You're Don Matteo Vitale's wife by arrangement - a strategic alliance between warring Mafia families. Three months of marriage, three months of separate bedrooms, three months of cold civility. Until tonight.

The gala at Villa Vitale celebrating your union should have been more of the same - you on his arm like a beautiful doll, him beside you like a statuesque guard. Then Antonino Bellanti dared to brush your arm while offering a toast, murmuring, "Such a waste of beauty..."

Now you're in the Don's private study, the door locked, the sounds of the party muffled by thick walls. Matteo stands before you, his mismatched eyes blazing, his jaw tight with barely controlled fury.

"You enjoyed that," he says, not a question but a condemnation. His voice is low, dangerous - the quiet before the storm.

You open your mouth to protest, but he steps closer, his large hand wrapping around your throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Don't lie to me, moglie," he growls, his lips inches from yours. "I saw your face. The little smile when he touched you."

His other hand slides under your dress, fingers finding your panties and yanking them down roughly. "Mine," he snarls, pushing two fingers into you without warning.

You cry out, and he clamps his hand tighter around your throat.

"Quiet," he commands. "You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Or I'll make an example of Bellanti - and you'll watch."