Chapter 12 - The Iron Foundation
By midnight, the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite were drawn against the November frost, shutting out the rest of the world. The grand reception downstairs had wound down, leaving behind an army of private caterers and security sweeps to clear the grounds.
In the center of the vast bedroom, Sadie stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, reaching around her back to fumble with the row of tiny pearl buttons securing the duchess satin gown. Her fingers, sore from shaking hands and holding a champagne flute for five hours, slipped against the fabric.
"Allow me," a deep voice rumbled behind her.
Marcelo appeared in the reflection. He had stripped away his jacket and bow tie; his white linen shirt was unbuttoned down his chest, revealing the thick, muscular expanse of his torso and the faint silver scars of old skirmishes. His hands, large and steady, brushed her fingers aside.
One by one, with methodical patience, he undone the twenty-four pearl buttons down her spine. Each time the lace parted, revealing the smooth, warm expanse of her creamy back, Marcelo pressed his lips to her skin. A trail of burning kisses followed the zipper down, making Sadie shudder with a delicious, heavy heat that settled deep between her thighs.
"You took Federico’s breath away," Marcelo whispered, his warm breath fanning across her shoulder blades. "The old bastard actually shook my hand and apologized before his driver pulled out."
"He underestimated me because of where I came from," Sadie breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as the heavy gown loosened and pooled in a sea of ivory around her feet. She stood in only her vintage silk corset and sheer stockings, her lush, voluptuous curves celebrated by the soft amber light of the chandelier.
Boyd had spent six years telling her she was gross, that her soft belly was a failure, that her rounded hips were an embarrassment. But when Marcelo stepped back and looked at her, his eyes were scorched with raw, hungry worship.
"Where you came from made you steel," Marcelo said. He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her stockings, pulling her back firmly against his front. She felt the rigid, heavy outline of his desire pressing against her lower back. "You saved my life with a laundry cart, Sadie. Tonight, you saved our territory without firing a single bullet. You are not just my wife. You are my equal."
Sadie turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his thick neck. She pressed her soft bust against his hard, muscled chest, letting him feel the frantic beat of her heart.
"I spent so long being invisible, Marcelo," she whispered, her eyes shining with emotion. "I spent years praying that the walls would swallow me whole so no one would hit me or mock me."
Marcelo’s expression turned savagely gentle. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her full weight in his arms as if she were made of spun gold, and carried her to the massive four-poster bed.
"You will never hide again," he vowed, following her down onto the black silk sheets. His hands were everywhere—reverent, passionate, claiming every curve, worshiping every inch of the soft, supple body that had been ridiculed for far too long. "Every room you enter, you will own. And every man who looks at you will know you belong to Marcelo Vieri, and that I would burn this world to ash before I let anyone harm a single hair on your head."
When he took her, it was slow, deep, and complete. It was not the hurried, painful cruelty she had endured in her past, but a sacred covenant sealed with sweat, passion, and breathless cries of absolute devotion. Sadie arched into him, burying her fingernails in the broad planes of his back, crying out his name as the last ghosts of Boyd Gable’s abuse were burned away in the furnace of Marcelo’s unyielding love.
Hours later, as Sadie drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep with Marcelo’s arm locked possessively around her waist, a sudden red glare sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains.
Sadie’s eyes snapped open.
Down in the valley below the estate, toward the bend of the Monongahela River where the old rail lines met the barge terminals, an orange plume of fire was rising into the pre-dawn sky.
Marcelo was awake before her heart took another beat. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, reaching for the encrypted satellite phone resting on the nightstand.
It rang before his hand touched the glass.
Marcelo answered, his voice instantly cold, flat, and lethal. "Speak."
May you like
Leo’s frantic voice cut through the speaker: "Boss. The shipping warehouse at Neville Island. The one Donna Sadie audited yesterday. Someone just blew the fuel tanks."
***