Sweet Prison: Chapter 23

Two weeks later

“How would you tell a man that you want him to be… rougher with you?”

Iris spins around, the stack of clean towels nearly slipping out of her hands. She stares at me in slack-jawed shock. “Um… rougher? As in…?”

“As in I’m not fine damned china that will break if he squeezes me too hard,” I clarify. “Imagine that you’re with a partner who’s very passionate. A strong, dominant person. That’s who he is, and you like him just the way he is. But he does everything he can to suppress his true nature when he’s with you. All because he’s petrified that you’ll get hurt, so he tries to shield you from it. From himself.”

“That’s beyond adorable.”

“It is. It’s just…” I sigh. “Shit. I know it sounds stupid. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“You figure he thinks of you as weak?”

“Not exactly. Maybe just ‘not strong enough.’ That’s probably a more accurate assessment.” The sash I’m ironing almost tears off the blouse from how hard I tug on it. “I’m not a fucking porcelain teacup!”

“We’re talking about Don Spada, aren’t we?”

“Who else?” A sad laugh escapes me. “He’s absolutely certain no one knows about us.”

“Hmm. He stopped sleeping at your bedroom door, but his bed remains untouched. So, I drew my own conclusions.”

“Aren’t you going to comment on how outrageous it is that I’ve been sleeping with my stepbrother?”

“Well… it’s… it isn’t something that’s common, Miss Zara. Family is sacred.” She looks down at the towels in her hands. “But… I guess, love doesn’t care about social rules. One can’t simply command their heart. I also know you’ve been in love with him for quite some time. And that man can’t take his eyes off you whenever you’re near. The other day, when he was chastising me for allowing you to leave without protection when you went to see your sister, I thought he was going to have an aneurysm.”

“Yeah. He yelled quite a lot.”

“At you? But… he never does that. He’s so different around you. Calm and… more normal.”

“I know.” I bite my lower lip. “Would you think I’m nuts if I confess that I love his craziness?”

“Mm-hmm. A little?” She giggles. “When Don Spada is in one of his fits, all I want to do is run and hide. I think most people feel the same way because, y’know, they think he’s going to off them.”

“That’s a fair concern.”

I set the iron aside and lift the blouse to inspect it. Dark purple, nearly black. High neckline. Long sleeves, with beautiful lace at the cuffs—intricate material that will cover my hands when it cascades down. I was planning to match it with black tailored pants for the party at Brio’s tonight. My typical attire.

Except, how can I expect to be seen as strong when I’ve never been brave enough to attend a Family gathering even slightly less than fully covered? I keep assuring Massimo that I don’t care what people will think of me if they find out about our relationship, but I’ve always feared the brunt of their inquisitive eyes.

I lower my customary blouse and meet Iris’s gaze. “Massimo is in his office with Tiziano. Could you please tell him that I need… more time? I’ll get ready and have Peppe drive me over to Brio’s when I’m done.”

“Um… I don’t think he’ll leave without you.”

“Make sure he does.”

When the bedroom door shuts after she exits, I throw the shirt back on the ironing board. Spinning around, I head toward my walk-in closet. Most of my elegant clothes are hanging there—sorted by colors, spanning from dark brown to… black. I sigh, glancing at the very few outliers that I made in lighter shades bunched to the side. And at the far end of the rod, hangs a long, gray cloth garment bag. My hand shakes ever so slightly as I lower the zipper, revealing the length of crimson-red silk. The dress I was working on when Salvo paid me that decidedly unpleasant visit and thought I was making something for my sister.

As I carry the dress and lay it on my bed, my stomach churns. But it’s not anxiety that’s twisting it up in knots. It’s excitement. I never imagined that I would even contemplate wearing it in public, much less feeling determined as I do now to go through with it.

I might have been a delicate, too-easily-broken fine china cup once.

But not anymore.

And it’s time I show everyone. Most importantly—myself.

“Why the fuck is it taking so long?” I bark into the phone. “If Zahara doesn’t want to attend, I’ll tell everyone to fuck off and head back home.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she wants to attend,” Peppe drones on the other end of the line. “We’re ten minutes out.”

