Page 8

Adriano

It’s been three days and I can’t shake her from my mind. Penelope Rosetti is like damn cocaine.

Her curves, the heat of her, that scent like jasmine and sin tangled together have been calling at me for days and sinking its teeth into every quiet moment. I want her bad. But I can’t have her. I’ve already messed up too many times and crossed lines I swore I’d never touch.

There’s a deal hanging over me too—a pact with a man I can’t cross, a noose tightening every time she crosses my thoughts. One wrong move, and it’s not just my neck on the line.

A sudden knock jolts me out of it. Tommy, one of my men strictly handling logistics, barges in with his face tight and eyes darting like he’s expecting a bullet.

“Boss, we got trouble. The docks got hit. Three of us—Vinny, Paulie, and that new kid got caught in the crossfire. Paulie and the new kid got cleaned out.”

I slam my fist on the desk and the wood groans under the impact. “Who?”

“Not sure but they left a message. Said they’re coming for you until you comply. Says you know what.” He shifts, uneasy. “They torched the new crates too. All of it.”

Rage burns through me. My docks. My men.

I’ve built this whole damn empire on shadows, making sure nobody knows my face and nobody gets close.

That’s how I stay alive, how I keep control.

And now some bastard thinks he can poke holes in it?

I lean back trying to force the fury down and let it simmer.

“Find out who. I want every last fucking name.”

Tommy nods and bolts. I’m already plotting my next move, mind racing. I’ll rip them apart—piece by piece, root and stem. Nobody threatens what’s mine and walks away breathing.

Hours later, I’m hunched over maps and burner phones when another of my men, Sal, slides in with his greasy hair slicked back and voice uneven.

“We got something, boss. It’s Ricci’s crew. The old man’s been quiet too long since you sided with the senator. Guess he’s itching now. Tommy and the others have been on his tail, but word is, his son’s running point.”

“Ricci?” I growl, cracking my knuckles. That slimy fuck’s been sniffing around my territory for years. “What else?”

Sal hesitates, then spits it out. “The son—Theodore—he’s been spotted with Penelope recently.

They’ve been hanging out, actually. He’s been chatting her up at that café she likes to visit during her work break.

Shows up almost every day under the guise of work and even brings flowers and everything. ”

A slow, coiling heat twists inside me. Theodore Ricci. With her. I don’t know if it’s a joke which would mean they’ve clocked her as my weakness or if the kid’s just dumb enough to want her for real.

Either way, it’s too coincidental to be by chance.

She’s been seen with me. They must know she’s working for me.

Her family’s tied to mine. They probably made their findings and got information dating back to before Sophia’s death.

They must believe she’ll be a crack in my armor, a way to pull me apart.

“You sure?” My voice is ice but underneath, it’s boiling.

“Yeah. I saw it myself. They looked pretty cozy.” Sal shrugs, oblivious to the storm he’s kicked up.

I shove past him and grab my keys. I’m out the door before I can think.

Her place isn’t far—ten minutes away if I floor it.

The whole drive, I tell myself it’s for her.

To keep her safe. Ricci’s crew could hit her next and use her to draw me out.

But that’s bullshit, and I know it. I want her under my thumb, where I can see her, feel her, even if it’s just through a screen.

Her house is dark when I get there, the same as always.

That flimsy lock—God I have told her a thousand times to change it—gives way with two twists of my pick, and I am in.

The space is thick with her scent, so soft and maddening and curling into my lungs like it is daring me to lose control.

I move quickly and start planting cameras in the corners: living room, kitchen, hallway.

Tiny black eyes to track her every breath and every step.

I have memorized her routines: coffee at 7:12, barefoot pacing by 8, and getting ready for work before she leaves at 9, so these lenses are just an extension of me, showing me the visual of what I’ve already claimed.

I stop at her bedroom door. My hand hovers and my fingertips graze the wood. I do not go in. But the image hits me hard, of her sprawled out in her nightwear with the sheets tangled around her bare skin, completely oblivious to me standing here and watching.

I agree, it is sick, the way it makes my blood pound and the way I am straining against my jeans just thinking about it.

