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“Shows how much you know. My father’s debt—his mess—that’s why I was there. To pay off what he owed. To clean up after him, like I always do.”
His expression shifts. “I didn’t know who you were then. I just saw you—trying so hard to blend in, to look like you belonged. Looking like you needed an escape.”
“So what, you were being chivalrous? My knight in blood-soaked armor?”
“I just wasn’t expecting you.”
“But you kept the receipt,” I say flatly. “Tucked away nice and neat next to my mother’s gun, like some kind of trophy.”
“A reminder. That some things can’t be bought, no matter what price you pay.”
I stare at him, throat tight. “So, you didn’t know who my mother was?”
“No,” he says, and for once, I believe him.
“Aren’t our mothers friends?”
“My memories of our mothers being friends are hazy. After my mother died, I was nine—I never saw Isabella again, till I was sent to help her as a young soldier. That’s when she gave me the gun. I never saw her much after that... she became more of a legend in the Cosa Nostra than a real person.”
He reaches over, fingers grazing my wrist. “I was just trying to help you out that night. If I hadn’t stepped in, maybe some random caretaker would’ve found you naked, bound and dead in one of those bedrooms.”
“You fucked me because I was interesting? That’s one hell of a justification.”
“I fucked you because I wanted to see how that red lipstick would look wrapped around my cock,” he says casually. A shiver crawls up my body. “Because you were a fucking vision in that dress. Like trouble custom-made for me. Those eyes had me the second I saw them, even behind that mask. But that smart ass mouth—“ He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip. “I wanted to fill it so full of me you’d forget every smart thing you were about to say.”
Despite my anger—despite my humiliation—my traitorous body still responds to him.
“And now?” The words escape before I can stop them.
“What exactly are you asking me, Alessa?” Dominic wipes the corners of his mouth, eyes gleaming.
Yeah, what are you asking the man who fucking kidnapped you and murdered people? I hate that I’m curious about what he thinks about me—or that I’m willing to block all the shit he’s done.
“I-I don’t know.” It’s the first time I sound so unsure around him.
“You don’t know?” He tilts his head. “Are you asking if I think you’re still beautiful? If I still think your eyes are gorgeous? If I still want to fuck you?”
Christ. His voice vibrates through me, his eyes locked on my lips.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
“Which one is it? Say it. Use your words, piccola.”
I shouldn’t. I should keep things hateful between us. But that nagging thought that a part of me still wants him despite everything, is messed up, and it says so much more about me and the life I’m trying to run away from.
“Do you still want to fuck me?” My hands shake, a slow warmth spreading through me.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night,” he murmurs. “And when I found out you stole my gun? Yeah, that pissed me off. But it also made me want to fuck you senseless—make sure you never forget why stealing from me is a bad idea.”
His gaze drops to my lips. The tension thickens between us, his eyes dark with hunger that matches the warmth pooling in my stomach.
I lick my lips, and his gaze flickers with something primal. Neither of us moves, but the space between us shrinks with each second.
Don’t do it, Alessa, my brain screams.
But desire blocks out rational thought.
He leans in slowly, giving me the chance to back away—but I don’t. I can’t. My breath catches, and my body betrays me, leaning into him, closing the distance.