Page 77 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

A few days later…

We buried my sister on a gray Thursday. Or what was left of her.

The casket was closed, the flowers white, and the rain polite enough to hold off until we were halfway through the service.

I didn't cry until they lowered her into the ground, not because I was holding it together, but because I still couldn't believe she was actually gone.

Sabine.

My beautiful, broken sister.

The truth is, I never really knew Sabine. Not the way sisters are supposed to. She was a year younger than me and I adored her, but I grew up in New York, chasing shadows and secrets, while she grew up in a house I can barely remember, with a mother I only saw on FaceTime.

For most of my life, Sabine was just a name—a possibility. But when we finally stood in the same room, I let myself hope. I thought maybe we could be something. Something more than just blood and obligation, actual sisters. Maybe even friends.

And for a moment, I believed we could.

But the bomb took that from us before we even had a chance to find out. Now all I have are questions. Who wanted Kingsley dead badly enough that it led to the bomb in our cake?

We still don't have answers for most of our questions. First and foremost, who is behind Omertà Infernale? Once we know that, I'm sure we'll know a lot more. Like if they were the ones behind Marcello's shooting, too.

Marcello is still in the hospital, clinging to life by sheer force of will and maybe a few well-timed miracles. Every time the doctors shake their heads, he defies them. Every time we think he won't make it through the night, he does.

Because, of course, he does. He's Marcello.

It turns out a few bullets aren't enough to kill the man who is trying to find his own path in life.

We haven't visited him. Enrico says it's not safe, and he thinks Marcello wouldn't want us there until he's conscious and upright, anyway.

I hope he makes it. From the way Enrico talks about him, he's a man I would like to get to know better.

There aren't many people outside the family that Enrico seems to like and respect, so those he does, like Marcello, or Toni and his mysterious hostage, I would like to know, too.

Last night, when it was just the two of us curled up on the couch, Enrico pulled me in close and kissed the top of my head. "When this is over," he murmured, "when we've buried whoever did this—I'm taking you away."

"Away where?" I asked sleepily. The painkillers have that effect on me, and I can't wait to be off them.

"I don't care, somewhere with no phones. No guns. No enemies." He tightened his hold. "We'll have a real honeymoon. Just us."

God knows I need it. And so does he.

Because even though we're technically married, it doesn't feel like we've started anything yet. Like we hit pause on what was supposed to be the beginning, and now we're just living in the space between devastation and justice.

My parents finally moved into a place of their own.

Small and quiet, and just a few miles down the road.

It's strange seeing them as people instead of forces that shaped me.

My brothers are working at the casino now, legitimate work, as far as I can tell.

Enrico has kept the darker side of operations well away from them. What they do next… that's their choice.

I don't have the energy to carry everyone anymore.

What I am doing, slowly and a bit awkwardly, is working on repairing things with my father. We're not close. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.

But we talk more. Conversations where I try hard not to voice my bitterness, which I have started to admit to myself. I've come to realize that the wound between us isn't just about what happened. It's about what didn't happen.

Because when I was a little girl, being held as a hostage by the Giordanos, I dreamed of him. My father. The hero. The rescuer. The man who would come storming through the door and say, "You don't belong here, baby. Come home."

But he never came.

He stayed in Sicily while I grew up in cold, echoing rooms in New York.

It took me years to learn to stop dreaming.

And that's what I have to forgive, not just him, but the version of myself who waited too long for someone who wasn't coming.

Maybe I'll never get the father I dreamed of.

Not in him anyway. But I do have the best father-in-law. And that's something too.

Eliza once told me that Enrico has no patience for weakness but infinite patience for pain. That he can be brutal to his enemies and endlessly gentle to the people he loves. And I believe her now. Because Enrico never asked me to prove anything. Never looked at me like I was broken or inconvenient.

He looks at me like I belong . From the moment we met, he looked at me as if I were already his.

The door clicks softly behind me, and I feel it before I hear it, Enrico's presence, steady and familiar, grounding me.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod, turning from the window where I've been staring out into the dusk. "Just thinking."

