“What the hell is he doing here?” His voice is a growl now, controlled but close to snapping. “I told him. I told him never to come near her again.”
He stops, whips around to face Tomasso fully. “Tell the guards to send him away. Now.”
But before Tomasso can respond, I move again. I step closer. I reach for Giovanni’s arm and grab it, firm and pleading.
I sign to him. Please. I want to see him.
Maybe he's sorry for everything. Maybe he wants to apologize. A small part of me hopes, even when logic dictates that I shouldn't. He's been cruel too long to suddenly change.
Giovanni's eyes flash. He turns fully to me, signs back, sharp and fast. Over my dead body.
Then he speaks, voice hoarse with rage. “Did you forget what I promised you? Did you forget what I swore?” His hands are clenched now, his breath ragged. “I said he would never come within an inch of you. I meant it, cara.”
He’s trembling. Not from fear, but from fury. From the sheer force of trying to keep himself contained. He spins back to Tomasso. “Go. Now.”
Tomasso nods, then disappears down the corridor. And then, it's just the two of us.
The silence stretches, but it’s not empty. My hand is still resting on his arm, and his hand moves to cover it. He grips me, firmly but carefully, like I’m something fragile and precious at once.
I look up at him and feel it, everything he hasn’t said, all the things he’s holding back. The fire. The fear. The unspoken vow threading itself through the quiet.
And in that moment, I realize something else. It isn’t just anger that drives him. It’s terror.
Terror of letting me near the man who broke me. Terror of watching history repeat itself. Terror that he might lose me, either to harm, or worse, to forgiveness.
He would burn the world down to keep me safe. He would carry the weight of my silence, my grief, my past. But he would never let me return to it. And in his grip, in the quiet storm of his presence, I feel the promise again.
Not just protection. But possession. Love, in its most brutal, most feral form.
His grip on my hand loosens, but only enough for his thumb to brush the curve of my wrist, a touch so reverent it makes my chest tighten. He looks down at me, eyes molten with fury, yes, but also something else. Something I’ve never seen in a man’s eyes when looking at me.
Not tenderness, not pity. Possession. A kind of fierce devotion that terrifies me, because I don’t know what to do with it.
Not until now.
I move without thinking, my body surging toward him. I seize his collar as an arm goes around to circle his neck, and I rise on my toes, pressing my mouth to his. The kiss is hard, almost clumsy, but urgent. His body stills, stunned, then melts into mine. He groans low in his throat, wrapping his arms around my waist and hauling me against him like he’s been waiting centuries for this.
I pour everything into it. The fear, the confusion, the ache that’s taken root in my chest. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he deepens the kiss, his mouth hot and insistent, his hands roaming my back like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
His mouth is hot, tasting of the Vecchio Amaro he likes, and the sharp edge of his anger. I nip his lower lip, the sting drawing a low hiss. My nails dig into his neck, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me with a ferocity that makes my core ache, wet and pulsing. I press closer, my body molding to his, feeling the hard length of him through his trousers, pressing against my hip, sending heat flooding through me, soaking my panties.
He breaks away just enough to murmur, “Liliana,” but I don’t let him speak. I kiss him again, harder, fiercer. I want him to feel it. I want him to know.
His hands slide down, gripping the backs of my thighs. Without warning, he lifts me. I gasp against his mouth, and he carries me across the room, never breaking the kiss, until my back hits the wall with a soft thud. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring myself to him.
He pulls back to look at me. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gravelly.
I nod breathlessly, my fingers framing his face. I sign it, slow and clear. Yes. I want you.
His eyes glower and something in me snaps. I grab his shirt and tear it open, buttons scattering across the floor. His chestis bare, the raven tattoo stark against his skin, muscles taut and gleaming in the dim light. My fingers trace his pecs, leaving faint red lines, and he groans.
His hands slide under my dress. I gasp as his palms find bare skin. My breath catches when he grabs my yellow dress and yanks it up and over my head in one swift pull. The fabric rips softly, and I’m left in lace panties, my breasts heavy, nipples tight under his gaze. The sudden exposure makes me flush.
His eyes roam over me. They're possessive, hungry. They linger on the dampness between my thighs, and I feel bare, alive, trembling with want.
He kicks off his trousers, and his length springs free, so thick, so heavy, veins pulsing. The tip glistens. My breath catches. I lick my lips, my core tightening at the sight of him. He's all strength and raw need.
I reach for him, but he’s faster, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head as he pushes me against the wall. My back hits the wall with a soft thud. The plaster is cool against my back, his body hot and hard against mine. The contact sends a jolt through me.
