10
Vincenzo
Matteo's bootsecho down the limestone hallway, fading into the ambient noise of the compound. The industrial kitchen smells of roasting garlic, stale coffee, and the sharp tang of ammonia cleaner. None of that registers. The only thing existing in my atmosphere is the woman standing two feet away.
Imani tips her chin up. Her amber and soft musk scent floods my system, wiping out the sterile, calculated parameters I have lived by. She just faced down the underboss of the Costa family. She used sarcasm as a blade. She held her ground and never blinked.
She stayed.
She turned down sixty thousand dollars and a clean exit. She chose the noise. She chose the war. She chose me.
My jaw locks. The pressure in my skull builds to a breaking point, a ferocious, primal need that demands isolation. The kitchen is too open. There are too many sightlines. Too many variables. I need her contained. I need her behind reinforced steel where the rest of the world ceases to exist.
My hand shoots out. My fingers wrap around her wrist. The contact is an electrical ground, stabilizing the violent chaos inmy head. Her skin is fever-warm. Her pulse drums hard under my thumb, warm and alive and anchoring me to the floor.
I pull her toward the basement door. She stumbles for a fraction of a second before matching my stride. We descend the concrete stairs into the subterranean level of the compound. The air grows colder here, heavier, stripped of the domestic smells of the kitchen. Down here, there is nothing but concrete, steel, and the hum of high-voltage lines running through the walls.
We reach the end of the corridor. The War Room.
The door is four inches of reinforced titanium and steel, built to withstand a direct blast. I punch the eight-digit alphanumeric code into the keypad. The internal tumblers slam open with a deafening clack. I drag Imani inside. I hit the lockdown sequence on the interior panel. The deadbolts slide into place. The electronic locks engage. The biometric seal activates.
We are sealed off from the rest of the world.
The War Room is vast and sealed, every wall a bank of dark monitors and reinforced steel. Banked server towers line the far wall, humming with a low, constant frequency that travels through the soles of my boots. Screens cover every flat surface, casting a harsh, pale blue glow across the room.
Perimeter feeds, tactical maps, intercepted Bellanti communications, live satellite tracking. The data streams endlessly. It is the environment I have hidden in for almost a decade. A cage of information where human touch cannot reach me.
In the center of the room sits a long mahogany tactical table.
I back Imani up until her thighs hit the mahogany edge. The blue light from the monitors washes over her face, painting the curve of her cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth, the dark, defiant depth of her eyes. The cuffs of my flannel are shoved back from her wrists, the fabric layered over her sweater.
I step into her space. My hands drop to her hips, anchoring her against the lip of the table, fingers sinking into the soft give of her flesh through the flannel. My chest presses flush to hers, no gap left between us, her breath warming the column of my throat.
My hands come up to frame her face. My thumbs trace the sharp line of her jaw. The physical contact does not burn. It does not throw my nervous system into the agonizing overdrive that has plagued me for eight years. No white noise. No panic. Only her.
"Eight years," I state. My voice cuts harsh in the quiet hum of the servers. "Eight years, Imani."
Her breathing turns shallow. The warmth of her skin steadies beneath my hands. She does not look away. She holds my stare, anchoring me in the turbulent depths of her gaze.
"You are the first person I have chosen to touch," I tell her. The words are heavy, stripped of all tactical detachment. They are raw, bleeding truth.
"I know," she whispers back.
The boy who went quiet in the hallway a lifetime ago finally lets go.
My mouth crashes down onto hers.
There is no gentle exploration. There is no hesitant buildup. It is a violent, consuming collision. My tongue sweeps past her lips, invading her mouth, tasting the sweet, dark amber of her essence. She gasps into my mouth. Her hands fly up, clutching the front of my black t-shirt. Her fingers dig into my chest, right over the steady hammer of my heart.
I devour her. I angle my head, deepening the kiss, taking everything she has to give and demanding more. Her tongue meets mine, sliding and twisting, a desperate, wet friction that sends a jolt of pure fire straight down to my groin. I am hardwithin two heartbeats. My cock surges against the coarse fabric of my tactical pants, aching, thick, demanding release.
My hands drop from her face. I grip the flannel and the sweater beneath it, dragging both upward until she lifts her arms and lets me pull the layers over her head. I toss the shirt aside. It lands somewhere in the shadows near the server racks.
She is bare above the waist now, her jeans still riding low on her hips, the thin edge of her panties visible beneath the open button, her breasts pressing against the cool air of the War Room.
The pale blue light from the monitors catches the swell of her curves, illuminating the soft, gorgeous flesh that belongs to me. My eyes catalog every detail. The slope of her shoulders. The dip of her navel. The rapid, ragged rise of her chest as she pulls in oxygen.
"Mine," I growl. The word tears out of my throat, harsh and absolute.
