Page 106 of Brutal Crown

“Lia…” I groan against her neck, gripping her thighs tighter in my arms. “You don’t know how crazy you drive me.”

I slide one hand around her neck, and her eyes flash in pleasure. “You don’t know how much control you have over me.”

Her hips arch off the counter as I push deeper, making her cry out again. “Fran…” She arches into me, grabbing handfuls of my hair. “Don’t stop…”

“Goddamnit, Lia,” I groan before slamming faster and harder into her.

Her arms tighten around me, and I feel my own climax building. She lets out another needy moan as we both reach our climax together. I hold her body tightly as she trembles in my arms. When it’s over, she collapses against me, her head falling to my shoulder. I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing like we just survived something brutal. Maybe we did.

Her skin is warm beneath my hands, still humming with the violence of want. Her breath catches, brushing against my mouth.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she whispers.

I close my eyes.

Pull her tighter, like that could stop what’s already been set in motion.

And for once, I don’t lie.

I will.

27

LIA

The ballroom is grand and lavish. The walls are lined with gold, and the towering crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished marble floors. The scent of expensive perfume and vintage wine wafts everywhere. But the atmosphere is cold. There’s no warmth in the air, no real joy in the soundscape of clinking glasses and low, honeyed voices.

To keep up appearances, we have to attend events like these together—hand in hand, smile in place, as if this is some love story and not a tightly scripted performance. This particular dinner—from what Marco told me—is hosted by the Salvatores, one of the founding families of their secret society. A bloodline older than any government, and twice as cruel.

According to him, these events are orchestrated every so often under the guise of something else entirely, such as charities, galas, or business milestones. But everyone here knows better. These are not parties. These are performances for the high-ranking commanderies. Invitations come with an invisible demand: Show up, shut up, and look loyal. La Mano Nera doesn’t want the truth of these gatherings made public, butthey still want to be seen. That’s the trick: Make it look beautiful so no one questions the rot underneath.

I did ask Marco once what kind of activities they were hiding behind all this elegance, but of course, he brushed it off. Told me not to “bother my head with such details.” As if my head were something delicate, ornamental, and not already full of the ghosts they’ve put there.

Marco has his days. Sometimes he’s sweet and charming, all soft eyes and subtle touches, desperate for my attention in a way that feels almost boyish. Other times, he’s stiff, rigid. On those days, he’s less smiley, more calculated, like he’s wearing his skin like armor, afraid to be caught off guard.

I get it. He has a reputation to uphold now. The new Keeper of the Black Hand can’t afford to look weak, or sentimental, or even human. But it’s hard to read him. Harder to reach him. I miss the version of Marco who used to be my friend, the one who didn’t look over his shoulder at every laugh, who didn’t make me feel like we were both under surveillance every second we breathed.

And since this is hosted by a prominent member of La Mano Nera, every member is expected to attend. No excuses. No absences. Which means?—

Francesco is here.

The thought settles like lead in my stomach.

I walk beside Marco, our arms lightly touching as we glide past the glittering chaos. I’m dressed in an emerald gown picked out by one of the family stylists. It hugs my figure like a second skin, stitched tight with the kind of perfection that’s meant to impress. The weight of the diamonds around my neck tugs against my collarbones, a jeweled reminder of what I’m really here for: to be seen, admired, claimed.

“Smile,” Marco murmurs, his breath brushing against the shell of my ear. His voice is low, but it lands like a command. “You’re a future Mrs. Romano. Act like it.”

And so I do. Because in this world, pretending is safer than truth. And love—real, messy, reckless love—has no place in rooms like this.

Only power. Only performance.

I haven’t seen Francesco yet, but I know he’s somewhere in here. I feel his gaze on me, and it makes my spine stiffen.

Yet I offer a soft, polite grin to the crowd, with my arm wrapped around Marco’s. His hand rests gently on my back as he leads me to our reserved table. Over dinner, he laughs easily and loudly. He kisses my fingers, speaks to me in a low voice, and involves me in whatever conversation he’s having. He looks like the perfect fiancé. He looks like a man madly in love.

I play my part, the way I’ve learned over these past few weeks. I smile, laugh when I have to, whisper things into his ear.

My pretense pays off because everyone praises our union.