She’s close, her pussy fluttering, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I rub her clit faster, my fingers gentle but relentless, and she moans, her body arching, her walls convulsing around my cock as her orgasm crashes through her.
Her juice coats me, warm and wet, and the sight of her coming undone—flushed, glowing, mine—sends me over the edge. I thrust deep, one last time, and my release hits, a low groan escaping me as I spill into her, hot and thick, filling her with my warmth. The pleasure is blinding, tender and all-consuming,and I keep moving, slow and deep, drawing it out, my body trembling with hers.
I collapse beside her, my breath ragged, sweat cooling between us. She’s flushed, her lips swollen, her body bare and stretched across the sheets like a goddess claiming her throne.
I brush my fingers down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, and sign, You’re not the woman I saw in her father's study that first time.
Her eyes soften, and she signs back, Good. She signs again, against my chest, her fingers lazy. Was I too bold?
I smile. “You were perfect.”
She lifts her head, watching me. I meet her gaze.
“I’m proud of you, cara.”
Her fingers curl lightly into my skin, and I feel her exhale, deep and even.
“More than you know,” I say.
I pull her into my arms, my lips brushing her forehead. Her fingers rest over my heart, feeling its steady beat. The room is quiet.
I don’t think about the fights waiting on the edge of tomorrow. I just think about her. And the way she looked tonight, walking through a room full of wolves like she belonged there.
Because she does. She’s mine. And there’s not a man alive I’ll let forget that.
22
LILIANA
The house feels hollow without Giovanni, a silence that clings like damp air, pressing into my skin. He left at dawn, his lips warm against mine, his voice a murmured vow to return soon. I stand by the bedroom window, morning light filtering through thick curtains, casting faint glows across the floor. My fingers graze the fabric, but my thoughts are tangled, caught on Giacomo Martelli’s words from the party.
I can’t stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I try. Of course, I didn't tell Giovanni. Martelli had been subtle about it while walking past me, so there's no way anyone would've noticed.
I knew him as my father's associate, along with Vittorio Greco. It'd been a surprise he was at the party, but if the tension that plagued the party was anything to go by, he hadn't been invited.
You’ll see soon enough what blood loyalty really costs. That's what he said.
I don’t know what he meant. I don’t know if it was a warning or a threat. But I haven’t been able to let it go.
Giovanni would tell me to stay out of it. To let him handle it. I can already hear his voice in my head, calm but absolute. But he’s not here. And I can’t keep pretending I’m not affected.
I need to speak to my father. The thought alone makes my stomach knot, but it’s firm now. Settled. I won’t find peace until I look him in the eye and ask him what I need to know, even though I've turned down his invitation two times now.
But I’m not stupid. I know I can’t go alone.
I consider asking Dario, but he’s not here today. He'd gone with Giovanni. He's learning the ropes, he'd said. My second option is Tomasso, but the odds of him agreeing without Giovanni’s permission are slim. Still, I need to try.
I slip into a navy dress, the fabric cool and grounding, and braid my hair swiftly, the routine steadying my nerves. Giovanni would be furious if I went alone, his protectiveness a constant tether I both lean into and resist.
I make my way through the hall, trying to decide the best angle to take with Tomasso. My fingers brush my wrist, the old nervous habit surfacing, and I force my hand still, steeling myself for the challenge.
The foyer comes into view, and I freeze. Camilla stands there, adjusting her coat, her blonde hair catching the light. She's speaking to a maid, and the sight of her stirs a wary knot in my chest.
She isn’t supposed to be here. She doesn’t live here. She rarely visits unless summoned or provoked, or at times when she's trying to put me in my place. I stay half-hidden near the archway, my steps slowing on instinct. My first thought is to turn around. Quietly. Avoid the encounter altogether.
But her voice carries. Calm. Low. It stops me.
I weigh my options. I don’t owe her anything. And I don’t trust her, not fully. Not yet. I’ve seen too many versions of her to believe one moment changes all the others. But I also know she’s loyal to Giovanni, and would help me to please him. And if I’m being honest, I need someone who understands the kind of man my father is. Someone who’s seen the layers and still knows how to stand.
