ALESSIO
Iwake to the sound of her breathing—deep, slow, impossible in its peace. She’s curled into my chest, hair wound in a loose knot and then undone by dreams, one bare leg slung possessively over my thighs. In another life, I would have woken with a gun under my pillow. In this one, her hand is curled there instead, fingers slack but still holding some piece of me, like she’s clutching the deed for my soul. I stroke her back, feel the small points of her vertebrae, and let my other hand reach for the phone on the nightstand.
Six calls overnight. Enzo. Sergio. The foreman on the Midtown job is reporting a concrete mishap at dawn. If the Russians want to make a move, they could pick a better day: I’m not leaving this bed until she does.
Lucy sighs and mumbles, “You’re thinking so loud it woke me up.”
I close my eyes, savor the warmth of her body against mine, and run my fingers down the silken terrain of her arm, tracing the goosebumps that rise in the wake of my touch. The sheets rustle as she shifts, her breath a whisper against my chest. "You planning to get dressed today?"
She rolls onto her back, the sheets sliding away to reveal the pale curves of her body. "I'm officially refusing to get up," she says, stretching like a cat. "Consider it my personal protest against powerful men who can't silence their phones before sunrise."
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I can’t believe she exists. “In that case, you’ll need to move in with me.”
Her eyes pop open, electric blue and sharp as razors. “Excuse me?”
I cage her beneath me, all six-foot-four and every pound of muscle I’ve wasted years weaponizing. She doesn’t flinch, not even when I wedge a knee between her thighs. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Lucia.”
She puts her hands on my chest, palms splayed, and looks up through her lashes. “You’re joking.”
I slide my hand down her hip, find the tiny birthmark there, and press it hard so she gasps. “I don’t joke. You know why I need you with me.”
She bites her lip, the challenge in her face softening. “Because you want to keep an eye on me. Like I’m an asset you can’t risk losing.” She’s pushing buttons, but that’s what I love.
“I want you,” I say. “That’s all the reason I need. The rest is housekeeping. If they don’t want you here, then you don’t need to draw it out. My men will have you moved out before sundown.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off by rolling her on top of me, pinning her with a grip that's as much pleading as it is power. She sits up, and the covers fall, exposing her rose-tipped breasts and the slick, swollen lips between her thighs. Her skin is pink with sleep and the prints of my hands. I reach up, lock my hands around her waist, and impale her on my throbbing cock with one brutal thrust. She's so wet I can feel herjuices running down my balls, and I groan into her neck as she gasps, the argument already half forgotten.
She rides me slow at first, the way she does everything—testing the limits, learning the push and pull, her tight cunt gripping me like a vise. Then she digs her nails into my chest hard enough to draw blood and starts to grind, her clit rubbing against my pubic bone as her eyes lock on mine, like she's daring me to look away. I don't. I never will.
She pants, her breath ragged and hot against my neck, but I grab her by the hips and flip her onto her back. Her legs spread wide, thighs slick with her arousal, the pink folds of her sex swollen and glistening. The look she gives me is pure animal—half fury, half surrender.
I settle between those trembling thighs, press her knees until they nearly touch her nipples, and impale her with a single, merciless thrust that makes her cunt stretch around my thickness. Her nails carve crescents into my shoulders, her spine arching like a drawn bow as I claim the deepest part of her.
"This tight little pussy is what your family wants to take from me," I growl, my voice barely human. "They think they can scare you out of my bed like I haven't marked every inch of you as mine."
Tears stream down her flushed cheeks—not from pain, but from the intensity of being so completely possessed. I lick them away, tasting salt, then hammer into her with brutal force that makes her tits bounce with each impact. "You're not leaving. Ever. This cunt belongs to me now. I'll slaughter every man in Manhattan if they try to take you."
“Yes—” she gasps. “You don’t have to—I want to stay, I want—” and then she breaks off, squeezing around me until I feel her come.
I slow, just enough so she can breathe, and then I say it again: “I’m moving you into my place. Non-negotiable.”
She’s limp now, eyes glazed and glassy, but she finds her voice. “Do I get closet space, at least?”
I laugh because she’s just signed a contract with her own blood, and she wants to haggle over the wardrobe. “You’re getting the entire top floor in Tribeca. You can burn half my suits if you want, I’ll buy new ones.”
She laughs, too, settling into the curve of my arm, burying her face in the pillow. “Okay. But you’re still an asshole.”
I lick her shoulder, taste the salt of her skin. “That’s how you know I’m serious.”
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it, because the world can wait. I have her back now. I have her—for as long as I’m breathing. If the city wants a war, it knows where to find me. For now, I’ll finish what I started, sink my teeth into her shoulder, and feel her shiver, feel her body remember it belongs to me.
And in the blue haze of morning, I know: she’ll never leave again. I won’t let her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUCY
Ilinger at the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the sheets. The penthouse feels like its own country beyond these doors, and with every step away from where we slept, the feeling that I might belong here starts to fade, dissolving like sugar in hot water. Alessio let me sleep in until almost noon. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, and the breakfast sunlight bounces off the Hudson so brightly it hurts. His sheets smell of fresh laundry mixed with the trace of his body. I move carefully, each step reminding me of last night: purple fingerprints on my hips, tender spots that ache when I shift, and a deep, pleasant soreness with every movement. He’s still on his phone, voice low. I catch him mid-sentence: “three, not two, and I want it finished by Friday.” Then he notices me in the doorway, wearing only his shirt and knee socks.