Black Hearted (The Margarelli Brothers 1)

“Lock and . . .” she sputtered, looking adorably indignant. Like an angry kitten, I thought. Sweet, pretty, and dangerous. But I knew very well that I shouldn’t underestimate her. I knew she had razor-sharp teeth and claws. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I know who I am. The question is, do you know who you are?” I asked, striding over to her. I grabbed the sheet and pulled it away. “Do you know who you belong to?”

“Belong!?!” she screamed at me, standing there completely nude and absolutely giving zero fucks about it. “I belong to no man!”

I grabbed her.

“I let you have your fun yesterday. But that is over. I will keep you locked up if I can’t trust your judgment.”

I kissed her. Hard. When I pulled back to look at her, she slapped me, just like she had that day in the park. I rubbed my cheek, thinking as I had that first time that her lips were well worth the price.

“I hope you enjoyed that because it was the last time you will ever kiss me.”

She scooped up her clothes and stalked from the room, slamming the door in her wake.

“Francesca, get your ass back here right now!” I bellowed, deciding it was time to put her over my knee again. It was time that we established the ground rules for our upcoming nuptials.

Speaking of which . . . I decided to get a chip added to her rings as well. And every piece of jewelry I gave her going forward.

Only this time, I wouldn’t tell her about it.

“Go to hell, Vincent. We’re through!”

I stared at her gorgeous bare ass as she stalked down the stairs to the front door.

“Don’t you dare open that! My men are outside.”

“You should have thought of that,” she tossed over her shoulder without a backward glance. I stared in awe as she opened the door and proudly walked through it. I watched as my men did their best not to look at her. I’d never seen so many mafiosos with red cheeks. She climbed into the limo and slammed the door, looking like a goddamn queen.

I heard the door lock. My driver would open the door if I made him. But I didn’t do that. I couldn’t ruin her glorious exit with another scene. I knew there was no point in chasing the car like a fishwife as it rolled away, but I was tempted.

I used my phone to text my cousin.

Come get me at the new house. Bring a bottle.

A bottle of what? Michael texted back.

A bottle of anything.

Chapter Forty-Two

Francesca

“You are going to bring the ceiling down on your head,” Maria clucked from the open doorway to the gym. I could barely hear her over the blaring music. I could barely hear myself think, which was exactly the point. I was kickboxing, beating the hell out of a heavy sand-filled bag that swung wildly from the center of a hundred-year-old rosette in the ceiling.

There had been a chandelier there once. Now it held the object that I was taking out all my frustrations on. I was in the best mood I’d been in since waking with that blasted thing around my neck.

I was imagining Vincent’s face on the bag. I was particularly enjoying kicking it. THWACK! THWACK! I used the front of my ankle to strike where I imagined his chin might be.

How do you like that, you big bully?

He was a bully. A big, handsome bully, I grumbled to myself. How dare he put a tracking device on me? How dare he collar me?

He hadn’t even asked my permission. He’d known what he was gong to do, obviously. It was planned. Somehow, he had gotten a collar delivered while I slept and then simply slipped it on me. Even though it looked like a high-end necklace, it was not. It was something you would put on an animal to keep track of it.

An it! Not a person!

That was how he was treating me!

It was humiliating! Enraging! Infuriating!

WHAP, WHAP, WHAP!

I struck with a fist, twisting to drive in an elbow, then followed up with a roundhouse kick, extending my leg fully.

Damn, that felt good.

I trained hard. I always had, particularly in anything that was self-defense related. I loved to get sweaty. Almost as much as I loved knowing I could protect myself against almost anyone, even someone much larger than I was. I knew all the tricks a smaller person could use to slip out of someone’s grasp, move fast, and even prevail over an opponent. I was precise. Controlled. I was expert level, or beyond, in many different fighting styles. I’d studied everything from martial arts to alligator wrestling. Though I had never tried that last one out in person.

But right now, all those years of hard work and study were out the window. There was nothing practical about my workout. Nothing controlled. It was purely an exercise to keep from exploding in near nuclear levels of rage.