Scorn of the Betrothed – Cavalieri Billionaire Legacy Read Online Zoe Blake

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Billionaire, Dark, Erotic, Mafia, Virgin Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)

Scorn of the Betrothed
Cavalieri Billionaire Legacy, Book Five

A union forged in vengeance, bound by hate, and... beneath it all...a twisted game of power.

The true legacy of the Cavalieri family, my birthright, ties me to a woman I despise:
the daughter of the mafia boss who nearly ended my family.
Making her both my enemy...and my future wife.

The hatred is mutual; she has no desire for me to be her groom.
A prisoner to her families' ambitions, she's desperate for a way out.

My duty is to guard her, to ensure she doesn't escape her gilded cage.
But every moment spent with her, every spark of anger, adds fuel to the growing fire of desire between us.
We're trapped in a volatile duel of passion and fury.

Yet, the more I try to tame her, the more she fights me,
Our impending marriage becomes a dangerous game.
Now, as the wedding draws near, my suspicions grow.

My bride is not who she claims.

Fans of seductive dark romances from authors like Natasha Knight, Anna Zaires, A. Zavarelli, and Charmaine Pauls won't want to miss this installment.

Scorn of the Betrothed delves further into the tempestuous world of the Cavalieri men. Dive into Matteo's tale and uncover more about the turbulent love affairs of Barone and Amara, Cesare and Milana, Enzo and Bianca, and Benedict with his vengeful lover.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



Palermo, Sicily


"Bad girl, swaying your hips like this in front of other men—when you're supposed to be mine."

A powerful arm had wrapped around my waist from behind and snatched me to a man's chest before he leaned down to rasp in my ear.

In shock, I craned my neck to stare into a pair of piercing dark eyes, glaring at me from behind an elaborate black leather Carnevale devil's mask covering the upper portion of the man's face. The rest of him was dressed in unrelenting midnight black, from his heavy brocade jacket and tails to his tall riding boots.


I twisted around in his grip to press my palms against his chest and push, trying to break free of his grasp.

For nothing.

The man's chest was harder than a brick wall.

While it may be common practice for drunken men to touch and grab the women in the crowd during the wanton revelry of Carnevale, this was different.

His intense gaze raised the hairs on the back of my neck. A primal reaction to being caught in a predator's sights, to be sure.

And what the hell did he mean by "when you're supposed to be mine?"

Shaking off the increasing panic which twisted my stomach, I tried to wrench away from him again as I fired back. "Parlari, tischi-toschi. Va eccati!"

He was clearly Italian and not a tourist, so I deliberately insulted him in Sicilian. I wouldn't dare call him arrogant and pretentious before telling him to go jump in the sea in a language he could understand!

I wasn't that brave.

His lips twisted in a smirk. "Christa e a zita, muoviti ddruocu, colomba mia birichina."

Accept your fate and don't move.

I froze.

He had responded using two nonsensical, slang Sicilian phrases that only someone familiar with the language and culture would know.

He had also called me colomba mia birichina.

My naughty little dove.

My fingers clawed at the brocade of his costume, panic tightening my throat even as a spark of awareness seemed to warm my insides.

It could be nothing…

Dressed as the popular character Colombina from the Commedia dell'Arte in keeping with this year's Carnevale theme, his calling me little dove, the literal translation of her name, was not significant.

Except that it felt significant in a territorially possessive sort of way.

The pounding of the blood in my ears warred with the pounding drums from the live music only steps away.

Who was this man? And why was he so fixated on bothering me, when there were countless half-dressed, fully drunk women gyrating and attempting to twerk he could choose from?

The chaos of the Palermo Carnevale ebbed and flowed all around us, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shattered crystal shards in crimson, cobalt, amethyst, and jade. Revelers danced feverishly to the pounding beat of the tambourines from the pizzica tarantelle performed in the center of the Piazza Garraffello.

His arm tightened around my waist, pushing our hips together. "Stop fighting me, little dove. You can't win."

My feet were lifted off the ground as he swung me in an arch, moving in time with the music.

The mandolins, violins, and high-pitched, plaintive cries of the female singers lyrically calling out for lost lovers added a Dionysian, almost unhinged, energy to the night.

As he carried me off, closer and closer to the edge of the crowd, the tips of my shoes scraped along the smooth, worn cobblestones of the piazza.

I gripped his shoulders and arched my back, still trying to break free. "You're making a mistake!"

Clearly, this was some suitor of my twin sister, Antonia.

He had to be. It was the only explanation for the way he was holding me.

His hand moved down my lower back. "Are you trying to get out of your punishment?"

Sciatiri e matri!

Punishment? Had he said punishment? No. He couldn't have. Furiously I scanned my brain for another word—any other word—I could have mistaken for the word punishment over the loud music.

My mouth opened on a choked cry as he cupped my ass and growled, "This cute ass is going to feel the sting of my belt. I'm going to teach you a lesson about flaunting your body for anyone else but me."

Before I could shake off my stunned reaction and respond, we were both shoved by the crowd surrounding us. The sudden impact loosened his grasp just enough for me to finally twist free.

I ducked low to squeeze between two revelers before snaking through the dense crowd. Jostled by the throng, I pitched sideways, too afraid to glance back at my pursuer.

All around me the air reeked of sweat, cheap wine, and fried food. The fabrics of the rented Commedia dell'Arte costumes exuded a musty scent of dust, mothballs, and neglect.

There were swaggering men dressed as Pulcinella with their gnarled nose masks askew and their bulging stomachs barely contained within the thin white linen of their ruffled tunics. A number of smarmy Pantalones in flowing black capes and pointed nose masks. And countless women dressed as sexy Pierrots with black-and-white striped thigh-highs under laced corsets complimenting their pouting, sad clown makeup. My sister being one of them, with the exception of her thigh-high leather boots.