“How many men do you have with you?”

“Six. Two in the car ahead of us, and four in another, bringing up the rear. She’ll arrive safely.”

“Good.” I cut the call and look around the huge hall brimming with people. There are over two hundred guests. I actually don’t know—or care—what the fuck Brio is celebrating, but this party has become his “unofficial” send-off. Currently, only the Council is aware of his forced “early retirement,” but soon enough, I’ll make sure everyone in the Family hears the news.

Picking up a glass of wine from a nearby table, I head across the room, checking out the space. I haven’t been at Brio’s in over twenty years, and back then, his digs were the last thing on my mind. Zahara, however, prefers to stay on the fringe at events like this. We could make ourselves comfortable by the exit to the hallway, where it’s less crowded. Or, if she’d rather, we could just hang around near the glass doors that lead to the garden.

I still don’t understand why she insisted we must attend tonight. I hate Family celebrations, and she knows that. But more than that, this damn party is a colossal security risk. I made sure to have thirty of my most reliable men positioned around the venue. They all have very clear orders—protect Zahara and watch out for any potential threats. This affair has been designated as a ‘weapons-free environment,’ except I honestly don’t give a shit about Brio’s delicate sensibilities or his desire to maintain a bullet-free home. Both of my Glocks are tucked into the holster under my suit jacket.

“Brio has taken the news of his retirement much better than expected,” Salvo says as he comes to stand on my left. “I fully expected him to throw a fit.”

“He tried. I convinced him of the benefits of accepting the situation for what it is.”

“In exchange for monetary compensation, perhaps?”

“In exchange for keeping his limbs attached to his body.” I take a sip of my wine. “Peppe tracked the last of Efisio’s men who hadn’t fled the city by the deadline. Neither of the two idiots could attest to seeing their leader meeting with anyone from Cosa Nostra in the past year. Basically, the same story as with all the others he questioned. It’s another dead end.”

“Are you sure it’s not the Albanians who want you out of the picture? I had one of my guys do some digging. It seems Dushku’s business hasn’t been doing well. After his dealings with Bratva and then Ajello fell apart, their finances took a serious hit. And now, with us moving on to working with Popov, there are only a few small players left for the Albanians to hang on to as clients.”

“Endri is a clever snake. He’ll find a way to slither out of this situation.”

“Maybe.” Salvo shrugs. “You know, I’m somewhat sad we’re bowing out of the strip clubs. Many men in this room quite enjoyed blowing off steam with the girls. When’s the official handover happening?”

“In a month. I’m meeting with Ajello’s underboss tomorrow evening to sign the paperwork. We’ll probably—”

The room suddenly falls completely silent. I look around, tracking the surprised gazes of over two hundred guests. They all seem to be staring in the same direction. When my eyes finally land on the source of the commotion, I almost swallow my tongue.

“Fuck me,” Salvo mutters beside me.

Under the bright vestibule lights, a vision in red steps into the celebration hall. The upper part of her dress hugs her sublime body, while the long silk skirt cascades over her hips like a waterfall of blood. With each step she takes, the two thigh-high slits shift, revealing her shapely legs. My eyes trail from her shimmering gold heels, up over the flashes of smooth skin, across the tight bodice and the deep V-neckline that plunges to showcase her luscious breasts, to stop at her angelic face. As usual, she doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on. But instead of wearing her hair down as she typically does, it’s gathered at the crown of her head in a tight, elegant bun.

My lungs contract, and I’m left gasping for air as I watch Zahara glide among the guests. They part like a wave to let her pass. I can’t move a muscle. I can’t even breathe, absolutely floored by the magnificent sight of her. She walks with sure steps, head held high as if utterly unconcerned by everybody’s stares. Their blatant gawking leaves no question—they are seeing her for the first time. In all her regal glory. Through the crowd, she strides like a princess. No… like a fucking queen.

My queen.

