He fumbles—finally free to lift a hand—wraps fingers around his cock. Three strokes and he’s coming hard, choking on my name, walls clamping tight enough I see stars. I follow with a broken snarl, burying himself to the hilt, pulse spilling heat into the condom.
We stay like that while our breathing steadies: him draped over the desk, cum cooling on mahogany; me still inside him, weight crushing him safe. He turns, chest heaving, mouth split in a wrecked grin.
I cup his jaw, thumb across his bruised lower lip. “You beg beautifully.”
He nips my thumb. “And you break things beautifully.”
When I pull free, he slumps, boneless, still trembling. I dispose of the condom, wipe him gently even though he said no tenderness—because I like reminding him I choose when I’m cruel and when I’m kind. He watches with heavy-lidded eyes, satisfaction and wreckage mingling, a smear of blood blooming where I bit him. He’ll treasure that.
“You good?”
He nods, throat working. “Yes.”
I press a soft kiss to the back of his neck and step away to grab a towel. He turns, leans against the desk, watching me with something unreadable in his eyes. Vulnerability tries to creep in around the edges. He kills it with a smirk.
“Still think I’m glass?”
I toss the towel at him. “Shatterproof, apparently.”
He catches it, wipes himself off, then steps close, crowding me the way he did when he stormed in here. Our sweat mingles with the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to that ruined shirt.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” he says quietly. “We’re still fucked.”
“Probably,” I admit. “Worth it, though.”
He laughs, shaky but pleased, and begins collecting destroyed clothing with hands that are steadier than mine. Whatever hell waits tomorrow, whatever fresh knife my father sets at my throat, whatever suspicion Aldo Vieri sharpens for his heir—I’ll walk into it carrying the taste of this man on my tongue, and that will be both my shield and my downfall.
Salvatore
cowboy like me – Taylor Swift
Thefinaldayofa summit always feels faintly rotten.
Not because anything visibly breaks. Men like our fathers don’t allow visible breaks. They don’t slam doors, don’t throw glasses, don’t draw guns across polished tables unless they’ve already decided the blood is worth the mess.
No, the rot on the last day is quieter than that. It lives in the handshakes that go on half a second too long, in the smiles that don’t reach anyone’s eyes, in the way the staff starts moving more carefully because they can feel that everyone important is one inconvenience away from violence.
Deals are nearly done. Favors have been traded. Promises have been made in rooms where nobody means half of what they say, and the other half is usually worse. By the final meeting, everyone is just waiting to leave with as much leverage and as little humiliation as possible.
I’ve always hated these endings more than the beginnings.
My father is already seated when I enter. He sits at the head of the Italian side with both gloved hands resting on the table, posture straight, expression unreadable, looking exactly like what men picture when they say old power with equal parts fear and envy. Across from him sit the Russians.
Mikhail Dragovich looks less polished than my father and somehow even more dangerous for it.
That’s the first truth of their family, I think. We cover our brutality in polish, ritual, and the illusion of civilization. The Russians don’t bother dressing the knife in silk unless it buys them something specific.
Mikhail wears a dark suit cut beautifully enough to remind everyone he can afford refinement, but there’s no mistaking what he is beneath it. He sits broad and still, blunt as a weapon laid on the table as a warning. To his left is Viktor, and to his right sits Ruslan.
I feel him before I fully look at him.
That’s become one of the more humiliating truths of my life.
He’s in black, no tie, shirt open at the throat as usual. He has one elbow on the arm of the chair and a cigarette between two fingers, the ash somehow not yet fallen even though he’s barely smoked it. He looks easy. Loose and faintly amused. Anybody who doesn’t know better would mistake that for freedom.
His gaze flicks to mine once when I take my seat at my father’s right hand; brief enough that no one watching closely could call it suspicious. Long enough that my pulse answers anyway.
The meeting starts the way all these things do: with numbers, routes, leverage, and men pretending what they care about is logistics when what they really care about is dominance.
