"Keep your eyes open, Natalia," he commands roughly, his voice dropping into a dark, authoritative octave. "See exactly who is taking you."
I blink away the thick haze of blinding pleasure. His handsome face is a mask of brutal concentration. He watches my raw reactions intensely, feeding on my loud moans and my arched spine. He grinds his solid pelvis directly against my swollen clit with every downward stroke.
The wet, slapping sound of our bodies colliding fills the quiet bedroom. The oak bedframe groans loudly in protest under his weight and explosive power. I lose all rational sense of time. I lose all memory of my sanitized corporate life. There is only the heavily guarded compound, the violent rain lashing against the reinforced glass windows, and Enzo Costa systematically destroying all my defenses.
When Turi opened the iron gates for us twenty minutes ago, the old family friend gave us a single quiet nod and stepped aside. The sharp old man knew exactly what was about to happen when Enzo dragged me up the grand staircase without saying a single word. Earlier tonight, Gemma's bright laughter bounced off the stainless steel of the industrial kitchen downstairs while Dante grumbled loudly about his brother's tailored suits. They found real peace inside this fortified fortress. The sudden, terrifying craving for that exact peace slams into my chest. I want this life. I want this violent, beautiful family. I want this dangerous man burying himself inside me.
The pace turns utterly frenzied. Enzo abandons all strategy. He thrusts rapidly, wildly, burying his cock as deep as biologyphysically allows. My tight pussy slickens with every brutal slide, creating a wet mess between us.
"Enzo!" I scream loudly, feeling the unbearable, coil-tight pressure building aggressively in my lower stomach again.
"Give it to me." He grinds his jaw. "Cum for me, Natalia. Now."
His rough thumb presses aggressively hard against my swollen clit. The explosive climax tears through my body instantly. I shatter with devastating force, my vision whiting out. My vaginal walls clench violently around his cock, milking the shaft with rhythmic, uncontrollable spasms.
Enzo lets out a deafening, chest-rattling roar. He drives his hips forward with ruthless power, burying himself to the hilt one final, perfect time. His lean body goes rigid over mine. I welcome the hot pulse of his thick seed erupting violently deep inside my pussy. He fills me with his hot cum, claiming my body in the most primal, permanent way physically possible. His balls slap wetly against my backside as he empties his seed deep into my womb.
He collapses on top of me. His sweaty weight presses me deeply into the plush mattress. I wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders, holding his solid body securely against me. The frantic thud of his racing pulse against my skin is the only sound in the ruined bedroom, aside from our ragged, gasping breaths.
The diamond ring sparkles brilliantly on my left hand under the dim bedside lamp. The precious stone belonged to the mother he could never publicly mourn. The mother he was never allowed to grieve properly because the Bellanti family made even mourning dangerous. He never grieved her properly. He learned at the age of ten that everything real, everything precious, must be carefully concealed from the world.
He did not conceal me. He paraded me in front of the entire Bellanti network tonight. He put his most sacred familyheirloom on my finger and dared the entire criminal underworld to look at me. The immense emotional force of his actions crushes the last remaining brick of my cynical walls. He is not using me as a disposable shield. Some reckless part of me is starting to suspect he is using the operation as an excuse to find a reason to keep me.
Enzo rolls his body slightly to the side, taking his crushing weight off my ribs but keeping me securely tucked against his hot side. He pulls the duvet over our tangled, sticky bodies. He drags me flush against his ribcage, tucking my head under his chin. His arm clamps over my waist like an iron band, locking me in place.
The compound settles around us, stone and steel and locked doors holding the night outside. We are supposed to be leveraging Jeff tomorrow morning at the West Loop transit hub. We are supposed to be tracking Bellanti ledgers and laundering accounts. Instead, the strategist orchestrating a city-wide mafia war is currently petting my messy hair with trembling fingers.
The truth settles deep in my bones, replacing the woman I was with something new. The fake engagement is dead. The operation is compromised.I am staying.
A sharp, shrill ring violently shatters the peaceful silence.
Enzo's body immediately goes rigid against mine. The sudden, blinding intensity of the moment vanishes instantly, replaced by the precise, calculating mafia fixer. He reaches blindly for the encrypted burner phone resting on the mahogany nightstand. He checks the screen for half a second, clocks the code on the caller ID, and presses the black plastic to his ear.
I watch the terrifying transformation. The warmth in his dark eyes vanishes, replaced by the cold precision of the fixer. His sharp jaw locks tightly. The muscles in his neck bulge with sudden, violent tension.
"Speak," he commands coldly into the receiver.
He listens to the voice on the other end for three seconds. He does not ask questions. He does not show a single ounce of panic. He processes the catastrophic data and immediately formulates a strike plan.
He hangs up the encrypted phone. He tosses the device back onto the nightstand. He looks down at me, his hand tightening on my bare hip.
"Jeff is running," Enzo says, his voice devoid of all warmth. "The Bellantis found him. The operation is blown."
6
Enzo
Cold plastic pressesagainst my ear. The burner phone vibrates with a secondary alert against my palm, a harsh, mechanical buzzing that shatters the warm perfection of the bedroom. The air is still with the scent of mint and sweet basil, the intoxicating residue of her surrender. My blood is still rushing, still rewired by the way she fell apart underneath me. The man I was ten minutes ago wants to throw the phone against the stone wall. He wants to pull her back into the sheets, bury his face in her neck, and let the rest of Chicago burn to the ground.
But the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my lead surveillance operative at the West Loop transit hub. The tone is sharp. Frantic.
The Fixer wakes up. The machinery in my brain grinds into motion, uninvited.
"Jeff bolted." The operative speaks rapidly, the sound of an engine revving in the background of the call. "He never showed up for the shift change. He cleared out his locker. Rourke's men are currently sweeping the hub. They have the exits locked down. They are tearing the administrative offices apart."
Ice floods my veins. Then the ice turns into a roaring, blinding fire.
Jeff. The transit manager. The weak link holding a thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar debt to the Bellanti enforcer, Rourke. Jeff was the bait. He was the carefully positioned chess piece in my operation. He was supposed to stay at his desk, sweat under the pressure, and lead Rourke directly into our trap while I secured the money-laundering ledgers. Jeff was a calculated risk.
