Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

I dream of his hands, once so gentle and sweet. He stroked my hair while I leaned my head against his thigh. He gripped my hips the last time I saw him, during our one and only kiss.

The picture shifts again, and I’m being held down this time, arms raised above my head. I’m fighting him, but he’s too strong. Ruthless. His fingers bite into my flesh, and I know they’ll leave marks.

Maybe that’s what he wants.

I wake with a gasp, body shivering, resounding with remembered pain. Something is draped over me, something warm that smells like him. His jacket, the one that had been beside him. It’s now covering me like a blanket.

His fingerprints still bite into me from the dream, and I hold up my wrists, almost surprised to find them pale. No bruises here. It was just a dream, and the real Giovanni sits across the limo, face still shrouded in shadow. I’m still wearing the silver dress from last night, now rumpled.

I push

the spaghetti strap back up where it had fallen. “How far are we?”

“We’re here.”

I peer out the window, eyes widening at the sight of the lush palms and lavish turrets that surround my father’s estate. No, not my father’s any longer. He’s dead.

There hasn’t been much time to come to terms with any of this, but if I could have guessed, I’d have assumed that Giovanni moved elsewhere. Maybe some condo in a glass-walled skyscraper off the Strip, something closer to the action. The mansion feels a little too domestic, even if it is surrounded by an electric fence. It’s meant for a family, and Giovanni is a lone wolf.

You’re mine now.

Though he might not be alone anymore. If he wants me for my lineage, the only way to get it is to marry me. Against my will, if the drugs in the water are any indication. There are enough Catholic priests in the mafia’s pocket not to question my consent.

And what about children?

What about love?

It sounds crazy to even think about those things with a man I thought was dead yesterday. I had a million fantasies about marrying him when I was fifteen, but in every one of them, we ran away together. In my fantasies we escaped a life of violence.

The man across from me watches with a stillness I can only describe as lethal. Observing every breath I take, cataloging every point of weakness. Waiting to strike.

The limo slows to a stop in the wide circular drive. Armed guards in suits step forward to open the door, blinding me with the bright Vegas sun. The mansion is thirty minutes from the Strip, technically in a suburb, but my father was the capo of the entire Vegas operation.

Not my father anymore, I remind myself. Giovanni Costas.

If I doubted his words, the deference the men show him proves he told the truth. Giovanni exchanges words with one of them over the black bow of the car door. I’ve seen orders given enough times to recognize it now. The other man nods and heads into the mansion.

We aren’t unguarded though. One man still stands by the door, manning his post. The driver of the limo steps out and waits by the front door. I have no doubt that both of them are armed. I have no doubt that they’ve killed before and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. My blood runs cold.

But would they kill me if I made a run for it? I’m under Giovanni’s protection now.

Under his control.

He stands outside the door and extends his hand. “Clara.”

His tone says he expects me to obey. To be the good mafia princess I was raised to be. For a long time I tried to be that person, so it’s easy for me to take his hand. Easy to stand with practiced grace. Easy to school my face into one of complacency instead of fear.

Giovanni doesn’t release my hand. Dark eyes search my features. Whatever he finds, he doesn’t like.

His hand tightens around mine; his expression darkens. “Are you afraid?”

I’m afraid of this mansion, afraid of him. I’m afraid of being the girl I was raised to be. “Are you going to hurt me?”

He cocks his head to the side, considering. Which isn’t the most reassuring response. “You’ll be my wife.”

It hits me then, like a fist to my stomach. This is his proposal, no whispered words in the dark. No sweet promises. It’s right that I spent years mourning his death, because the boy I knew is truly gone.

I close my eyes. “You wouldn’t be the first capo to raise his hand to his wife.”