Our gazes collide at that moment, and it feels like a wrecking ball just whacked me square in the chest. In a split second, I realize how monumentally wrong I’ve been to doubt this woman’s inner strength. The girl who spent years trying to be invisible no longer exists.

I’m completely absorbed by the heavenly vision before me, so different from the one I already know and love, when a guest—a male guest—blocks her path, shuttering my view.

Blind rage erupts within me as I rush across the room, straight for the man who dared to step between me and my angel. I grab the idiot by the back of his suit jacket and fling him to the side, where he crashes into one of the tables, tipping it over.

“You never told me you like red, Zahara,” I say, stepping right up to her.

She tilts her head, staring at me from beneath her long lashes. “Actually, it’s my favorite color.”

My hand lifts as if of its own accord, and I brush her chin with my knuckles. Then, my fingers trail down her slender neck, skimming across her nape where two long ribbons extending from the front of her dress are tied in a bow, their ends draping over her bare back.

“One of those things that needed to be sewn inside out?” I ask, trailing my palm down the length of the silk.

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkle like two large whiskey-colored diamonds. “Using the same piece of fabric the bodice was done with.”

Around us, people are pretending to be enjoying their drinks, but their baffled gazes don’t deviate from us even for a second. They are obviously eavesdropping but can’t make heads or tails of our exchange.

“Want to get a drink, angel?”

“I’d love to.”

I place my hand on the small of Zahara’s back, ushering her across the room to a bar at the opposite corner. Every eye in the room follows us as we make our way. My palm itches to slide lower, to her decadent behind.

Sure. Let’s just broadcast to everyone here that you’re screwing your stepsister so they can come after her like the damn vultures they are.

“It’s called making love, asshole,” I mumble under my breath. “And I’m pretty sure she’ll kick their butts if they try.”

My voice is low, but judging by the handful of perplexed stares, clearly still loud enough.

“Another quarrel with your alter ego?” Zahara whispers, amusement dancing in her tone.

“Maybe.”

“Just tell him to shut up.”

A laugh builds inside my chest. You heard the lady. Be gone, I tell my other self.

My fingers edge the silky smoothness of Zahara’s waistline, and then I let my palm curve over her perfect ass, giving it a light squeeze.

A hush envelops the room again, with only the soulful crooning of the jazz singer somewhere on our right defying the collective deep-held breath. It lasts barely a moment before murmurs and insistent whispers explode from every direction. Fucking vultures. They just can’t help themselves.

Not that I’m surprised. The Cosa Nostra views on male-female interactions are very traditional. There’s no way a well-bred man would dare lay his hand on a woman’s ass without the two being in an official relationship—married or, at least, engaged. The way I’m keeping Zahara pressed to my side would have been more than enough to spark a slew of assumptions that there’s something between us. My hand on her ass has blasted those assumptions into a categorical certainty.

I can acutely feel everybody’s eyes focused on my hand. The furious muttering gradually becomes louder. It wasn’t a conscious act, sliding my hand down to grab Zahara’s behind. But keeping it there as we walk across the room, that definitely is. I’m staking my claim. Declaring her as mine—finally. It’s a soundless howl that’s deafening inside these walls.

I steal a glance at Zahara, worried about her reaction now that the cat is out of the bag. Remarkably, she doesn’t seem perturbed… much. Her spine remains straight, and she walks with her head held high. I know her, though. I see the nerves she’s trying to hide.

“Want me to kill them?” I ask as we continue traversing among the buzzards.

A playful smirk pulls at her lips. “No. But thank you for the offer.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. But I wish they would just stop talking. It feels as if we’ve landed in a damn beehive.”

“That can be arranged.”

Changing our course, I guide her to the singer, who’s been valiantly trying to be heard over the swarm of noise. Grabbing the microphone from the woman’s hand, I tuck Zahara closer to my side while my palm remains firmly planted on her ass cheek. I turn toward the crowd, and they immediately zip their mouths shut, their shocked gazes all zeroing in on me.

“Good.” The word ricochets throughout the room. “If I notice anyone, with the exception of the lovely band behind me, using their vocal cords tonight, said vocal cords will be forcefully removed from the throats they currently inhabit. Am I making myself clear?”

