Page 58 of Bound in Ruin

"You think you can talk to me like that?" I rasp against her throat, my teeth grazing the soft skin near her collarbone, making her arch wildly into my touch.

She gasps, her head tossing back against the headrest, her legs wrapping tightly around my waist, pulling me flush against her wet, agonizing heat.

I don't give her another second to think. I align myself and drive deep into her in one hard thrust that slams her back into the seat, making a breathless, shattered scream echo off the curved windshield.

The space inside the Stingray is suffocatingly tight, every movement amplified by the heat building between our bodies and the dark, violent friction of our anger. I take her right there against the steering wheel, my hands gripping her hips with bruising force as I establish a relentless pace that rocks the heavy classic car on its suspension.

"Say it," I growl into her ear, my thrusts growing deeper, harder, completely feral as the steering column digs into my back and her nails tear into my shoulders. "Tell me who has you."

"You," she cries out, completely unraveled, her voice trembling as the intensity of the space and the movement drives her over the edge. "Dominic—fuck, you!"

Her inner muscles clamp around me like a vice, sending a blinding wave of pleasure straight up my spine. The violent clenching of her orgasm tears through my remaining control, and with a low, guttural roar against her neck, I surge deep into her one last time, pouring myself into her as my own release crashes hard and heavy through my chest.

A minute later, the silence in the garage is thick and warm with the scent of leather, heat, and raw surrender.

Rosalia sits back in the adjusted driver's seat, her hair a wild, beautiful disaster over her shoulders, her breathing slowly returning to normal. Her skin is flushed a deep, rosy pink, her lips swollen and thoroughly kissed.

Without saying a word, I adjust my pants and help her back into hers. Then I lean across the console and place her left hand gently back on the gear shift. My right hand covers hers, guiding her fingers over the leather knob with a firm, calm weight.

"Now," I say softly, my voice still gravelly from the release, my face resting inches from hers. "Depress the clutch completely. Feel the point where the gear catches. Don't rush it. Just let it flow."

Rosalia looks at me, the sharp venom from earlier completely gone, replaced by a quiet, focused intensity. She turns the key, the V8 roaring back to life with a steady, purring rumble.

She depresses the clutch, smoothly guides the shifter into first gear, and slowly eases her right foot down on the accelerator.

The Stingray doesn't jerk. It doesn't stall. The rear tires grip the slick garage floor, and the classic car glides forward as smooth as silk, pulling out of the garage and sweeping onto the estate drive with perfect, effortless control.

By evening, I’m parked across the street from the high-end private restaurant where Judge Sterling held his secret dinner.

Through the tinted glass of my SUV, I watch as Sterling and his guest step out into the dimly lit valet lot, exchanging a firm, low-key handshake before parting ways. As soon as the guest slips into the back of a luxury sedan and pulls out of the lot, I turn the key, keeping my headlights off as I slide into the traffic behind him.

I could have gone straight for Sterling, but confronting an active high-court judge comes with unnecessary hassle and messy political fallout. Besides, if I eliminate Sterling, Dante will just grease the palm of the next corrupt judge in line. I need Sterling right where he is—on the bench, presiding over the case, but quietly executing my orders from the shadows.

Rosalia must get what she deserves.

Earlier today in the car, she asked me why I’m so tenacious about all of this. I told her it was because she deserves it. And it's the absolute truth. There is more to it. But that is true. She suffered a decade of hell under Luciano's thumb, and I'll be damned before I let another rat steal what she bled for.

I follow the man’s sedan down a secluded, tree-lined street in the suburbs, watching as his car parks in front of an isolated house. I park a block down, slip through the shadows, and pick the lock on the back patio door in under twenty seconds.

By the time the man steps into his study, slipping his jacket off his shoulders, I’m already waiting in the corner armchair.

Before he can even draw a breath to shout, I cross the room, driving my fist straight into his solar plexus, sweeping his legs out from under him, and binding him to the heavy mahogany desk chair with thick zip-ties.

The interrogation is efficient, cold, and precise. It doesn't take long—a few broken fingers and a heavy dose of raw terror—for him to spill every single detail.

Dante has been funneling off-the-books cash into Sterling's offshore accounts, paying him off to ensure Rosalia gets completely stripped of Luciano’s assets during the probate ruling.

Once I have every name, account number, and transaction detail recorded, I snap his neck with a clean, swift twist. No loose ends.

Back in my SUV, I dial a number I saved for this exact moment. It rings twice before a voice answers, thick with irritation.

"Who the fuck is this?" Dante's sharp voice barks through the receiver.

"Shut up and listen," I say, my voice a flat line. "This is Dominic Kane. Rosalia’s husband."

“The fuck?”

"Your little arrangement with Sterling's middleman just came to a very permanent end," I continue, letting the threat settle into his chest. "Your plan isn't going to work, Dante. I am going to make sure Rosalia takes every single cent, every piece of land, and every last shred of property Luciano left behind. Try to step in her way again, and you won't live to see the verdict."