She averted her gaze, a palpable tremor of fear running through her.
"If I were to tell you the truth," she whispered, her voice barely steady, "you would never believe me."
He interlaced his fingers, resting his elbows on the carved arms of his heavy, leather-bound chair. A flicker of something akin to grim amusement played at the corners of his mouth.
"Try me," he retorted, a weary tone underscoring the challenge. "Believe me, I've already been regaled with several imaginative iterations of your fantastical narratives. Just tell the truth for once."
He then muttered, almost too low for her to hear — a dark aside meant only for himself:
"You'll die all the same, in any case."
She flinched, her eyes widening with genuine alarm.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing," he dismissed, waving a negligent hand. "Just speak. My patience, I assure you, is long past its expiration."
She drew a deep, shuddering breath — a dramatic gesture that did little to soothe his frayed nerves.
"If I told you it was a mistake," she finally ventured, meeting his intense stare with a searching, desperate look, "would you believe that?"
He raised a skeptical eyebrow, the action conveying a perfect blend of surprise and scorn.
"A mistake?" he echoed, the word dripping with mockery. "Do you mean a mistake in the same vein as the one I'm about to make when I empty this trigger into your skull?"
She stared at him with an unnerving, almost foolish innocence.
"You truly are a bore," she declared with a sigh, utterly dismissive of the lethal threat. "All you ever talk about is murder and gore — the clanging of blood and death. Calm yourself, man; you sound like a decrepit old lunatic."
The sound of the hammer cocking was sharp and immediate — a metallic retort that sliced through the tense silence. He pressed the cold muzzle of the weapon against her temple.
Yet, astonishingly, she did not recoil. Instead, she fixed her clear, defiant gaze directly upon his.
"Coward," she spat, her voice ringing with newfound contempt. "Terrifying a woman? Go and frighten men of your own calibre."
"And do you actually consider yourself a woman?" he scoffed, his voice rough with suppressed fury. "You, my dear, are nothing more than a serial killer in the making — a walking pathology."
A shadow of genuine regret crossed her features.
"I still cannot believe," she confessed, the sudden honesty jarring, "that I got tangled up with someone like you — all because of one trivial, utterly idiotic wager."
"A wager?" he demanded, the word snapping from his lips.
She fell silent, her lips pressed into a stubborn line, refusing to elaborate.
He leaned forward with a violent, predatory motion, gripping her jaw tightly between his thumb and fingers.
"Speak now," he commanded, his eyes blazing.
"Get your hands off me, you brute!" she struggled, wrenching her face away.
He released her abruptly, a look of revelation dawning in his eyes.
"Now I finally comprehend," he mused, a chilling calm replacing his anger. "Why five wives fled from you. Truly — who could endure such a brute? All you seem capable of is the abuse of women."
He struggled fiercely to contain the sudden, overwhelming surge of his rage. But she, seeing her advantage, pressed her provocation.
"At any rate — yes, let us return to that little topic of ours: marriage, and all that dreary nonsense," she continued breezily, as if discussing the weather. "The long and short of it is, I truly was the interior designer for your last wedding. And due to a silly, humiliating challenge from one of my colleagues — to sign the wedding register in the place of the bride, since we found your signature was already there — I went along with it.
"I never, ever expected those papers to reach the registry office."
She paused, the full absurdity of the situation seemingly hitting her anew.
"I mean, yes, I signed the document in a spirit of complete foolishness — a mere joke. But honestly, who, what utter fool, signs a marriage contract before their own bride even arrives?"
She stared pointedly at his suddenly stunned, disbelieving face.
"Oh, yes," she concluded with a slow, venomous nod. "A callous, humourless fool like you, of course. You truly would do such a thing."
"Your tongue is excessively long, woman," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He leaned in closer, his shadow engulfing her.
"Are you actively soliciting me to cut it out?"
"Go to hell!" she spat, though a desperate strain ran beneath her defiance. "I've told you the truth now — are you satisfied? Then fetch the divorce papers and set me free from this absolute farce! Or do you still, truly, not believe me?"