A slew of shocked gasps is my only reply. Lots of dumbfounded blinks, though. But no actual words are being uttered.

“I asked, AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?” I roar.

All heads move up and down like a tragic display of bobbleheads. They stay mute as fuck, just continue to gape at me and Zahara.

“And censor your goddamned expressions, because I won’t take kindly to any that I don’t like,” I add. “You’ll keep your disdainful and disapproving stares in check, or you’ll bear the consequences and my wrath. Consider yourselves warned.”

More nods.

“Perfect. Carry on.” I throw the mic back to the singer, then glance at Zahara, who’s watching me through narrowed eyes.

“You can’t forbid people to talk, Massimo.”

“No?” I drag my knuckles along the delicate line of her chin. “Well, I just did.”

“You’re mollycoddling me again.”

“I love coddling you, angel. I can’t stand the thought that those bastards might say something that upsets you, that they might hurt you with their cruel words. There’s no coming back from this now, Zahara. You understand that, right?”

“I do. But what I need you to understand, is that I can handle this. I’m not the meek, frightened girl I once was. Unkind words and reproachful stares don’t bother me anymore, and I need everyone to realize that. Including you.”

I watch her—so beautiful and fierce—while my heart swells inside its cage like it’s trying to reach her. Yes, she is strong. Much stronger than I previously believed. I get it now, though. But if she needs this to affirm to herself and everyone else that she’s unshakable, I’ll grant her wish.

I stretch my hand toward the singer, who’s standing utterly stone-still and in absolute silence. “Give that back.”

When she passes me the mic, I wrap my arm around Zahara’s waist and turn to face the stunned crowd.

“You are allowed to speak.” My voice once again carries across the room. The tone is as insouciant as I can make it, but I let my gaze slide over and pause on as many people gawking at us as I can, clearly telegraphing the aftermath should the subject of their flapping traps piss me off. A swift yet painful death.

As expected, the low whispers restart the moment the microphone is back in the singer’s grip.

“Satisfied?” I meet Zahara’s honey-brown eyes.

She tilts her head to the side, a small smile curving her lips. “You are incorrigible.”

“Without a doubt,” I smirk. Then, I lift her into my arms and fuse my mouth to hers.

It’s not our first kiss, but it feels as if it is for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’m not paranoid about someone walking in on us anymore. It’s no longer an issue since practically the whole of Boston Cosa Nostra is gathered in this hall, witnessing me devouring my angel’s lips without an ounce of shame or concern for their small-minded sensibilities. And what lips those are… Soft, like the petals of an exquisite flower, and sweet, like the ripest forbidden fruit. Zahara is my paradise garden, and I can no longer restrain myself. I surrender to the temptation to nibble the most succulent lips on this earth, enjoying the faintest panting breaths passing from her lips to my own.

A collective gasp detonates around us, and then the whispering kicks up. Soon enough, the rumble thunders through the room like an earthquake. And I… Don’t. Care. Don’t give a fuck about anything but my Zahara.

The pounding of my heart, however, has escalated to a breakneck beat. The sound is so loud in my ears that I feel like my entire body is pulsing from the inside out. God, I’m so crazy about this woman. It feels so damn good to at long last be able to claim her as mine in front of everyone. To make sure they all know who this woman belongs to, so no idiot will ever try approaching her again. Next time, I’ll kill whoever dares.

Zahara kisses me back, the bold stroke of her tongue leaves me without a doubt about the fervor of her passion. She winds her arms around my neck, her fingers raking through the short hair at the back of my scalp. I haven’t shaved it since the day she admitted she wanted to see me wearing it longer. I suck her tongue between my teeth, biting it lightly. She returns the bite. Hard. A metallic tang bursts in my mouth. The taste of blood—harsh and bitter. Such a contradiction to the fresh scent of jasmine enveloping me. The smell of peace that only she could ever give me.

“I need to ask you something,” I whisper into her lips.

“Okay.”

Reluctantly, I lift my hungry mouth off hers and meet her gaze. “Would you marry this crazy old asshole, Zahara?”

