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"Mmmmm…. always so ready for me."

"Dante," I gasp, mind already clouding with desire. "The doctor said—"

His fingers slip inside me, two thick digits stretching me in a delicious burn. My hips rock against his hand instinctively, seeking more.

"That's it," he encourages, thumb finding my clit again as his fingers pump steadily inside me. "Take your pleasure. Show me how much you've missed this."

It's been days since we've touched like this—the pain of his wound and the presence of my brother in the adjacent room creating barriers to the intimacy we've both craved.

Now, with healing progressing and Antonio finally sleeping through the night without nightmares, the hunger between us resurfaces with savage intensity.

I ride his hand shamelessly, my breasts bouncing beneath the thin silk as I chase the peak that builds with each expert stroke. When my release hits, it's blinding in its force, muscles clenching around his invading fingers as pleasure radiates through every nerve ending.

"Fuck," I gasp, collapsing against his chest, careful to avoid his injured side.

He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Christ, woman. I never tire of watching you come apart for me. Next time, I want to taste it."

Heat rushes to my cheeks at his crudeness, at the raw honesty that still makes me blush despite the months I've spent as his lover.

I push myself up, reaching for him, finding him hard beneath the sheets. "Let me—"

A sharp knock interrupts, and Dante growls his frustration. "What?"

Maria's voice calls through the door. "Breakfast is ready, and Antonio is asking for his sister."

"We'll be right there," I call back, already sliding from the bed despite Dante's attempt to pull me back.

He sighs dramatically. "Cockblocked by your brother again. Perhaps I should reconsider my protection offer."

I laugh, tossing his shirt at him. "You don't mean that."

His expression softens as he catches the garment. "Like fuck I don't."

I laugh and walk out of the bedroom, patting my frizzled hair down.

The villa's kitchen has become our unofficial headquarters during our recovery period. Maps and intelligence reports share space with Maria's homemade bread and Romano's garden-fresh vegetables. The ancient wooden table has witnessed both strategic planning sessions and moments of unexpected laughter.

Today, Antonio sits at the table, his injuries less pronounced after a week of care. The swelling around his eye has receded enough for him to see, though the bruising remains a yellowing reminder of his traumatic ordeal with the Volkovs.

"Good morning," I greet him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, a gesture from our childhood that now carries the weight of shared trauma and survival.

"Francesca," he acknowledges, then nods to Dante, who enters behind me, still looking grumpy at not getting his own release. "Ravelli."

"You look better," Dante observes, accepting the coffee Maria hands him with a nod of thanks. "Strong enough for London soon, I think."

"Tomorrow," Antonio confirms. "I'm ready to leave this—no offense meant, Maria—this convalescent home."

Maria chuckles, setting plates of perfectly golden frittata before each of us. "None taken, Mr. Castellano. Though you will miss my cooking, I promise you that."

"She's right about that," I say, taking my seat beside Dante. "No one cooks like you, Maria."

Dante's hand finds my thigh beneath the table. "We return to London tomorrow, then. Time to implement phase two."

Phase two. The systematic dismantling of Volkov trade routes using Dominguez's ports and our newly secured Mediterranean connections.

The final preparations before moving against Luca's throne.

Antonio nods, his focus sharpening. "I've been thinking about father's shipping networks. With the right adjustments, we could redirect at least sixty percent of the eastern corridorthrough subsidiary companies. Keep the Volkovs from detecting our hand until it's too late."