Page 18

I slam my hips down onto him again, feeling his hands grasp desperately at my thighs as he groans beneath me.

His long, wiry frame arches, trying to meet each of my thrusts, his breath ragged, his skin slick with sweat.

I watch his face—his mouth open, eyes fluttering, his chest heaving—as he loses himself under me.

His pleasure is so easy, so simple. His cock twitches inside me, hard, eager, but all I feel is the dull friction, like I’m grinding out a rage that can’t be spent.

Fiorette.

That smug bitch.

Her laughter still rings in my ears, sharp and humiliating. Always finding ways to remind me of where I stand. Always making sure I’m beneath her. But not here. Not now. Not with him.

I ride him harder, my hips snapping as though punishing him, punishing the world. He moans louder, his fingers digging into my flesh like he might fall apart if he lets go. His head presses back into the pillows, neck straining, Adam’s apple bobbing as he chokes on another groan.

I barely register the stretch of him inside me, the heat of him trembling under me like a live wire. My body moves on instinct, mechanical and furious, while my mind circles around Fiorette’s voice, her smug smile, her eyes always watching. I want to wipe her out with every thrust.

He gasps beneath me. “Oh—fuck—” His voice cracks, desperate and raw, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes hard, gripping me as though trying to hold onto the earth itself. I feel the hot rush of him spilling inside, but there’s no release for me. Just that quiet emptiness that always follows.

When his hands finally loosen, I let my weight fall back into the sheets, sliding off him, my body boneless with exhaustion but not relief.

The sheets are a mess, tangled around my legs.

My skin's sticky, and my hair’s probably a disaster, but I don’t care.

I reach for the cigarette on the nightstand and light it, letting the smoke sit heavy in my chest before I exhale toward the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.

The man beside me groans and sits up, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He reaches for the cigarette like it’s his, plucking it from my fingers.

“It’s not sexy when you smoke,” he says, like he’s scolding me.

I roll my eyes and wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t pretend you’re here for my health.” My voice drips with that forced little laugh I’ve mastered.

But of course, he can’t resist being grabby. His hand curls under my chin, tilting my face toward his. He plants a sloppy kiss on my lips, smug. His breath still tastes like me.

“You were wild.” He grins, lowering his voice like it’s some secret joke between us. “Rode me so hard I thought I’d pass out.”

I shrug and smirk. “Didn’t you like it?” I ask, batting my lashes like a bored kitten.

“Oh, I liked it.” His grin widens. “But that’s not my question.”

And there it is. The part where they want to talk. God, they always want to talk.

I pull my face from his hand and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes because if I let myself talk, I’ll say too much. And I can’t. Not about her.

Not about how Fioretta embarrassed me. Humiliated me. In front of everyone.

The auction still burns behind my eyes. The laughter. The applause. My designer dresses, my jewelry, my extensions—gone. Auctioned off like some sick game while those rich witches cheered and waved their little bid paddles around like it was entertainment.

And she just stood there. Smiling. Acting like the star. Like she was better than me. Like she was ever better than me.

It’s always been like this.

I had him first. I was there before she even showed up. Before her precious foreign education, before her perfect manners. It was me.

Serevin was my friend. My everything.

We were always supposed to end up together. I practically lived in his house. He looked at me first. Touched me first. We kissed first—okay, fine, I kissed him, but still! It counts. It should’ve counted.

And then she came back. Quiet and perfect. Just standing there while everything I wanted slipped away from me, like she didn't even have to try.

But I waited. I was patient. I thought, fine—let him marry her. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still have him. Men always have someone on the side. It’s normal. It would’ve been me. I would’ve been his constant.

Then the accident happened.

And I thought finally, finally, fate gave me a break.

But no. He became worse. Obsessed. Protective. Like she was made of glass. He shut me out completely. Didn’t even have the decency to pretend anymore.

And now? She doesn’t even remember him, and he still can’t take his eyes off her.

While I stood there, stripped of my dignity in front of every woman in Melbourne, she smiled like she’d won.

I dig my nails into my palm, squeezing until it hurts.

“Why are you so mad?” the man asks again, softer now. He thinks I’m going to open up to him. Stupid.

I turn to him with the fakest smile I can muster. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Why are you so mad?” he asks again, voice low, taunting.

I don’t answer. Instead, I throw the sheets off me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cold floor.