My lungs aren’t working. Someone must have shut down my respiratory system, because I can neither inhale nor exhale. The only thing I can do is peer into Massimo’s eyes, getting more breathless and lightheaded. The hushed whispers swirling around us explode into a cacophony of astonished shrieks. I barely register them. Am I dreaming? I must be.

“God knows you deserve better, angel,” Massimo continues, his tone grave. “But the thing is, I can’t let you go. You are mine, Zahara. You’ve been mine from the moment your knowing gaze landed on my imprisoned ass. There you were, mourning your father, and all I could do was struggle to breathe. Not a day since has passed when I didn’t need you. You are the very air in my lungs. I love you, baby. I’m being selfish, but you already know that about me. Please, say yes.”

My eyes fill with tears, blurring my vision and his face. I try responding but can’t get past the lump blocking my airway. I’ve fantasized about this moment for so long. I can’t believe this is real. Cupping Massimo’s rugged cheeks with my trembling palms, I attempt again to push the words out of my mouth. Only a breathless sound escapes me. So I just kiss him. Pouring everything I feel into that kiss.

“You need to say yes, Zahara. ’Cause if you don’t, I’m liable to kill every man for a hundred miles, just to make sure no one else can have you,” he says into my lips.

A shaky laugh bursts from me. “And what about witnesses?”

“I’ll get rid of them, too.”

“No need for that.” I sniff. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Shocked squeals break out behind me, but they’re drowned out by Massimo’s hurried steps echoing off the hardwood floors as he carries me across the room. I lock my ankles behind his back and chance a look over his shoulder. The top echelon of Boston’s Cosa Nostra has gathered in a semicircle at the center of the hall, gaping at our retreating forms in total stupefaction. Among them is Salvo, with a look of great bitterness sweeping across his face. Close by, a stunned Tiziano is practically supporting his wife. Her hands are covering her mouth, eyes blown wide—she’s horrified. It’s quite a sight.

The urge to laugh overwhelms me. For years, I’ve done everything I could to remain invisible to these people, never wanting to draw any attention to myself. But now, as I create a scandal that will undoubtedly be talked about for the next decade, for a moment, I’d completely forgotten they even existed. I try to muffle the fit of giggles bubbling up inside me and fail.

“If I’m being completely honest,” Massimo grumbles as he kicks a door open. “That’s not the reaction I expected to my marriage proposal.”

I snort and bury my face in the crook of his neck. “Sorry. You should have seen the expressions on everyone’s faces.”

“Well, they better get their faces under control before we get back.”

Massimo stops at the end of a dark hallway and kicks open another door. The room he carries me into is cast in shadows, a tall floor lamp in the corner the single source of light. Navy drapes obscure the windows on the far side, and all the other walls are lined with intricately carved bookshelves.

“Where are we?”

“Brio’s study.” Massimo deposits me on the large pedestal desk occupying the middle of the room.

“Why?”

“Because if I have to wait any longer, my cock is going to explode.” He seizes my chin between his fingers and leans in so close his face is but a breath away. His eyes are fierce as they search mine so intently he can surely see the depths of my soul. “I’m going to fuck you now, angel. It’s going to be hard. If you think you can’t take that, you better tell me right away.”

I lift my chin. “Do your worst. Pound me on top of this desk and make me scream your name for everyone to hear.”

A feral growl erupts from his chest. His hand slides off my chin and wraps around the column of my throat.

“Zahara.” There’s a clear warning in his tone, a promise of the most sinful carnal pleasure. “Be careful. My control is hanging by a thread, and the last thing I want is to unintentionally hurt you.”

“Then stop handling me as if I’m made of glass.” I grab his tie and pull him closer to purr into his ear. “That other you. The one you let out only with others, but never me. The vicious and untamed one. I want him to fuck me tonight.”

Massimo’s body goes still. “We are one and the same, baby,” he whispers.

“I know.” I grab his chin, mimicking his hold on me. “So don’t you dare deny me even the slightest part of you. From now on, I want the whole of you, Massimo. Can you give me that?”

