Chapter 6: The Wedding Gauntlet
The emerald silk of Jamie’s dress was a cage of liquid light, each movement sending ripples through fabric that cost more than her tuition. It was strapless, snug over her breasts and waist before flaring, the Russo family crest—a stylized lion with a dagger in its mouth—pinned just below her collarbone. The weight of it was a cold kiss against her skin. Nico had clasped it there himself, his fingers lingering. “Remember,” he’d said, his breath warm on her ear, “you wear the lion. Don’t act like the lamb.”
Now, in the swirling, perfumed chaos of the Calabresi ballroom, she felt every eye like a physical touch. Luca’s parting gift hummed secretly inside her, a sleek, remote-controlled vibrator he’d settled deep within her channel just before they left. “A reminder,” he’d whispered, kissing her neck as he handed her the small, discreet remote. “We’re with you. Use it if you need to feel us. Or if you need to distract yourself from the sharks.”
Nico’s hand was a brand on the small of her back, guiding her through a sea of tuxedos and jewels. He introduced her as “Jamie Mantini,” never “my wife,” not yet, but his possessive grip told its own story. She smiled, nodded, sipped champagne that tasted like acidic glitter. She remembered names: Ferranti, shipping. Moretti, construction. Gambini, waste management. She filed away nuances—a strained smile here, a too-firm handshake there.
Vittorio watched from across the room, holding court near a massive ice sculpture of a swan. His gaze was a drill, boring into the space between her shoulder blades. She felt it. So did Nico. His fingers tightened momentarily, a silent signal.
During a lull as Nico was drawn into a hushed conversation with a grim-faced older man, Jamie found herself momentarily alone by a towering potted fern. The respite lasted three breaths.
“The dress is suitable.”
Vittorio’s voice, dry and cold as stone, came from behind her. She turned, forcing her expression into one of polite attentiveness. “Thank you, Mr. Russo.”
“Vittorio,” he corrected, stepping closer. He smelled of expensive cigars and faint, medicinal menthol. His eyes, the same green as Nico’s but devoid of any fire, scanned her face. “You are performing adequately. You smile. You do not speak unless spoken to. This is good.”
Jamie’s throat tightened. She took a silent sip of champagne.
“But adequate is not sufficient,” he continued, his voice dropping, becoming almost conversational in its menace. “My son requires a cornerstone. A woman who can stand beside him in a storm, not one who needs to be sheltered from the rain. He needs a lioness.” His lip curled, just slightly. “You have the eyes of a frightened rabbit. I see it. He will see it, too, eventually. Pretty distractions have a short shelf life in our world, Miss Mantini. They break. Or they disappear.”
The threat hung in the air, clearer than the crystal chandeliers above. Fear, cold and sharp, slid down her spine. Her hand, holding the champagne flute, began a microscopic tremor.
Before she could formulate a thought, let alone a response, a large, familiar presence materialized at her elbow.
“The Don is mistaken.”
Luca’s voice was smooth, quieter than Vittorio’s, but it cut through the music and murmur like a blade through silk. He stood, a monolithic shadow in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, his face impassive. He didn’t look at Vittorio. He looked at Jamie, his blue eyes capturing hers, steadying her.
“She’s already proven her mettle,” Luca said, and as he spoke, his thumb, hidden from Vittorio’s view by the curve of her elbow, found the remote in her palm. He pressed the dial.
The vibration inside her, which had been a low, almost teasing hum, instantly intensified. It wasn’t a pulse; it was a deep, relentless thrum, a direct connection to her core that stole the air from her lungs. Her inner muscles clenched involuntarily around the intrusive, blissful object. A sharp gasp caught in her throat, transforming into a choked, breathy sound as she bit down hard on her lower lip. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she held Luca’s gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to let her knees buckle.
Vittorio’s cold eyes flickered between them, missing the cause but seeing the effect—the flush, the slightly glazed look of intense, private sensation in Jamie’s eyes, the way she subtly pressed her thighs together. He saw not fear, but a woman riding a wave of something fierce and secret. His jaw tightened. The calculation in his gaze shifted, reassessed.
“Indeed,” Vittorio said flatly. He gave Luca a long, appraising look that carried a universe of unspoken history and threat. Without another word, he turned and melted back into the crowd.
The vibration ceased abruptly. Jamie sagged, a fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Luca’s hand stayed on her elbow, a solid anchor.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. “You did perfectly. He doesn’t know what to make of you now. That’s good.”
Nico rejoined them moments later, his green eyes immediately scanning her face, then flicking to Luca. A silent communication passed between them. Nico’s expression darkened, then cleared into something sharp and proud. He slid his arm around Jamie’s waist, pulling her tightly against him.
“I saw,” he said into her hair, his voice a low growl. “You held your ground. You didn’t flinch.” He pulled back, his gaze burning into hers. “That deserves a reward.”
