movements were brutal, each thrust like I wanted to break through her.

"You say you're done, but what about your body? Hm? You're soaking wet!"

I forced her to turn her head toward the full-length mirror beside the desk. It reflected our tangled bodies—her pinned beneath me in absolute domination, face twisted with pain, humiliation, and the flush of unwanted arousal.

"Look at yourself now." I pressed against her ear, voice laced with malice and an excitement even I found disgusting. "Elena Caruso, the high-and-mighty mafia princess, getting fucked like a bitch in heat. This is what you wanted, isn't it? From the moment you drugged me, this is what you wanted!"

"Shut up... shut up!" She finally cried out, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes. But her body betrayed her—clenching tight around me.

Yes. Just like that. Remember who's fucking you. Remember who owns you. Remember who you belong to!

I don't know how many times I took her—from the study to the master bedroom. By the end she didn't even have the strength to cry.

And my mind was blank from pleasure, able to feel only her.

Only her.

Only this woman I hated to my core but couldn't stop craving.

When I came, I held her tight, and as the intense pleasure ebbed, a deeper emptiness rushed in. Along with a strange... panic.

I'd lost control over her to this degree.

I didn't leave immediately. Instead I tightened my arms, trapping her completely.

Her body still trembled faintly—from cold, or something else.

"Don't ever mention leaving again." My voice was rough, lazy with aftermath. "You're not going anywhere, Elena. You're mine. For life."

I wanted to turn her face toward me, see if she was crying. But pride stopped me.

I couldn't let her think I cared.

I released her and walked to the bathroom.

Cold water poured down, but it couldn't wash away the images of her in my head—her furious eyes, her scent, the way she trembled beneath me.

Fuck.

I dried off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked out. She lay on her side facing away, seemingly asleep. The blanket only covered her waist, exposing her back and shoulders covered in marks.

I stood there for several seconds before walking over and pulling the blanket up to cover her bare shoulders.

My phone rang.

Adrian.

I frowned. For the first time, I found my uncle's call incredibly grating.

I walked to the living room before answering, tone unfriendly. "What?"

"Luca." He said. "I heard Elena's grandmother's surgery was successful. That's good news."

"So?"

"So," his voice lowered, taking on a tone that made me deeply uncomfortable—like he was lecturing a junior, "be good to her. Rein in your temper and... those methods. She's not your enemy."

I gripped the phone tighter.

"This is my family business, Uncle Adrian." My voice was cold. "No need for your concern."

"I'm just reminding you." His voice cooled too. "Some mistakes, once made, can never be undone. Don't wait until you've lost her to regret it."

"I know exactly what she is." I cut him off. "If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up."

Without waiting for his response, I ended the call.

I threw the phone on the couch and rubbed my temples irritably.

An unnamed fury mixed with something darker—suspicion—surged up.

Why did he care so much about her? Because of that face? Because of the dead Claire?

Or because of... something else?