He smiled — a slow, chilling curve of the lips that held no warmth.
"As a matter of fact," he confessed, settling back with an air of profound satisfaction, "I was already aware. I saw the surveillance footage from the wedding day. I know all of it."
The air left her lungs in a painful rush. Her brow furrowed with confusion, then mounting fury.
"Then why? Why did you do this?"
He simply shrugged, his eyes alight with a predatory glee.
"Well — the chase, wasn't it? The pursuit of the doe by the hunter was rather… entertaining. Especially all those ludicrous, fantastical tales you concocted to cover your tracks."
"So?" she demanded, rattling the chains of the handcuffs that bound her wrists to the brass bedpost. "Will you unfasten these ridiculous shackles now and release me?"
The sudden, piercing chime of a notification from his phone interrupted her plea. He glanced down at the screen, and the change in his expression was immediate and jarring — the playful malice evaporating, replaced by a rigid, cold focus.
He strode purposefully to the mahogany nightstand, pulled out a small, amber vial containing tablets, and returned to her side. He extended a pill toward her mouth.
"Consume this and sleep for a while," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument. "We will resume our conversation when I return."
"What do you mean, 'eat this'?" she cried out, recoiling. "Keep that away from me!"
She clamped her jaws shut with a forceful finality, refusing to open her mouth.
His eyes narrowed to icy slits. He seized her face with brutal firmness, his fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. He placed the tablet on her tongue and followed it instantly with a quick draught of water.
But she was quicker — with a furious gargle, she rejected the liquid and the drug, spitting the vile mixture directly into his face.
"You will not force me to do anything!" she choked out, her voice ragged.
Wiping the droplets of water from his face with a slow, deliberate movement that spoke of barely contained violence, he retrieved a syringe from the nightstand.
"Hey! You — what are you doing now?" she stammered, a tremor of genuine fear finally reaching her voice.
He moved with a speed that belied his casual posture, effortlessly pinning her to the mattress with one massive hand pressed against her chest. She struggled violently — a desperate, futile effort against the sheer bulk and strength of his body.
He lifted her silk nightdress just enough to expose her thigh — a move that sent a wave of mortification washing over her. She watched, horrified, as he expertly plunged the needle into her flesh.
As the contents emptied, he released her. But she seized the fleeting moment of freedom, lashing out with a primal ferocity, sinking her teeth deep into the muscle of his neck.
"Aagh! My neck!" he roared, clutching at the sudden, burning pain. "Are you some kind of biting lunatic, or what?"
She was panting heavily, the sedative already beginning to cloud her vision, yet she managed a final, vicious retort.
"That's your payment for touching me — trying to keep myself awake!"
Satisfied by the absolute stillness of her form and the shallow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, he quietly shut the chamber door and proceeded into the adjoining study.
"Enzo," he called out, cracking his knuckles with a tense pop. "Did you procure what I requested?"
Silence.
"Enzo, answer me. Why are you staring at me like that?"
Enzo — his long-time aide and confidant — stepped closer. Without a word, he gently pulled down the high collar of Luca's shirt, revealing the inflamed, crescent-shaped bruise already forming on his neck. He peered at the mark with an expression that was a perfect mix of irony and concern.
"I am trying to process the concept that you are, in fact, married," Enzo stated dryly. "But isn't this level of… intimacy… a bit premature?"
Luca grabbed his own neck and met Enzo's gaze with a smirk, a spark of pure, unrepentant mischief in his dark eyes.
"Jealous," he whispered.
Enzo merely rolled his eyes, utterly unimpressed.
"I know she bit you to attempt an escape, so you can drop the theatrics, Luca. You will soon return to your natural state — the perennial bachelor of the Vitale family, the infamous Bride Chaser."
Luca smiled with a predatory cunning that sent a slight chill down Enzo's spine.
"And who ever said I plan on returning to bachelorhood?" He paused, his eyes gleaming. "I am already married."
Enzo stared back at him with a look of profound, weary skepticism.
"Yes, you've finally lost what little sanity you had left — marrying a woman crazier than yourself. However, I believe this will certainly alter your perspective."