He took her champagne flute and placed it on a passing waiter’s tray. With a firm grip, he guided her away from the main ballroom, down a side corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced Calabresi ancestors. The music faded, replaced by the whisper of her silk dress and the pounding of her own heart.
He pushed open an unmarked door, revealing a narrow storage closet smelling of lemon polish and linen. He pulled her inside, locked the door, and plunged them into near-total darkness save for a sliver of light from under the door.
In the close, dark space, his control snapped. His hands were on her, rough and urgent. He spun her to face the shelves, her chest pressing against stacked tablecloths. His mouth found her ear.
“You were magnificent,” he rasped, one hand gathering the emerald silk of her dress, hauling it up around her hips. The cool air hit her bare ass, her stockings and garter belt. “My father looked at you like he wanted to crush you. And you stood there, taking it, with Luca’s secret buried inside you.” He groaned, the sound raw. “Fuck, the thought of it makes me hard enough to drill through concrete.”
His fingers hooked into the lace of her thong, tearing it aside. Then his hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her soaked, swollen folds. He pushed two fingers inside her, alongside the still-present vibrator. “Still here,” he muttered, curling his fingers, making her cry out softly. “My clever girl. Our clever girl.”
He withdrew his fingers, and she heard the rustle of his trousers, the clink of his belt. A second later, the broad, blunt head of his cock was nudging at her entrance, pushing against the vibrator within. The dual pressure was maddening, overwhelming.
“Nico,” she pleaded, unsure what she was asking for.
“Shhh,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “This is your reward.”
He didn’t enter her. Instead, he sank to his knees behind her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place. Then she felt his breath, hot on her inner thighs, before his mouth was on her.
There was no finesse. It was a claiming. His tongue lapped roughly at her slit, gathering her wetness, then zeroed in on her clit with brutal, focused precision. He sucked the sensitive bud into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, nibbling it with his teeth. At the same time, his hand found the remote in her dangling purse. He fumbled for it, then she heard the distinct click.
The vibrator whirred to life again, this time on a frantic, high setting. Sensation detonated inside her—the deep, internal buzzing and the fierce, external assault of his mouth. Her legs trembled violently. She shoved her fist against her mouth to stifle her screams, the taste of silk and her own skin on her lips.
“That’s it,” he growled against her, his words vibrating through her very bones. “Come on. Come all over my face and this fucking toy. Let me taste what our defiance tastes like.”
His tongue drove harder, faster. His free hand snaked around her hip, his fingers digging into her lower belly, holding her down onto his ravishing mouth. The world narrowed to the dark closet, the smell of polish and sex, the dual, merciless rhythms shattering her from the inside out.
The orgasm tore through her with violent, silent force. It wracked her body, a series of spasms so intense her vision whited out in the darkness. She convulsed against his mouth, a raw, choked scream finally escaping into the fabric of the tablecloths as she ground herself against his tongue, milking the sensation for every shuddering pulse.
He didn’t let up. He licked her through it, through the oversensitive aftershocks that were almost painful, drinking every drop she gave him. When she was a trembling, boneless heap against the shelves, he finally rose.
He turned her around, her dress still bunched at her waist. His cock, rock-hard and glistening at the tip, pressed against her stomach. His eyes were wild in the dim light, his mouth wet with her.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice guttural.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his fierce, triumphant gaze.
“That,” he said, pushing her hair back from her damp forehead with a surprisingly tender hand, “was for you. This,” he said, aligning his cock with her ravaged, dripping entrance, “is for me.”
He shoved into her in one powerful, unyielding thrust. She was so敏感, so overstimulated, that the fullness was a breathtaking shock. He fucked her standing there, his hands gripping her ass, lifting her slightly to meet each pounding drive. The vibrator, still humming inside her, made every stroke a complicated symphony of sensation. He was relentless, chasing his own release, his forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged.
“You’re mine,” he grunted, each word a punctuation to his thrusts. “You’re ours. You wear our crest. You take our cock. You carry our secrets. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she sobbed, the words fractured by his movement. “I’m yours, I’m yours…”
His pace became frantic, brutal. He bit her shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but a sharp, possessive sting. “Jamie… fuck…”
With a final, deep grind, he came, his release pumping into her in hot spurts, joining the mess the vibrator was still churning inside her. He held her there, impaled, shaking with the force of his climax.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. They stayed in the dark, leaning against each other, breathing in the spent, salty air. He carefully reached between her legs, extracted the slick vibrator, and tucked it into his pocket. He smoothed her dress down, his hands oddly gentle now.
He unlocked the door, allowing a blade of light to cut across them. He looked at her—disheveled, flushed, thoroughly used—and a slow, real smile touched his lips. It wasn't a smirk. It was satisfaction.
“Ready to go back out there and terrify my father some more?” he asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Jamie took a deep, shuddering breath. The fear was gone, burned away in the crucible of the closet. In its place was a strange, solid certainty. She met his smile with a small, steady one of her own.
“Yes,” she said.