Through the wall, I could almost feel him. The weight of his presence. The hunger that matched my own.
I’m not going to let him win,I told myself.
But as I lay there, still tasting his name on my lips, and my core still spasming, I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore.
Chapter Sixteen
Lorenzo
The boardroom was a cathedral of power—dark mahogany, leather chairs that have held the weight of five generations, a chandelier imported from France. The portraits on the walls were not ancestors; they were warnings. Men who built this empire with blood and silence, whose eyes follow you, reminding you that you are never free of the family.
My father sat at the head of the table, his hands folded, his expression calm. That’s how he operates—serene on the surface, while beneath the water, sharks are circling.
Around the table, the heads of the families waited. Uncle Matteo, who runs the shipping ports that bring in product from overseas. My cousin Costa, who handles construction contracts—and the occasional body that gets poured into a foundation. Francesco Rossi, lean and sharp, the family’s consigliere, who keeps the books clean and the blood off the ledgers. And Enzo De Luca, young and hungry, who took over his father’s territory after a “heart attack” last year. There are others—soldiers who have earned their place at this table through loyalty, through violence, through silence.
And me, the underboss, next in line to assume my father’s position, second in command of the family. A title I never wanted but was forced to accept, regardless.
I sat at the far end, my back straight, my face unreadable. But inside, I was a war zone.
“Port of Genoa,” my father said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “Matteo, your report.”
My uncle rested his elbows on the table, spreading papers across the table. “The dockworkers’ union is restless. New leadership. They want a bigger cut of the off-book shipments.”
“Then give them a cut,” Costa muttered. “Standard.”
“Standard won’t work. They know what we’re moving through there. They’re asking for more—or they’ll ‘accidentally’ tip off the authorities.”
The room went quiet. This is the kind of problem that got solved with money or with blood.
“Son.” His eyes shifted to me. “You’ve handled unions before. What do you suggest?”
I blinked, pulling myself back from the edge of a cliff where Zara’s face is waiting. “They’re testing us. If we give them more, they’ll ask for more. We need to remind them who controls the port.”
“And how would you do that?”
I met his gaze. “Find the new leader. Show him the difference between cooperation and the bottom of the harbor. He’ll see reason.”
Enzo nodded slowly. Costa grunts in approval. But my father’s expression didn’t change.
“Weakness invites wolves,” I continued, the words coming automatically, the rhythm of this life ingrained in my bones. “If we bend, they’ll break us. The port is ours. It stays ours.”
“Agreed.” My father turned to Uncle Matteo. “Make arrangements. Discreetly. I want the union leader to understand our position without needing… demonstration.”
“Understood.”
The meeting continued. They discussed a shipment being routed through Naples, a rival family encroaching on our construction contracts in Rome, and the need to “retire” an old associate who’d been talking too much to the wrong people. Names were mentioned. Plans were laid. Blood is promised in careful, measured words.
I participated. I nodded. I offered input. But my mind was elsewhere.
I’m thinking about the way Zara tempts me. The way her freckles lit up under the sun, but it’s more than that. I craved her touch, yes, but I craved her laughter more, her stubbornness, her warmth tangled in the cold iron of my world. I wanted to know the sounds she’d make when I was finally inside her, but I wanted her trust even more.
Sometimes I felt like I could drown in the woman who was now my wife. Like last night, when I stood in the hallway, pressed against the wall like some fucking voyeur in my own home, listening to her panting my name.
Fuck. The way she moaned it—broken, desperate, coming apart on her tongue. I got hard instantly, painfully hard. I pressed my palm against my cock through my slacks, biting back a groan, and let her voice wash over me. She said my name over and over. And I ended up coming in my own pants, right there in the hall, like a damn teenager.
But afterward, lying in my bed, the high faded into darkness.
What other names had she called before mine?
