Page 32 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Then comes a new sound: the sharp, percussiveclack-clack-clackof a hammer striking a screwdriver. I watch in shock as he methodically removes each pin from the hinges. He’s at the bottom hinge, tapping the pin upward.
"Dante, don’t you dare?—"
The first pin pops free, skittering across the hardwood floor like a spent shell casing.
"I warned you," he says, and I can see the smirk on his face. He looks genuinely entertained, savoring the frantic rhythm of my breathing.
"You are insane! This is a kidnapping, not a home renovation!"
"And you are stubborn. We all have our flaws, darling."
Clack-clack-clack.The second pin drops. I watch in mounting horror as the door groans, shifting unnervingly in its seat. It’s no longer a solid barrier; it’s a hundred-pound slab of dead weight held up by nothing but gravity and the few remaining hinges.
"Stop," I demand, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to sound authoritative. "Stop right now or I swear to God?—"
The final pin hits the floor with a heavy, metallic ring.
The door lurches. Without the hinges to anchor it, the wood screams against the frame. I’m forced to stumble back, tripping over my own feet as Dante catches the weight of the door. He handles the massive slab of oak like it’s made of balsa wood, lifting it clean out of the frame and leaning it against the hallway wall with a dull, final thud.
The barrier is gone. The hallway light spills in, blinding and intrusive.
Dante stands in the gap, framed by the empty doorway like a dark omen. He looks annoyingly, devastatingly good—dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt. His sleeves are rolled back, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms and the intricate black ink that disappears beneath his cuffs. His hair is a mess of dark silk, and those oceanic blue eyes lock onto mine with a predatory heat that makes my pulse stutter.
"You have lost your door privileges," he says simply, like this is a perfectly normal thing to say.
I gape at him. Actually gape. "You cannot just take my door!"
"I just did." He steps into the room—my room, my sanctuary, the only space I have had to myself in this entire nightmare—and looks me over with slow, deliberate attention that makes heat crawl up my neck. "Now. You are coming down for dinner."
"No."
"It was not a request."
"I do not care. I am not going anywhere with you."
His eyes darken in a way that sends warning signals firing through every nerve in my body. "Rosalina, I am tired. I have had a very long week dealing with alliance politics and cleaning up the mess your little substitution created. I am not in the mood for your attitude."
"Then leave," I snap, crossing my arms over my chest and lifting my chin in what I hope looks defiant instead of slightly terrified.
He moves so fast I do not have time to react—do not even have time to process what is happening before his hands are on my waist and then I am upside down, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while I shriek in outrage loud enough to wake the dead.
"Put me down!"
"No."
I pound on his back with my fists, but he doesn’t even flinch, just walks out of the room and down the hallway while I thrash and curse and seriously consider biting a chunk out of his shoulder just to make a point.
"I hate you," I snarl.
"You have mentioned that. Several times. This week alone." He sounds completely unbothered, which makes me even angrier.
He carries me down the stairs—down all four flights of stairs—while I alternate between hitting him and trying to wriggle free, and by the time we reach the dining room I am breathless and furious and plotting increasingly elaborate murder scenarios.
He sets me down in a chair at the long dining table with enough force that I bounce slightly, and before I can launch myself backup, his hand lands heavy on my shoulder, holding me in place with effortless strength.
"Sit," he says, and it is absolutely not a request.
I glare up at him, breathing hard, and consider my options. I could fight. I could try to run. I could?—
