He’d never met any woman he could imagine as his wife, but somehow he’d wanted her.
He’d wanted to love her, protect her, forever.
And then she ran, and lied, and cut his heart to pieces.
“Whatever you want,” she choked, “whatever you say.”
She was practically begging now, and he’d thought perhaps it would make him feel better. It didn’t.
He’d never treated a woman harshly in his life.
He’d never reduced a woman to this. Nor should he have had to.
Vittorio could hardly look at her. Her lower lip trembled and tears shimmered on her cheeks. She made him feel like a savage, like the monster she’d portrayed him to be, but he was no monster. He’d spent his entire life healing wounds inflicted by previous generations. He’d battled to build back his father’s company after his father had been tragically injured and the company had been forced to file for bankruptcy. But he battled for his father. He battled for his family. He would prove to the world that the d’Severanos were good people. “I won’t take you out of the country by force.”
“You’re not taking me by force. I’m choosing to go. I’m begging to go. Please, Vitt. Let me travel with my son.”
Something snapped inside of him and he reached for her, one hand wrapping around her wrist, while the other slid behind her neck, his palm against her nape, his fingers and thumb shaping her beautiful jaw. “Our son,” he ground out. “He’s not yours. He’s ours. We both made him. We made him together in an act of love, not violence, and he is to be raised with love, n
ot violence. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Brown or blue, her eyes were mesmerizing, brilliant with raw emotion. He’d thought she was everything he’d ever wanted. He’d thought they’d be able to grow old together. “From now on there is no yours or mine,” he continued roughly. “There is only ours. There is only one family. And that is the d’Severanos.”
She nodded her head jerkily. “Yes.”
And then because there was so much sadness in her eyes, he did the only thing he could think of—he kissed her. But it wasn’t a tender kiss and it wasn’t to comfort. He kissed her fiercely, taking her lips the way he’d now taken control of her life. She’d had her chance. They’d tried it her way. Now it was his.
The hard, punishing kiss didn’t ease his anger. If anything, it made him want more. Her mouth was so soft, and her lips quivered beneath the pressure of his. Angling her head back, he ruthlessly parted her mouth, his tongue taking and tasting the sweetness inside.
Jillian shuddered against him, her fingers splayed against his chest and when he caught her tongue in his mouth, sucking on the tip, she whimpered, her back arching, her resistance melting.
He knew the moment she surrendered, felt the yielding of her mouth, the softness in her body. He could have her then and there if he wanted. If they’d been alone, he would have stripped her clothes off her to prove it. Instead he stroked her breast once, just to make her shiver and dance against him, and then he let her go, watching as she tumbled back against the leather seat.
“Airport,” he drawled, adjusting the cuffs on his dress shirt. “We’re late.”
Approaching Monterey’s executive airport Jillian felt as though she’d swallowed broken glass. Every breath she drew hurt. Every time she swallowed she wanted to cry.
She’d failed Joe.
Failed to protect him. Failed to save him.
His life would never be the same now, and it was her fault. Her stupidity.
She should have never left him with Hannah today. Should have never trusted Hannah in the first place.
But Hannah had seemed an answer to prayer; perfect in every way. Her résumé showed that she’d been a preschool teacher with a degree in early education and years of experience working with infants and toddlers. Her letters of recommendation said that her family was local and respected. Best of all, Hannah was cheap compared to nannies advertising services in the paper which made Jillian jump at the chance to have Hannah come work for her.
But Hannah’s trickery was nothing compared to Jillian’s self-disgust. When Vitt kissed her she’d practically melted in his arms.
There were no words to express her self-loathing.
And so her heart ached while her mouth burned, her lips swollen and sensitive.
Nauseated by her behavior, she dug her nails into her palms. Hadn’t she learned anything? How could she respond to Vittorio when she now knew the kind of man he was. Her father had been the same, although he’d been affiliated with a Detroit crime family not Sicilian, but her father had been so ambitious. Her father’s ambition had destroyed their lives. How could she possibly imagine Vittorio was any different?
She couldn’t.