Something flashes in his eyes. Something dangerous. And a little wicked. His gaze remains locked on mine as he unbuttons his pants and slides the zipper down, releasing his hard-as-steel cock. My breathing picks up and turns ragged as he lays his palms on my bare thighs, slowly sliding them higher.

“Apologies for the dress, baby,” he rasps. In an instant, a loud rip echoes throughout the room.

A large chunk of red silk sails to the floor, landing by Massimo’s feet. He moves his hungry gaze to my chest, pausing on my breasts for a moment, then, continues his downward sweep. The front panel of my skirt, the flimsy scrap that extended off the bodice and barely attached to the long train at the back, the part that created an illusion of two thigh-high slits, has been obliterated. Leaving my bare pussy fully on display.

“This dress wasn’t meant to be worn with underwear,” I say.

Those devilish eyes glow with unbridled hunger as if my words have unleashed a starving predator. His nostrils flare and his lips quiver on a deep, guttural growl as he reaches out and presses his thumb to my core. I shudder. It may only be a single touch, but it’s as if he’s set off a barrage of fireworks with it. Needing something to anchor me, I grab the lapels of his jacket, fisting the fabric as I pull him closer to me. The tips of his fingers brush my delicate folds while his other hand finds its way back to my neck to fondle the straining tendons of my throat.

“Zahara,” he rasps, sliding his fingers inside my pussy. First one, then he adds another.

My wetness slicks his hand as he pushes in and out. Slowly but with hard, measured strokes. Every plunge stretches my walls, driving me to the edge of oblivion. Throwing my head back, I extend my neck, pressing it more firmly against his palm and reveling in the way his grip tightens.

“Zahara… Zahara… Zahara…” He curls his fingers deep inside of me, caressing my most sensitive spot.

I shudder as wave after wave of tremors racks my body. Instead of abating, the intensity seems to grow as he levels more pressure on his touch. I’m burning up, consumed with fever as electricity sizzles through my veins. I feel everything… and everywhere, completely out of control.

“Yes?” I manage to form the word. It comes out sounding more like a moan.

“Are you ready to take all of me, baby?”

I tilt my chin and nip his ear lightly. “I’ve always been ready, Massimo.”

His answering growl thunders around us as he slips his fingers out. Grabbing my knees, he opens my legs wide and thrusts his huge cock inside me, filling me to the brim.

I suck in a breath at the sudden intrusion. He’s so big I nearly faint from the overload of sensation. There’s a bit of discomfort, bordering on pain, but all at once, it also feels so, so good. I relish the burn, clenching my inner muscles around him, floating on a new tidal wave of bliss.

Massimo wraps his arm around me, pressing his left hand to the small of my back while he sweeps clear the surface of the desk with the other. Papers, pens, books, and even a few picture frames launch across the room and crash to the floor. Then, he seizes my chin. With our faces mere inches apart, he urges me backward, laying me down on the massive desktop while his body covers mine. As he repositions his fingers along my jawline, I can smell myself on them, feel the slickness of my arousal coating his calloused skin. It excites me. As does the anticipation of more while his other hand glides down along my outer thigh and lifts my leg, moving it over his shoulder. And then, he just looks at me.

“Perfect,” he whispers just before he pulls out. A split second later, he’s thrusting back in.

He pounds me with such ferocity that the desk skids across the floor with every hard slam of his hips. I’m left holding on to the front of his shirt, clutching the material like it’s my only earthly option. He growls. Breathes heavy. He’s loud when he fucks. Unrestrained. Unbound. Untamed.

I love it. Love him. Every facet of this complicated man.

His right hand slips to my throat, squeezing it lightly. In that instant, a sense of triumph grips me. Reticent to lose it all too quickly, I clench my fingers around his wrist, making sure his hand stays exactly where it is. And then, with our gazes locked in a silent exchange, I seize his throat with my free hand.