He steps up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses his chin to my shoulder. "That sounds dangerous."

I smile faintly. "A little."

We stand there in the quiet for a beat. His breath is warm against my neck. His hands rest low on my stomach, tucked under the hem of the shirt I'd kept on to ward off the chill while I waited.

"You've been carrying a lot," he murmurs. "And I've been letting you."

I don't respond because there's nothing to say that wouldn't unravel me.

"I don't want you to carry things alone anymore," he says, kissing the spot just beneath my ear. "You're not alone, Cat. Not ever again."

I turn in his arms, looking up at him. There's still weariness in his face. The weight of everything we've lost, and everything we still don't know. But under that, there's love. So much love, it makes my chest ache.

"You've been my anchor through all of this," I say softly. "Even when I couldn't breathe."

He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over my cheek. "You don't know what you've done for me. What it means to have you here . Alive. Mine."

I swallow hard, my throat tight.

"Then show me," I whisper. "Not just with words."

His eyes darken, voice low and reverent. "Come here."

Gently, he pulls off my shirt, as if he's afraid I'll break, even though he knows better. Having sex has been a little tricky lately, but thankfully, I have a very experienced husband, who isn't afraid to teach me things that make both of us moan with passion.

As always, his eyes darken, and a faraway look comes to his face when he sees the taped-up place where the stitches are almost ready to come out, like he's blaming himself.

"Hey," I say, "turning his head to face me, "eyes here, or…" I point his face down toward my breasts, "… there."

A slow smile spreads over his sinful lips. Lips that know how to ruin me. "They're still the most beautiful tits I've ever seen."

Shivers of pleasure roll through me, and my whole body sparks awake, blood rushes everywhere. He's always been good at that, making me feel like the center of the universe, like nobody else has ever or will ever exist for him.

For a second, he just drinks me in, lips parted, hand splayed wide over my stomach as if it already contains precious cargo. "Fuck, I love you," he says, the words hoarse, almost broken.

"Show me," I whisper again, and this time there's nothing left of shyness or distance between us, not after everything we've been through, not now that it's us against the world.

Without another word, I take off his jacket, his tie. He opens his belt and zipper, and working together, we get him as naked as I already am.

When he—this incredible piece of sculpted art—is finally bare in front of me, I take a moment to take him in. I bite my lip and let my eyes roam over him until he laughs in something like disbelief and shakes his head.

He acts like no one's ever looked at him like this before.

Like he's only ever been seen as muscle, or a monster, but never just as a man that someone wants every inch of.

But I do want every inch, and then some.

He's beautiful in the way only something dangerous can be beautiful, every muscle mapped under taut, olive skin, pecs, and abs.

He's a sight so beautiful from shoulders to thighs, it makes my brain short-circuit.

He's always been a force, but undressed, he's nothing but raw power softened by the faint light from the moon.

Even the bruises on his ribs and the fading scabs along his jaw only make him look more deliberate, more present.

Every muscle is a map of intent. His body is the proof of a life spent fighting—winning—every battle except the quiet ones inside himself.

His cock is flushed, hanging almost arrogantly above beautiful thighs.

I reach for it—because how can I not? He's already hard for me, thick and curved and almost too much, even relaxed.

The dark head gleams where he's leaking, and the sight goes straight to my own ache.

I blink, swallow, and curl my fingers around him.

He's heavy, hot, and twitches at the first touch.

I look up at Enrico, his molten gaze locked to my face and nothing else.

"You're so beautiful," I say, and he chokes a laugh, breathless.

"That's my line." His voice cracks at the end.

"I want you."

"That's my line too." He rasps, before he loses whatever restraint he was clinging to and pulls me onto the bed, him lying on his back, me straddling him. I rock against his already hard cock, and he shudders.

"Careful?" I ask, and I feel a ripple of laughter beneath me, deep and warm.

"Don't worry about me ," he says, eyes shining. "You're the queen here. I'm at your mercy."