The Mafia Killer’s Wife by Rosa Milano

Prologue

Amanda

Itug at the ropes holding me in place, fighting to get myself free before it’s too late.

He's out there right now. Any minute he's going to come back in and ask me if I'm ready to confess.

When I refuse, he's going to pull down my panties and spank my bare ass and, unless I get out of here, there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop him.

My wrists are bound together above my head. My ankles are tied the same way. I'm trussed up on my front. If it wasn't for the fact I shifted my head to one side when he left, I might have suffocated.

The ropes around my wrists are too tight to break free from. I've been trying ever since he left the room. All I have is chafed skin for my troubles.

He told me there was only one way out of this. Tell him the truth. That's what he said right before he left. Tell him the truth and all of this stops.

That's not happening. Not in a million years. How am I supposed to tell him the truth? I know what he's capable of doing to people who tell him things he doesn't want to hear. I know all about him.

Ethan Gianni.

The devil himself. The kind of man people cross the street to avoid. Death in a tailored suit.

I'd give anything to go back in time, erase the time we've had together, make him forget he ever met me.

I should count myself lucky. Normally, if you cross Ethan, you end up sleeping with the fishes. I'm still alive despite everything. Isn't that some kind of victory?

It sure doesn't feel like one when I hear him out in the hall.

It's made all the worse because I'm trapped here. I can't get out. Even if I could, I've nowhere to go. I can't go home. Far worse is waiting for me there.

So Ethan will marry me, and my father gets to live.

I'm the only one who loses out. My freedom goes. I become the wife of a mafia enforcer. A man whose only interest is in himself, in what he can get out of the world, and out of me.

He's so arrogant, acting like he knows who I am, knows what I want. He doesn't know me anywhere near as well as he thinks he does.

He thinks he can scare me into talking. He thinks he can spank me into blurting out the truth. Not going to happen.

I'm not going to tell him the truth. No matter what he does to me when he comes back in here, I will not talk. I will not say a word to him. He'll just have to kill me instead. I can't confess to him. I just can't.

The bedroom door opens. My heart races. I can't see him, but I know he's there. He's got the presence that fills a room. The sort of guy that when he walks into a party, everyone looks his way, waits for him to set the tone. A smile from him and an entire room relaxes. A raised eyebrow and people write out their wills, calling loved ones to say goodbye.

I can feel his gaze on the back of my legs. I know for a fact that he's enjoying this. Gaining pleasure from my discomfort.

I want to tell him to let me go, but I will not give him the satisfaction. I will not beg. I'm giving him nothing.

"Ready to talk?" His voice is a deep growl.

I turn my head as far from him as I can, closing my eyes tight.

"Tell me the truth, Amanda." His voice rumbles into my ears. It does things to me. I hate the things that voice does to me, the way it makes me feel when he whispers tenderly. I mustn't react to him. I mustn't let him win.

"You know you're going to talk sooner or later. Why play games?"

That's rich, coming from him. This whole thing has been one big game from the start.

"Suit yourself."

The door closes, and for one moment I think he's gone again. Then I hear scissors snipping in the air. "That dress of yours," he says, his voice closer. "Such a shame to ruin it, don't you think?"

I keep silent. The mattress sinks a little. He's sitting at the side near my hips.

I turn my head the other way. I refuse to look at him. If I do, I might look into those cold blue eyes of his, the ones that make me blurt out all my darkest secrets. I can't do that. I need to be strong.

"I'm going to cut this dress off you and then I'm going to spank that peachy round behind of yours, Amanda."

The way he says my name sends a chill down my spine. Most of the time I've been here, he's called me Mandy, same as everyone else. It's only at times like this that he's used my full name. Times when he's pissed at me. When he wants to punish me.

The scissors start to cut. They begin at the hem of my dress, sliding upwards, sharp enough to rend the fabric in one swift motion. For a second, I think he's going to plunge the scissors into my neck, get rid of me once and for all.

That's what they say about him. If Ethan Gianni has a problem, he gets rid of it. That's all I am to him right now. A problem. Why not kill me and be done with it?

He unhooks the back of my bra before pushing the two sides of the dress down to the bed. One more snip and my panties are gone. I'm naked, tied to his bed with nowhere to go. I can't do a single thing about this. My body is on display for him again.

"Last chance," he says. "Tell me the truth and this all stops, Amanda."

Never, I think to myself. I will never tell him what he wants to hear. I won't do it.

I feel the sting on my buttocks before I even know he's spanked me. The sound of the smack echoes around the room. His hand lingers on my ass briefly as I gasp from the shock of it. "You know the rules by now," he says, spanking me a second time. "You know what happens when you lie to me."

A third spank, this one near the top of my thighs. I shift in place, trying to ease the burning pain coursing through me. I manage to keep my my cries silent, breathing into the pillow underneath me as he slaps down his hand several times in a row. "Just tell me the truth," he says. "All this comes to a stop."

I bite my lip to keep quiet. Heat is coursing through me as his hand strokes gently over my tender skin. I hate the way he always makes me feel. I hate how the touch of him brings me to life.

I'm glad my legs are tied together. I don't want him to see how wet he makes me whenever he does this. I must resist him. I must not give in to that caramel voice or the soft touch of his fingers gliding between my buttocks. "Am I going to have to bring out the paddle?" he asks, getting to his feet.

I say nothing. I will not speak. I will not give in to him. I will keep the truth in my chest until the day I die.

"No one is coming to help you," he says, leaning close to my ear, his voice getting quieter. "You are entirely in my power. You belong to me. I own you. You're my wife in spirit, if not yet in law. You are mine, Amanda Davis, to do with as I wish."

I want to cry. His voice is doing things to me. I can't cope with this.

I tug at the bonds holding me in place, try to get free in one more futile attempt to get away from him before the truth comes out.

He turns my head with his hands. "Look at me," he says.

I can't help but obey. I want to keep my eyes shut, but they're already open. He's right there, kneeling next to the bed, his lips an inch from mine. "Either you tell me the truth," he says, his face cold and unemotional," Or I plug that tight little ass of yours. What's it to be? Your choice."

Choices. That's what all of this is about. His hand is stroking around my buttocks, and I can hardly think straight.

Choices.

If I could go back in time, would I choose differently? Could I have refused to come here? Would it have made any difference at all?

"I'll give you thirty seconds to decide," he says, getting to his feet and walking away. "That's the time it takes me to collect the paddle and the plug. You have a think about how you want this to go, Amanda. Do you want a plug in your ass and a paddle turning those cheeks of yours bright red? Or do you want to tell me the truth and all of this comes to a stop right now?"

He sounds amused as much as irritated. "Up to you. I can go on all night long. Can you? You know you'll talk, eventually. Everyone always does."

He walks away, and the door closes after him. I'm alone with my thoughts. I bury my face in the pillow and let out a scream of frustration. I want to hate him with all my heart. I want to despise him for everything he's done, but I can't bring myself to do it. My soul knows the truth even if I can't bring myself to admit it out loud.

I must not tell him. What does it say about me if I do?

No matter what happens to me, I must be strong.

The door opens and I make the mistake of looking over at him. He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Those arm muscles of his are bulging and my insides are churning in response. He's got the wooden paddle in one hand and a stainless steel butt plug in the other. "Time's up," he says, walking slowly toward me. "What's your decision?"