Air leaves my lungs in short sharp bursts, matching the tempo of his movements. I inhale when he plunges in, exhale when he pulls back out. Tangled in an unwavering staredown as we continue to hold each other’s throat, he fucks me like a madman. There is something animalistic in this position. In how I can feel the corded muscles of his neck under my palm. The vibrations while he growls. And he can feel each time I swallow, each time I draw a labored breath. It is as if we truly are as one.

The legs of the desk scrape the wooden floor from the force of his onslaught. I’m fighting for breath, barely managing to get enough oxygen with each shallow draw. Massimo must notice my struggle because his hold on my neck loosens. Not happening. I squeeze his wrist even harder, burying my nails into his skin.

That coil at the base of my spine gets tighter, twisting and twisting until it finally snaps. The release—a galactic explosion—unlike anything I’ve felt before. I’m spinning, dazed, riding the euphoria of my orgasm when he suddenly lets go of my neck. His cock slides out, and I moan in protest of the loss. But two large hands grab my ass cheeks, lifting my lower body up. Tongue. Warm, wet, velvet. Spears inside my already quivering core. Lips. Hard, demanding. Seal around my clit. Suction. Strong, mind-melting. Teeth, grazing the hypersensitive flesh. And then… a bite. I scream. Careening again over that exhilarating cliff and shattering into a cloud of stardust.

“Heaven,” he mumbles into my pussy. “I’m going to lick every last drop of your nectar, baby. And then, I’ll make you wet all over again.”

He does just that, stroking that masterful tongue of his inside me now. Lapping my inner walls as if he truly intends to lick every drop off me. I grab the short hairs at the top of his head, pulling his face closer, forcing him to reach deeper. Wanting more of his mouth. Then, when his lips close around my clit, sucking on it, I almost faint.

“Jesus baby,” he growls as he lowers my ass back down and buries his cock in me again. “Can you see what you do to me? I can’t fucking decide if I want to fuck you with my tongue or my dick.”

My climax hasn’t even ebbed, and I already feel the next one building. A rush of pure elation swells within my limp body, rising higher and higher with each of his frenzied thrusts.

“Zahara, Zahara, Zahara…,” he rasps as he pulls my hair free of its bun, fisting the scattered tresses in his hand, and thrusts into me so hard that the desk bangs against one of the shelves, dislodging several books.

“I love…”—he slams into me—“…when you look at me…”—slam—“…like that.”

“Like what?” I grab his forearms, trying to hang on.

A wicked smirk pulls at his lips. His cock is lodged deep inside me as he bends until his face is hovering just above mine.

“Like a hungry little she-wolf who can’t decide if she’d prefer to eat me, or to be eaten instead.” He slides out, only to slam into me again, burying himself to the hilt.

New constellations are born in front of my eyes as he keeps pounding into me while another orgasm overtakes me. I clutch the front of his shirt as strange mewing sounds leave my lips while I ride on the waves of pure bliss.

“Mine!” Massimo roars while rope after rope of his seed fills me.

“Mine!” I echo.

***

“We’ll leave through the kitchen door,” Massimo says as he helps me into his suit jacket. A few of the buttons on his shirt are missing, and there are long thin red scratches on his neck. Did I do that to him? I don’t remember.

“There’s no going back to the party for you, I’m afraid.”

“I assumed as much,” I smirk. Me returning to the great hall with the entire center panel of my skirt missing and my private business front and center for everyone to see, might be a bit too much. Even for a less conservative crowd. And this one is definitely not that.

Massimo crouches before me, buttoning the jacket up. He barely finished the last fastener when a strange popping sound bursts forth somewhere outside the room.

“What the—”

Quickly, he presses his forefinger to my lips and shakes his head. Then, he pulls one of his guns out from the holster that’s stapped around his torso.

“A gunshot,” he whispers and cocks the hammer of his weapon.

His steps are utterly soundless as he crosses to the door and cracks it to look outside. Music and laughter immediately bleed into the study, but the sounds are muted as if coming from a distance. Although I didn’t pay too much attention to our path here while Massimo carried me, I’m certain we ended up in the furthest part of the house.

“Stay here,” Massimo throws over his shoulder and slips into the dark hallway.

