Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 6

The honeymoon suite mocks us with rose petals and champagne, all this romance for two people who barely know each other's middle names.

Marco shoves me through the doorway and slams the door behind us. My heart hammers against my ribs while he fumbles with his belt, cursing when the buckle won't cooperate with his drunk fingers.

"Get on the bed." His words slur together, eyes unfocused but intent clear.

"Marco, wait…"

"I said get on the bed." He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist and yanking me toward the four-poster monstrosity draped in white silk. "Time to consummate this disaster of a marriage."

Fear tastes metallic in my mouth, but anger burns hotter. I twist hard, wrenching my arm free. "I said wait."

"You don't get to make demands." He reaches for me again, but his coordination is shot, reflexes drowning in vodka and whiskey. "Your father sold you, remember? You're mine now."

His hands find my shoulders, pushing me backward. I let him think he's winning for exactly two seconds before driving my knee up hard between his legs.

The sound he makes—half gasp, half whimper—fills me with vicious satisfaction.

Marco crumples, hands cupping his groin, face cycling through shades of red I didn't know existed. "You fucking bitch…"

"I'm your wife, not your property." My voice shakes but holds. "Touch me like that again and I'll do worse."

He stays doubled over for a long moment, breathing hard through his nose. Then slowly, deliberately, the drunk haze in his eyes shifts into calculation. The pain is real, but the way he looks up at me—that's performance.

"Jesus." He straightens slowly, still wincing. "Jesus, Lucia, I'm…That wasn't supposed to happen like that."

"How was it supposed to happen? Gently? Romantically? Should I have swooned while you mauled me?"

He sinks onto the bed's edge, head in his hands, the picture of remorse. "I don't usually… I mean, I'm not typically this drunk for… God, this is fucked."

"That's one word for it."

"I'm sorry." The apology emerges perfectly pitched—small, uncertain, and designed to disarm. "Really. I'm not… I don't force women. That's not who I am."

"Could have fooled me."

"I know how this looks." He glances up through his fingers, gauging my reaction. "Not exactly how I pictured my wedding night either."

The confession sounds real enough to make me pause.

I study him, this man-child who transformed from predator to victim in sixty seconds. My body still shakes from the adrenaline, but underneath that, exhaustion pulls at me.

"You could have refused the marriage too."

My voice came out smaller than intended and I almost didn’t regret it.

"No, I really couldn't." He straightens his tie with steady hands—steadier than they should be for someone this drunk. "You think your father has debts? Mine has expectations. At least debts can be paid."

We sit in this suspended moment, two people in the same cage.

I want to fight more, want to scream, but what's the point? The papers are signed. My father is probably already spending his freedom. And I'm here with a man who could destroy what's left of my family with one phone call to his father.

"I can be better than this," he says, timing it perfectly as my shoulders start to sag. "We could make this work, Lucia. We could be partners."

Men who promise change never deliver it. But his eyes look so earnest now and I'm so tired of fighting battles I can't win.

"We don't have to be enemies," he continues, scooting slightly closer. "We're both trapped here. Why not make the best of it?"

"The best of it?" I echoed.

"Look, I know I scared you. That was wrong." His hand moves toward mine, stops just short of touching. "Let me make it up to you. Let me show you I can be gentle. That I can be the husband you deserve."

"Marco…"

"Please." The word lands soft, vulnerable. "We're married. This is our life now. Don't you want to at least try to make it bearable?"

The fight drains out of me like water through cupped hands. He's right about one thing—this is our life now. And I'm one girl against an entire family that owns judges and police and probably God himself.

"Okay," I whisper, because resistance requires energy I don't have anymore.

Marco's face transforms—relief mixed with triumph that flashes so quickly I almost miss it. His hand finally bridges the gap to mine, fingers intertwining with careful pressure.

"Thank you." He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I promise I'll make this good for you. I know what I'm doing, Lucia. I can make you feel things you've never felt before."

Then he pulls me closer, and this time I don't resist.

What's the point? My body is currency now. At least if I cooperate, maybe it won't hurt as much.

His kiss tastes different this time—less violence, more seduction. His hands move with confidence, undressing me like he's unwrapping an expensive gift. The wedding dress pools around my feet, thousands of dollars of silk and delusion.

"You're exquisite…" He traces patterns on my skin, each touch calculated for maximum effect. "I'm going to worship you tonight, Lucia. Make you forget everything else."

What I must admit is that Marco wasn't lying about knowing what he's doing.

His mouth finds sensitive spots with practiced precision, while his hands orchestrate responses from my body. My skin reacts because that's what skin does, but my mind stays stubbornly present, cataloging each moment like evidence.

Then he shifts above me, and for one disorienting second in the dim light, the angle of his jaw changes.

My desperate mind performs alchemy, transforming the man touching me into someone else entirely.

I close my eyes and let the transformation complete itself—Marco's hands become Salvatore's. The whiskey-sour breath transforms into expensive cologne mixed with that hint of danger that made my pulse race in the drugstore.

"That's it," Marco murmurs against my throat, but I hear it in Salvatore's voice—deeper, more controlled. "Just let go. Let me take care of you."

The fantasy helps, God help me, it actually helps.

My body starts responding with intention instead of just a biological reflex.

When I imagine Salvatore's hands instead of Marco's, that heat I felt at the reception sparks to life, warming me from the inside. It's twisted and wrong and the only thing making this bearable.

When he finally pushes inside, the pain still makes me bite my lip, but I hold onto my illusion like a lifeline. In my mind, it's Salvatore above me, those dark eyes watching me with that intensity that made my stomach flip.

The ache becomes more tolerable when I pretend it's him, when I imagine he chose this, chose me, instead of accepting me as payment for someone else's debt.

"God, you're so tight." Marco moves with determination, but I transform his fumbling into Salvatore's controlled power. "You feel incredible, Lucia. We fit perfectly."

We don't fit at all.

But in my fantasy, Salvatore and I might have.

In some other lifetime where I wasn't currency and he wasn't the collector. The thought creates enough heat between my legs to ease Marco's passage, my body finally cooperating with this physical lie.

"Look at me," Marco demands, shattering my illusion.

I open my eyes to find his face above mine, flushed and sweating.

The fantasy breaks apart, leaving me with just the mechanical friction of Marco chasing his climax. My body, confused by the sudden shift, clenches around him, and he mistakes it for passion.

"Yes, just like that," he pants, moving faster now, fingers digging into my hips. "You're close, aren't you? I can feel it."

I'm not close to anything except tears, but I make sounds that could be interpreted as pleasure because it might make this end sooner.

My body throbs with a peculiar ache—arousal interrupted, fantasy dissolved, leaving me suspended between wanting and revulsion.

Marco shudders above me with a groan that echoes off the suite's walls. His face contorting with satisfaction while I stare at the ceiling and try to understand how I became someone who fantasizes about her father-in-law during her wedding night.

When he finally collapses beside me, spent and already half-asleep, I'm left sticky and unsatisfied, my body humming with frustrated energy that has nowhere to go.

"That was perfect," he mumbles into the pillow. "We're going to be so good together, Lucia. You'll see."