A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

Cristian stood, walking over to me.

I didn’t retreat.

His fingers brushed mine, taking the empty glass from me and placing it on the patio table.

I held my breath as he reached into the pocket of his jacket. I didn’t know what I was expecting, him to pull out a gun and shoot me in the face right here and now? What would be the point of that?

What I didn’t expect was the large red box in distinctive packaging even I recognized.

“I’m glad that you took it upon yourself to take off the other one.” Cristian looked to my naked left hand. “This, I will not be happy to see anywhere but on your finger.”

A warning. A threat. Subtle. Delivered like velvet.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He didn’t seem bothered by my silence. He opened the box and presented me with an engagement ring. There was no kneeling, of course. The proposal had already happened. And it wasn’t a proposal. It was a business deal. One that promised blood if I didn’t play along.

I stared at the ring. Square. Hard. Angular. Cold. Beautiful. Not as large as the one Pete gave me because it didn’t need to be. It wasn’t gaudy. Tacky. It was elegant. Old. Exquisite.

“You can go through the motions of refusing this.” Cristian glanced down at the diamond. “But you want to wear it. You want me to fuck you later on while you’re wearing this. You won’t say no to me if I hold you down and shove this on your finger. You won’t fight me.”

I was shaking.

I didn’t know if it was from fury or need or both.

What I did know is that I needed to play along. That’s why I took the ring from the box and put it on my finger.

That’s what I told myself, at least.

I tried to force myself to think of this ring as a weight, as shackles, a symbol of my imprisonment.

But my hand had never felt lighter. More my own.

“Later I will fuck you while you wear that,” Cristian murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed my ear.

I exhaled audibly, and heat crept over my cheeks, down my stomach and right to my fucking pussy. I fucking hated that I had such a physical reaction to him, that I couldn’t hide it from him.

Cristian didn’t linger. He stepped back, expression tight, eyes stormy. “Now go and get changed. You are the Don’s bride. I expect you to look the part.”

The Don’s bride.

Yes, for better or worse, that’s what I was. Not only was I going to look the part, I was going to act it.

I didn’t know what to expect from the dinner guests. The ones who knew I was here against my will yet were still happy to come to a fucking dinner party.

I expected villains. Men, most likely. Men like Felix, who was always around but hadn’t spoken to me since last night.

I did not expect an older couple. Old enough to be my parents, if I had those.

They arrived before I came down the stairs. I was being petulant because I was pissed off. I was also taking extra time with my appearance. Cristian wanted me to look the part. And instead of rebelling against this order, I obeyed.

Black seemed like a suitable choice. Silk. Bias cut, low in the chest. Perfect for the teardrop emerald necklace that I’d found in one of the drawers of my walk-in closet. It had to be worth thousands. Tens of thousands.

There were five more like it. Matching earrings. Bracelets. The wealth sickened and excited me.

I curled my hair so it fell in long waves down my back. Did my makeup heavy on my eyes, dramatic. I completed the look with emerald heels that wrapped up my calf.

I didn’t wear any underwear. Not even a bra. If it got chilly in the dining room, my nipples would pebble through the thin fabric. I didn’t give a fuck.

I looked great. Amazing. More like myself than I had in recorded memory. My skin vibrated as I left my room and descended the stairs, every cell in my body electric. I’d never felt more alive.

I wasn’t afraid. Not like I should’ve been.

They were in what rich people called a ‘sitting room’ when I got downstairs. All it was was a living room without a TV. Thankfully, it had a wet bar, where Cristian was making an Old Fashioned.

My favorite drink.

I tried to remember if I’d ever told him that when the other two people in the room made themselves known. Whatever conversation that had been going on stopped when they spotted me, turning to face me.

Because I’d been prepared for some mafia goons, I was struck dumb.

“Ah, il tesoro,” the man greeted with a perfect Italian accent, walking toward me. “You are Sienna.” There was warmth in his voice. Warmth that I didn’t want to like, yet I did, on instinct.