Kidnapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Mafia Don

ust my pals. It was a practical joke. A dumb joke. Salvatore's shoulders loosen their rigid line. Through his nostrils, he lets out a sigh. Perhaps this existence h

ecome a problem in the future." I glare out the window, sulking, my pride scalded. I hear him giggle and feel his warm breath ghost against my neck. "Brave talk for a little girl who can't even look me in the eye," he says, cocking his head to whisper in my ear. He slides his teeth up my neck and suckers at the angry markings under my ear, causing me to gasp. Once more, my defenses come down. He was correct. " I wish I could get away from him, but I can't. He rubs his cheek and the scar and remarks, "Your father gave me this when I was barely more than a boy, before he bunkered down behind a desk." When you challenged him, what did he give you? A slap? I turn my head away, using my icy silence as leverage. I am unable to locate any scars that attest to my father's cruel treatment of me. Unlike Salvatore's scar, they don't seem worn out and ancient, but they are a faint, white reminder of the past. My wounds are gushing from one mistake. The headlights sweep us away. Salvatore told me I couldn't go barefoot in the parking lot. He holds me in his arms with ease, like the bride he says I will soon be. My tummy flutters betray me without my agreement, even though I normally detest being treated like a princess. I can smell his cologne when my nose is close to his neck; it's rich and delicate, with notes of sweet cigars and pricey whiskey. He must have a lot of muscle under that dark suit, since I couldn't help but imagine how easily he could throw me around. I'm dying to grab it from him to find out. Perhaps I'm the crazy one. I've been looking up at him carelessly and unprotected, my gaze following the thin white scar that accentuates his cheek. Even though my high was destroyed by the chaos long ago, I still feel inebriated. "Where are we going?" Salvatore dismisses my foolish inquiries as though I were a child. In front of us, a dark Rolls-Royce stops, its gleaming exterior reflecting all the light. This degree of luxury is foreign to me, even though I was raised in a wealthy household and had strapped my car seat in the back of Mercedes and armored Bentleys since I was a young child. For us, the driver opens the door. Salvatore adds, "You're behind the wheel," Salvatore typically drives even when it's not required, which doesn't surprise me. He appears to be a man who is always attempting to manipulate others. But now he has to manage me on top of everything else. Salvatore sprawls me across his lap in the backseat rather than taking the wheel. He is constantly touching me and staring at me. It's impossible for me not to be amazed