Page 257 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet

My blood was so hot it seared through my veins, pumping so hard through my heart I thought it might explode.

The metallic bite of victory bloomed on the back of my tongue.

When Judge Hartford looked up, his heavy jaw was tight with resolution. “When can you make the introductions?”

Free.

Libero.

Judge Hartford had returned to court looking mighty and solemn, Midas passing judgment at a tribunal in the Underworld. He knew I was guilty of crimes he had no evidence of, and he was loath to see me walk away a free man, but in the end, his greed won out.

And he declared a mistrial.

I had Elena in my arms in a heartbeat, one hand fisting too hard in her lush hair, the other pressing her lower back to bring her hips flush against mine.

I kissed her like I was drowning because after a month without her lips on mine, her scent in my nose, and that long body pressed to mine, I felt like I was dying.

I drank from her, crushing our lips together so tightly I couldn’t breathe. But we didn’t need air. Everything I needed was in this woman. In her grace and immutable strength, in her loyalty and her undying love. In her willingness to do anything to see me free.

“Sei magnifica,” I rasped against her lips as I dragged in a deep breath. “You are so fucking magnificent.”

She laughed, her hands threading through my hair, stroking almost manically like she couldn’t get enough of the feel of me. “I feel magnificent because you’re free. We’re free of this.”

“Because of you.” I kissed her again, hard enough to bruise, secretly hoping it would leave a stamp of my possession in its wake. “My hero.”

She laughed again, tipping her head back so all that red hair went cascading over my arm and down her back. I stared into her face, blinking at the sheer beauty of her joy as it moved through me and tangled with my own keen happiness.

Around us, the clack and click of shutters sounded like crickets in a field.

“Ti amo, lottatrice mia,” I said, each word like a vow.

“Ti amo,” she responded instantly, before pulling my head down by my ears so she could kiss me herself. “Chi vuole male a questo amore prima soffre e dopo muore.”

Whoever is against this love, suffers and then dies.

I growled as I sealed our lips again, eating the victory off her tongue.

We were so close to whatever kind of happily-ever-after two anti-heroes in love deserved.

Two villains down—Rocco Abruzzi and Dennis O’Malley—and one to go.

I fucked her in the car.

It didn’t matter that Adriano was driving and would clearly hear what we were doing in the back of the Town Car. It didn’t matter that the windows were tinted, but anyone passing by might catch a glimmer of sweet golden flesh or raspberry nipples.

I hadn’t been inside my wife in a month.

In fact, I practically tossed her into the back seat, her back hitting the far passenger door. Instead of righting herself, she rucked up her skirt and let her legs fall open, exposing the thigh-high stockings, black lace garter, and thong I’d bought her fromLa Perlafor Christmas to wear for me when I was free.

“Come here,Capo,” she said, her voice husky and her cheeks already flushed.

I moved into the car, slammed the door behind me, and fell on her like a crocodile surging hungrily from the swamp, snapping her up in my grasp.

I ate at her mouth, biting at those lush lips, one then the other before plunging my tongue into that sweet heat, rubbing it against her own, her teeth and gums. There was this ferocious, building need in me to own every single inch of her.

To remind her who made her body sing.

One hand went to her throat, needing the feel of her pulse thumping madly against my thumb. The other went between those splayed thighs to cup her pussy over the lace.