Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I reach for my virgin bride’s hand and take her cold, trembling fingers. “I, Antonio Beretta, take you, Dahlia King, to be my wife.”
There’s a gasp in the audience at my last name.
“I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”
That’s right, everyone. The Yacht King just got revenge fucked.
Now all that remains to be done is to give his daughter the same treatment.
I expect that round will be equally if not quite a bit more enjoyable.
Dahlia says her vows like a good girl, and we exchange rings. Yes, I give her the one her intended groom bought for her. I stripped it from the young politico before I installed him and his family in a limo headed back to Manhattan under the careful guard of a few of my men. I left it to Benedict to ensure they take it gracefully once the wedding is over.
The priest pronounces us man and wife. He doesn’t suggest I kiss the bride, but I take my due. I cradle the side of her flawless face and tilt her lips up toward mine.
Anger flashes in her pale eyes as I lower my head. I hover with my mouth just above hers. “Be a good girl and kiss your husband,” I murmur.
“Go fuck yourself,” she whispers back but lifts on her tiptoes to deliver a quick peck. She tries to draw away, but I hold her in place, slamming my lips down on hers, sliding my tongue in her mouth in front of everyone.
I hear the shocked intake of collective breaths. The murmurs grow louder as I continue to plunder my bride’s mouth.
She tastes of minty toothpaste. Her lips are as soft as I remembered. Her skin as smooth. Bad on me, I guess. But kissing Jailbait didn't warrant three years in the pen.
She starts to struggle against me, pushing me away, but I hold her fast.
She needs to learn that she’s not in charge of anything in this marriage. Especially not how much and well I use her pretty little body.
I ease my lips back, still cradling the side of her face in my hand. I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. “There will be consequences for your disobedience, Principessa.”
She makes no sound but a little chuff of indignation bounces from her chest.
“Now smile, take my arm, and walk out of here with me. I'm the new Yacht King, and you're my prize.”
I lead her straight out of the cathedral where we’re showered by rice as we smile, wave, and get in the waiting limo.
“To the yacht,” I command.
Benedict’s wedding gift to the couple was a beautiful, new yacht named Wedding Day bought with my uncle’s money. Now it belongs to me. I already had Benedict call to order his staff–all but the captain, who will belong to me now–off the yacht. My men are in command of the vessel. My branch of the Beretta family just got a new headquarters.
Dahlia stares out the window in disbelief. I reach past her to roll down the tinted glass. “Smile and wave, darling. Show them how happy you are.”
I expect another fuck you, but other than to mutter, “I’m not your darling,” she does as she’s told. I suppose that fits. Her rebellions are tiny–private glimpses of her will while she still outwardly performs exactly as is expected of her. As if she’s incapable of stepping out of the mold created for her, no matter how much she hates it.
When we’re out of sight of the throng, she turns to stare at me. “What just happened…Antonio?”
She spits my name out like it offends her. As if I’d kept it from her all these years.
“I just claimed my due.” I sit back against the limo seat, satisfaction coursing through my veins.
Her mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “And I’m your due?”
“The yacht business was my due. You are the icing on the cake. The coup de grace, as they say.”
I wonder if she marvels at my French. Wonders how that lowly waiter she let her father’s men drag away the night of her ball learned any refinement. It certainly wasn’t in a Parisian prep school like the one she attended. No, I got my education in prison. French was one of the many correspondence courses I took while I plotted my revenge.
I needed all the skills I could get in order to fully claim Benedict King’s life.
Dahlia stares at me in utter confusion.
So. She didn't know what happened to me.
“Did you ever wonder what became of me, Principessa?”
Color floods her cheeks, perhaps at the memory of what I did to her in that supply closet. “Of course, I wondered!” she says hotly.
I don’t believe her. Her father certainly didn’t remember me or what he’d done. I honestly didn’t expect Dahlia to recognize me at the altar.