The angle is perfect. His thick shaft rubs directly against my swollen clit with every deep plunge. My walls clench around him, milking the rigid length of his cock. Italian rips out of him low and broken,cazzo, sei mia, dannazione, the words scraping out of his throat with his control fraying at the edges.
The power of his movements pushes me across the floor. I grip his shoulders, hanging on for the ride. The slap of our skin echoes like gunshots in the empty room. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips onto my chest. His salt-and-pepper hair is damp at the temples, sweat-darkened and disordered. He is a beautiful, violent storm, and I am the only person allowed inside it.
His hand cups my jaw, his thumb dragging up the line of my throat from collarbone to ear. His voice drops into a dangerous, gravelly register.
I force my eyes open. I meet his intense, chaotic stare. The dead radio frequency is gone. There is only raging fire left.
"I am never letting you go," he promises, his hips snapping forward, driving so deep I feel him at the very end of me. "You belong to me now. You are mine, all the way down."
The words trigger something primal inside me. The final wall of my own hesitation crumbles. My ex took my money, but Vincenzo is giving me himself—his protection, his fury, his entire damaged soul. I accept the trade. I accept the danger. I accept the mafia war waiting for us outside this steel door.
"I'm yours," I scream as the orgasm hits me.
It is a violent, blinding explosion. My vision whites out. My internal walls bear down, clamping viciously around his thick cock. I milk him with spasming contractions, pulling the climax straight out of him.
He roars my name. The sound is primal, possessive, and triumphant. He drives his hips forward one final, brutal time and holds himself to the hilt. His entire massive frame goesrigid. I feel the hot pulse of his release spilling deep inside me. He fills me with his release, groaning as the tension finally bleeds out of his muscles.
He collapses on top of me. His broad, sweat-slicked chest crushes my breasts. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent like it is the only oxygen left in the room. His heart hammers wildly against my ribcage, a frantic, chaotic rhythm that matches my own.
We lie there in the freezing dark, tangled together on a bed of tactical gear. The irony is not lost on me. I came down here to migrate servers and walk away with a paycheck. Instead, I am walking away with a lethal mafia enforcer chained to my soul.
He slowly rolls off me, but he refuses to sever the connection. He pulls me flush against his side, wrapping one ink-dark, muscled arm around my waist. He drags the tactical jacket up over both of us, trapping our shared body heat beneath the rugged fabric.
The cold of the Underground bank vault returns, pressing in close. The reality of our situation begins to creep back into the edges of my mind. The oxygen purge is stalled, but the four-foot reinforced steel door is still sealed tight. We are still sealed in, surrounded by the Bellanti ghost-signatory servers and the billions they used to route, cut off from the outside world.
I trace the bold black cross on his chest with my index finger. "So," I say, my voice soft in the quiet room. "You just broke a streak of absolute isolation."
"Yes." His fingers stroke up and down my bare spine.
"Are you going to regret it when we eventually have to figure out how to get out of here and deal with the heavily armed men who are probably coming to kill us?”
Vincenzo tilts my chin up. His eyes are clear now. The calculation is back, but it is no longer cold. It is focused on my survival.
"I don't regret a single step that brought you to me," he says smoothly. "And anyone who tries to take you away from me is going to die."
He says it with the casual certainty of a man observing the weather. It is a terrifying, absolute truth.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. My ex-boyfriend taught me that trust is a liability. Vincenzo Costa is teaching me to put it in someone worth the risk.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel completely safe.
"Okay," I whisper, closing my eyes. "Let them come."
We have a little time. The vault is sealed, the servers are dark and powered down, and somewhere above us, the Bellantis already know something went wrong. We rest in the dark, gathering our strength.
When we finally get out of this vault, the Costa-Bellanti war will be waiting for us. But they have no idea what is coming for them. They think Vincenzo Costa is just a ghost. They are about to learn that ghosts can come home with someone to protect.
6
Vincenzo
Cold concrete bitesinto my spine. Warm amber fills my lungs. The contrast anchors me in the dim glow of the Underground bank vault. Imani breathes slow against my chest, the rhythm dragging on the edge of waking. Her bare skin radiates a frantic, undeniable heat against the chill of the subterranean air. My flannel is buttoned over her sweater, the dark fabric pulled tight around her shoulders. My scent is on her now. She belongs here.
She is the signal. There is no other explanation. My thumb rests along the line of her throat, the pad of it tracing from collarbone toward her jaw. Her breath warms my hand. She is alive in a room designed to be a tomb.
She saved us from the oxygen purge. She wired the bypass with shaking hands and a sharp tongue. Then she dragged me out of my self-imposed exile and burned away my defenses on a dirty floor.
Mine. That is all there is to it. The rest of the world can burn.