But I do not care. She is in my head all the time anyway, her laugh, her lips, and the way she tucks her hair behind her ear like she knows I am staring.

I have got a whole gallery of her in my mind, little snapshots I have stolen from shadows and glances, and it is still not enough.

It is the middle of the night, and here I am, a ghost in her house, wiring her life to mine. Some lunatic with no boundaries? Sure. But I stopped pretending this was anything else when I first saw her at the wedding and felt that jolt like she had reached out and grabbed me herself.

I need to see her, know her, have her. Everything in me screams to push that door open and slip inside, to let her wake up to my weight on the mattress and my breath on her neck.

She would freeze and maybe scream, but then she would feel it, the pull I know she has got buried somewhere.

I would not force her, not outright. I would just be there, so close she could not say no, so close she would wonder why she ever wanted to.

But I do not. Not tonight. The thought alone, with her sleepy eyes widening and her voice catching as I murmur her name, works me up enough.

It is an aphrodisiac, so raw and twisted that it floods my veins.

I want her. No denying it. And soon, I will have her, whether she is ready to admit she wants it too or not.

Back in my car, I pull up the feed on my phone. She is still in there, hidden behind that door. Part of me regrets not wiring the bedroom. I could have seen her chest rise, fall, and caught the way she curls into her pillow like she is waiting for someone to fill the empty space.

But no, I held back. Not out of morals because those are long gone, but because I do not want her bolting too soon.

She has only just stepped into my world, this twisted game I have crafted around her every move.

I have got her keys duplicated and her schedules mapped down to the minute, even her favorite coffee shops around the area are flagged on my GPS so I can linger nearby, unseen.

She does not know it yet, but she is mine already.

That moment in my office the other day, when I tasted her, pinned her against the desk, sealed it.

Every sigh she let slip, every secret shudder, every moan and writhe her little body gave up, it all belongs to me now.

I replay it constantly, her hesitant gasps turning into something she could not stop, something I pulled out of her whether she meant to give it or not.

If I scare her off now, I would lose the thrill of watching her unravel, piece by piece, realizing she is caught in me, too tangled up to run.

I flick through the feeds again, my thoughts restless but the empty rooms stare back at me, mocking me.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be anywhere near her.

But with Ricci’s dogs circling, she feels like mine to protect.

Mine to claim. And that’s the problem—I don’t just want to save her. I want to ruin her.

“Boss, you good?” Frankie’s voice, my driver, crackles through the line later that night. I don’t usually use him but I needed a getaway driver in case tonight went bust.

“No,” I snap, eyes locked on the screen as Penelope walks out of the bedroom to the kitchen for a drink. She’s shedding her robe, probably feeling too hot, her hair tumbling loose. “What did Sal say the kid’s doing now?”

“Brought home some chicks he took back from the club. Sal’s still trying to get into the building and into his apartment.”

I grit my teeth. “He’s got no idea who he’s messing with.”

Frankie laughs, rough and short. “Yeah, well, neither does she. You gonna tell her?”

“Fuck no.” I watch her rinse the cup in the sink and pad barefoot around the kitchen. “She’d run.”

“Smart girl.” He pauses. “You sure this ain’t personal? I mean, why do you have to install the cameras, we could just take out the boy.”

“Shut your mouth and drive.” My hands flex, itching to break something—Theodore’s face, preferably. But Frankie’s not wrong. This isn’t just about territory anymore. It’s her. She’s deep in my blood, and I hate it.

“You will start tailing her outside the house tomorrow,” I order.

“Yes, Boss.”

Later, I am nursing a whiskey when the feed catches her again making breakfast. It’s morning now and she is in a towel, fresh from the shower with steam curling around her like some taunting halo. I should look away, but I don’t tend to reason much when she’s around.

She is humming, soft, and oblivious, and it is tearing me apart.

I have killed men for less than what is burning through me now, this raw, possessive and fucked up need rising at my gut.

But there is something else too, something softer, and it pisses me off even more because it makes me want her worse.

I lean closer, muttering to the empty room. "You are going to be the end of me, sweetheart." My voice is rough, barely mine, and my free hand is already moving, sliding down to my jeans.