The Filthy One

“Challenge accepted, Mr. Mancini.”

With a turn of his heel, I’m suddenly facing away with my back to his front and my eyes landing on the most sought after view in the world.

“Holy shit, Marco.”

“Yeah. A little piece of heaven for my queen.”

Up here, some forty stories high in the dead of winter, I can see the whole of Manhattan. It’s a three-sixty view with the highest skyscrapers towering over us like omens, but the park… it’s straight out of a fairytale.

It’s one thing when you see Central Park from behind the safety of a closed window, but an entirely different experience when you can practically smell the romance on every bridge and taste the sweat of every runner.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” My eyes are trained on the view, the late-January sky heavy with the weight of the clouds, the wind chill multiplied by a hundred this far up.

“Neanche io.”

When I look back at Marco, he doesn’t even pretend to be admiring the view. His eyes are on me, the gray skies a perfect match to his irises.

“What does that mean?”

“Me neither.”

Wrapping his arms tighter around me, he leans closer to my ear and whispers, “The best part is about to start.”

Placing both of his hands on my eyes, he chuckles as I curse his wicked ways. I’m about to pull his hands down to see what’s going on but instead I just place them on top of his, the warmth of his skin so delightful.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

His hands part, my eyes slowly opening and readjusting to the light.

A gasp is the only sound I hear when my eyes take in the sight before me. We’re facing West, the sun falling just over the tallest skyscrapers sending beams of light across the park and into the mirrored windows of neighboring buildings. The reflections dance across the whole of Manhattan like a game of dominos. The oranges and reds and blues reflect off every surface of the island and as I stand there, it’s like the sun is suffusing its energy right into me. Giving me strength and warmth. Filing me with an urgent sense of belonging.

“The sun is bowing at your feet, as it should. Always.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RIVER

Dressed in a stunning floor-length black gown with a high neck, my shoulders and back bare, and delicate crystals scattered from the waist down, I feel like the queen I’m pretending to be. Saying that though, I don’t have my full Rose costume on because Marco refuses to allow me to wear a wig, so I’m missing a little of my usual armor, but I’m a professional so I can deal with it. We’re at the most boring gala I think I’ve ever attended—and there have been a few, as this is where clients want the façade of success with a young woman hanging off of their every word.

The room itself is beautiful. Purple hues from the lighting reflect off every detailed surface inside the Angel Orensanz Foundation, and the balconies just below the high, domed ceilings are all decorated with bouquets of white and black flowers. Round tables are placed throughout the room, with white tablecloths and dressed chairs, almost like a wedding reception… only, this is a fundraiser for Senator Beckett’s campaign. Someone who I know uses Polly’s girls on a regular basis, as I remember seeing his name in her appointment book.

All of New York’s elite are in attendance, it’s an opportunity for the rich and seedy to rub shoulders and boast about all the money they’re able to donate to worthless events like this. If it was a fundraiser for an actual charity, one that does some real good, I’d be all for it. But this is mainly a who’s who of corrupt rich people.

Including my husband, who is apparently as corrupt as they come. The last two months with Marco have been a real eye-opener. The Mancinis may own a large chain of luxury hotels and help Italian families in need, but they’re also into some shady shit. I mean, tying Frank up in a chair and having me slice his throat was a huge red flag the size of his ego.

As much as I know I should’ve walked away then and there, I didn’t want to. Something inside of me wanted to stay, to see the situation through to the end, and once I did, a tiny piece of myself came back to me. It’s fucked up as shit, but Marco’s been like some kind of weird-ass therapy. He forces me not to just face my fears, but to slaughter them—literally, it seems.

From a young girl playing in fields of flowers, surrounded by peace and love, I almost don’t recognize myself anymore. The strange thing is, it doesn’t feel as wrong as I know it should. I’ve allowed myself to become completely consumed by Marco and this lifestyle, but maybe that’s because I know there’s a time-limit.

Would I be behaving differently if this was a real forever?

Probably.

Marco is talking to a man named Chase Kensington, who briefly introduced himself before dismissing me in favor of Marco’s attention. Chase is some big money man in The City, and I’m surprised I’ve never worked for him or seen his name on Polly’s books.

My eyes widen as I see someone I recognize heading this way and my grip on Marco’s arm tightens.