He watches me as I rise, fully exposed under the dim light. My breasts rise with every sharp breath I take, my waist narrowing into hips he’d just been gripping minutes ago.

I reach for my black dress draped over the velvet armchair. The silk slips easily over my body as I pull it up, the fabric hugging my curves like a second skin.

“Mind your business,” I snap, zipping it up with one sharp motion. “You got what you wanted.”

But he’s still watching, amused. His bare chest glistens slightly with sweat as he props himself up on his elbow.

Suddenly, his phone beeps from the nightstand. He picks it up, reading the message with narrowed eyes.

And then his head snaps up. His tone shifts.

“You didn’t tell me Fee was back.”

My whole body stiffens. My stomach knots.

“She isn’t,” I say quickly, my voice pitched too high. “She’s still at the hospital.”

Lie. A stupid lie. But it’s the one Serevin drilled into me from the start. No one could know yet. No one.

He laughs once, a sharp exhale through his nose as he stands, stretching his tall frame, muscles pulling under his pale skin. He casually pulls on his black trunks, never taking his eyes off me.

“Gustavo has her in his car,” he says. “Driving her here right now.”

“What?” My throat goes dry. My heart stammers.

He steps closer, the smirk on his lips curling like smoke. “Are you covering for your sweet cousin now? The same one you hate? The one you’re furious about, who’s back, taking your place with Serevin?”

“Monte, you don’t know what you’re saying,” I stammer, taking a shaky step back. “Serevin isn’t going to like this—”

Suddenly, his hand shoots out and clamps hard around my neck. My breath catches instantly, his fingers digging into my skin.

“You think I’m scared of Serevin?” he hisses, his voice turning venomous. “I’m Montenegro. The underboss of South Melbourne belongs to me.”

I claw weakly at his arm, gasping. “Monte—I can’t…breathe—”

He releases me with a rough shove, and I stumble back, crashing onto the floor. My knees scrape the marble as I land, one hand flying to my neck. Coughing, sputtering, I try to steady my breaths, the panic rising fast.

My pulse races. But it’s not just from his hands.

How did Fioretta even meet Gustavo? He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near her. She doesn’t even remember him—how could she? Unless—Serevin must have taken her to meet Vittoria. Shit!

“Don’t tell me you’re worried for her now?” Monte’s voice slices through my panic as he buttons his shirt, his tone light, amused. “You used to be in on it.”

I stumble back against the dresser, my breath catching. My throat still burns where his fingers were. My hands tremble as I glare at him, but my voice comes out thin, desperate.

“She just got out of the hospital, Monte.” My words trip over themselves. “This isn’t a good idea. She’ll tell Serevin everything later, and I’ll be fucked—”

Monte laughs, smooth and sharp, like he’s amused by how small I sound. “No, she won’t.”

He strolls over to the nightstand, casual, whistling under his breath as if we’re discussing the weather. With a flick of his wrist, he grabs a small bottle, rattling the pills inside as he holds it up like a prize.

“A bit of this,” he grins, “and she won’t recall a thing.” His eyes narrow. “And you won’t say a thing either.”

I feel my stomach turn.

Then his phone beeps again. Monte steps toward it, still whistling, and reads the message on the screen. His grin widens.

“They’re here.”

I freeze as his words settle in the air like poison.

No, no, no—this is happening too fast.

My legs move before my head can catch up. I lurch forward, grabbing his arm. My voice cracks as I tug at him. “Monte, listen to me. This—this was fun when we were younger, it was a game, but it’s not cool anymore. Please.”

He yanks his arm free like I’m nothing. I stumble, my heels slipping slightly on the polished marble. His face hardens into that familiar, cruel calm.

“You’re such a child, Emilia,” he says softly, shaking his head. “You always knew how this world worked. Don’t grow a conscience now.”

He strides toward the door, his shoes clicking sharply against the floor. As he disappears down the stairs, I’m left panting, chest heaving. My head spins. My fingers clutch the edge of the dresser for support.

And suddenly, the memory floods back—so vivid, so sharp I almost taste it.

We’re back in that large room. The special room.

The adults—our parents—are downstairs, locked in their endless mafia meetings, deciding who would live, who would die, who would marry whom. And we sat upstairs, left to entertain ourselves.

I remember watching her then. Fioretta.