Other than the muffled clamor from the party, there’s no other noise. Maybe it wasn’t a gunshot after all? It didn’t sound loud enough to be one. I slide over to the door, peeking through the tiny gap Massimo left when he exited. There isn’t much to see in the darkened space, and Massimo’s broad back blocks the rest. He’s standing at the open doorway to the room directly across the hall.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, and lowering the gun, steps inside.

Throwing a quick glance down at myself to make sure his jacket is covering all my exposed parts, I tiptoe into the hallway. When I reach the threshold of the other room, I stop dead in my tracks.

The body of a woman in a black minidress is sprawled on the floor next to a chest of drawers. Blood is seeping from the hole in the middle of her forehead, soaking the short blonde strands of her hair that are partially hiding her face. She looks somewhat familiar, but with all the blood, I can’t place her. Her eyes are open, and they seem to be staring right at me. I want to turn away, yet can’t. I’ve never seen a dead person this close before.

“What happened?” Massimo’s agitated tone pulls me from my stupor.

I finally tear my gaze from the body and only then realize there’s someone else in the room. A tall, burly man in a gunmetal-gray suit stands over the dead woman. His back is turned to me, and in his right hand, loosely hanging next to his thigh, is a weapon equipped with a silencer. As he turns around, I realize who he is. Holy shit!

“Start talking, Adriano,” Massimo snaps. “Now.”

Adriano thrusts the gun into the waistband at the back of his pants and takes off his glasses. His movements are almost disturbingly casual, especially once he starts wiping the lenses with a small cloth he pulled from inside his jacket.

“I don’t see how my personal matters are any concern of yours, Spada.”

Personal matters? I look at the dead woman again, and my hand flies to cover my mouth. Dear God. That’s Adriano’s wife.

“Filippa wasn’t a Family member,” Adriano continues. “Therefore, her death shouldn’t be of any interest to Cosa Nostra.”

“But you are.” Massimo surges forward, getting in Adriano’s face. “Dead bodies have been piling up the last few weeks and disposing of them requires a shitload of work. I certainly don’t need to add yours to my count.”

Adriano takes one disinterested look at his dead wife. “Don’t worry. I will clean up after myself.”

I gape at him. Adriano has always been the most gracious among the high-ranking Family members. Calm. Cool. Collected. Outside of the Council meeting I witnessed, he’s never argued or lost his temper with anyone, and he certainly never showed violent tendencies. Up until this moment, I’d have sworn he would never harm a living creature in his life. But as I watch him now, discussing the disposal of his wife’s body like she’s nothing more than an unwanted piece of junk, while appearing utterly at ease and unperturbed by the circumstances, I realize how wrong impressions of people can be. He might appear to be perfectly placid on the outside, yet there’s a brewing storm of rage and hatred swirling in his guarded eyes. He just might blow up like a supernova. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

“What about her family?” Massimo asks. “Dead gangsters can be dismissed as the corollary of an internal skirmish, but this is different.”

“As I said, I’ll take care of it.”

The veins in Massimo’s neck are bulging, his muscles are straining against his skin, and the look in his eyes is turning homicidal. I don’t know what possessed Adriano to kill his wife, but I do know Massimo can’t afford to go apeshit and attack Adriano this evening. The man is too important to Cosa Nostra. I know Massimo knows this, except his anger is blinding him right now. That inner brute is taking over. I need to get my man out of here. Now!

“Massimo.” I grab his hand and squeeze. “We should go.”

His jaw hardens, and his eyes don’t shift from Adriano’s stoic face. They make quite a sight, these two—both tall and impeccably dressed men but with completely different vibes. Massimo is all glaring, raging fury whereas Adriano is a tightly wound booby trap. Two distinct predators, facing each other, like two cobras ready to strike.

“Please,” I urge, squeezing Massimo’s fingers in mine. “Adriano did say he’s got everything under control. And I’m getting really cold.”

Massimo’s stance relaxes.

“Peppe has the cleanup crew on standby. Call him.” Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulls me into his side. “Let’s go home, angel.”