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I fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I let him ruin me. After what we shared, no other man will ever compare. And somehow, that feels worse than anything—knowing I’ll always be searching for that feeling again, that perfect escape, that moment of forgetting myself completely.

And I don’t even know his name—but I’ll never forget the way he made me feel.

4

MARCO

Ishut Chiara’s apartment door quietly, the latch clicking into place behind me, but I know it won’t hold. The hinges are half off. I stay still in the hallway for a moment, hand resting on the doorknob like I’m not ready to let go just yet. How can I, when the heat of her is still on my skin—when the night we shared is still bleeding through me? I don’t move. I’m not sure I can.

Walking away should’ve been easy. I’ve done it a hundred times—left a warm bed, a spent body, no second thoughts. But this? This feels like leaving something that’s mine. Like I didn’t just fuck her—I branded her. And somehow, I left a piece of myself behind with her.

That doesn’t sit right with me. That room, her scent, the way she looked at me when I made her come on my tongue—it’s under my skin now. I should be done. I should be cold. But every step away feels wrong, like I’m putting distance between me and something I’m not finished with.

And I don’t leave things unfinished.

I can still hear those soft little whimpers she made when I filled her to her core, still see that gorgeous naked bodywreathing beneath me as I caressed all those generous curves, still remember how tight her waist fit between my hands when we fucked.

But it’s not lust that’s keeping me standing here. Okay, maybe just a little. But more than that, it’s caution.

Those men didn’t come knocking for a warning—they came to hurt her. Maybe worse. And they won’t be the last. The stench of blood’s already seeping into the floorboards of her living room—a silent reminder of how close it got. She’s still in there, sleeping, probably thinking I’m still beside her. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve told her what’s coming. But if I had, I would’ve lost focus.

If I stayed, I would have touched her again. Kissed the sleep from her lips, let my hands roam those gorgeous breasts, pulled her beneath me and forgotten the rest of the world. Again. And again. And I can’t afford to forget right now. Not with what I’ve done. Not with what’s still coming.

I curse myself and consider ringing the bell—telling her to head to the café until her door can be fixed, maybe to call someone she trusts. But I’ve got a feeling there’s no one else she can call.

I check my watch. Just past six. My men will be up. And I need a ride—my car’s still parked at the café, and I’m not walking back to get it.

I make the call.

“Boss?” Nicolo, my right hand, picks up on the first ring.

“Nicolo, I need someone to fix a busted door. Quiet, fast. I’m sending the address. I also need a pickup from the same spot.”

“We’ll be there in ten,” he says, no hesitation.

“One more thing,” I add. “There’s someone inside. Still asleep. She doesn’t get disturbed.”

There’s a pause—brief, but telling. He knows this isn’t standard. Still, he doesn’t question it.

“Understood.”

I pocket my phone and give her door one last look before turning away—before I get dragged back into something I can’t walk away from.

As I wait in front of the building for Nicolo to arrive, I lean against the cold brick wall, trying to distract myself by watching the world pass at this hour. The street is quiet except for a distant garbage truck and the occasional early commuter. I take a deep breath of city air, trying to clear my head of her scent—vanilla and sex that clung to her skin when I buried my face in it as I came.

Where the hell is Nicolo? I check my watch—ten minutes have already passed. I give it another five, and just as I’m about to call him back, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb and rolls to a smooth stop in front of me.

One man steps out from the passenger side, carrying a toolkit. He gives me a nod. “Where’s the job?”

I gesture toward the building and rattle off the directions.

He nods again and heads inside without another word.

The driver steps out, circles the front, and opens the rear door for me. I slide into the back seat, the leather cool against my back as I turn to face Nicolo.

“You’re up early,” I say as he passes me a coffee.

Nicolo’s face tightens with something more than the usual morning grimness.