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Her breasts are squashed against my pecs, every curve a softer echo to my male body’s planes and ridges. For a man with a job to do, she’s fucking poison. I need to nip this in the bud. Which means this sweet, rounded ass that my fingers are brushing against won’t get a spanking tonight.
I take in her face, her rosy cheeks and full lips I haven’t kissed yet. Not only would that be idiotic, but it would also be pure madness, like downing poison straight from the bottle and begging for more.
I need to get this done and get her back in her room, this time locked up, not waiting for her to show her hand, fun as that was.
This is going to be vile, but it’s time for a reality check.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, kitten,” I say, ignoring the desire that pulses between us, the need we both still have for each other. “One, you’re not going to try to kill me again. You’re never to have blood on your hands. Plus, I might not be this nice next time.” True. How many potential murders end up in orgasm? None to my knowledge.
She blinks and drops her gaze to my chest for a second, then stares back at me under her lashes.
“Two, I’m the only one who gets to ruin your underwear. No more shredding your bras, understand?”
She sucks at her bottom lip, giving no indication that she understood anything. Fucking tease.
“Three, you don’t get to touch me, ever. Understand?” I’ll drill a fucking hole in her head with the times I’m going to have to remind her of that. She’s not going to listen to me, not with that wanton need in her eyes.
“Why not?” she asks, a full-on staring contest going on now, so frank and… cheeky.
Too many rebellious questions. “You don’t need to know why. Just follow the rules.” She strains against my hold, and I hug her tighter, forcing her to be still.
“Four. Your virginity is up for auction to cover your dad’s debts to Il Consiglio. Bids are already coming in?—”
“Fuck you,” she spits out, and it’s the second time I’ve heard her curse. It doesn’t suit her at all. “My dad will pay! He’s looking for me!”
“No.” He isn’t. Peter Armstrong is too scared and weak, wanting to save his own pathetic hide. He is offering her up like a sacrificial lamb. “You’re going to be bought, paid for, and fucked by someone who isn’t going to give a flying fuck about how you like it.” The visual makes my stomach churn, but I can’t stop now. “The men on our list have been vetted to a point, but there are some real crazy fuckers out there.”
Tears well up in her eyes, and I steel myself. The vision of Alex dying in my arms, that panic I can still feel rushing through my veins at being helpless, unable to stop him from dying, helps harden my resolve. I clamp down hard on the tightening in my chest at what I need to say next. She struggles, but I hold her until she tires and stills in my arms. I lower my head so that my lips can rest against her ear, and her breathing comes haltingly, in panicked hitches.
Not long ago I was tugging at that delicious little lobe, treasuring the goosebumps that spread over her skin at my touch. This is going to leave chills of a different kind, and I have to force myself to carry on. “When that time comes, kitten, when he fucks you and you tear and bleed and hurt, you’re going to separate your body from your mind. You’re going to block off what’s happening to you physically, and you are going to think of tonight instead. Understand?” I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent and for the last time treasure this moment of holding her close. “You’re going to remember who made you come first, and that’s going to be your saving grace.”
She sags against my chest and tears drop to my skin, quiet and warm. I gather her wrists in one hand and cup her cheek with the other, forcing her to look at me.
“I hate you. So. Fucking. Much,” she whispers as our eyes meet.
“Good. Keep it that way.” I brush at her cheek with my thumb, careful that she doesn’t snap an aggressive bite or spit at me, both valid reactions, but the fight seems to have drained from her. “Do you understand, kitten?” I ask again, digging my fingers into her hair and pulling her head back so she’s forced to look me in the eye.
“Fuck you,” she hisses, trying to rip her head free despite the pain it must cause her.
I don’t let go but nod. “Attagirl.”
24
TASHA
It’s been two days since I’ve seen Matteo. After our midnight crash course in anatomy and how to make me come within minutes, he’d marched me to the safe room, where I spent the rest of the night locked up. I fell into a listless sleep, only to be woken by Rosalia in the morning. She didn’t speak to me, only handed me a clean T-shirt to wear and indicated I should follow her up the stairs to my other room, which was stripped bare. Only a mattress on the floor remained, with basic toiletries in the bathroom, all my ruined underwear and the beautiful white dress gone.
Ever since then I’ve been a prisoner, feeling really kidnapped by the mob. I’ve been drifting through bouts of boredom, sleep, and anxiety attacks that made me hammer on the door. Nothing. It’s as if I were abandoned. The only thing that keeps me going is the meals Rosalia brings to me, Burley following in tow, always on standby and watchful. I can see how people go mad when they’re locked up in isolation.
A knock on my door makes me look up from where I’m huddled on the mattress, rocking myself. I’ve become used to that knock, three in quick succession, a pause and then another knock. I still. The tears come and go, born out of frustration and the knowledge that I’ve been abandoned by my dad—the man whom I did everything for. He has contacts, he has influence, he would know where Matteo lives, or he’ll be able to figure it out. No SWAT team has stormed this fortress yet, and all I can think of is that Dad is out of his depth and got mixed up in some real dirty business.
For all I know, Dad is dead.
I’ve been sitting so long in this same position that my legs cramp when I straighten them. I’m halfway up when the door swings open and Rosalia stands there with a tray, Burley holding the door for her. They are such a contrast too. Burley is basically a giant, where Rosalia is delicate with soft doe eyes and a secretive smile. A smile I haven’t seen since we had an hour of stupid girly shopping in this apartment, as if I were a Mafia queen and not a pawn.
“Breakfast,” she says softly. “And some clothes.” A bag is swinging from her arm. “You’re to shower and get dressed.”
“Why? Where am I going? Sicily?” The end of the road for me. I’ve wracked my brain, wondering how they’re going to smuggle me out of the country, but then I realized they’ll have everything in place to fly me out as if I’m going on vacation.
