Page 32 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

I jolted awake, disoriented. The gentle sway of the yacht rocked beneath me, the subtle lapping of water against the hull almost soothing, but the emptiness of the room pressed in. I was alone. The silence felt heavy, unnatural. My head throbbed, and a cloud of confusion gripped me.

The last thing I remembered was an overwhelming exhaustion consuming me, and falling asleep right after Alfonso told me I could do whatever I wanted.

I never expected to wake up alone. It was weird that he didn’t bother waking me, didn’t stay to watch over me. But chose to fully dress me and brought me back here.

My body tingled with a slight sting, though it wasn’t as painful as my mind had built it up to be.

Still, the fear of seeing the damage held me back. I didn’t want to confront the reality of it, but I had to know. Could I handle this?

I desperately needed a shower. I pushed myself up from the bed, pulling off my shirt. My eyes landed on the plaster strips scattered across my body—evidence of what had been done.

He had already taken care of everything, tending to the marks, covering them as if to shield me from the aftermath.

There were no blisters, just the faint redness of tiny, angry red lines marking my skin.

I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar sting of tears threatening to fall.

Why did this have to be our way?

There were times I cursed being born into the Don Traditions—where a woman’s role was little more than producing male heirs and sealing mergers through marriage. We were pawns for our fathers to trade as they pleased, and the more you had to give, the higher the price you paid.

I stood there, wondering if I could handle whatever Alfonso intended to give me. And I had to admit, when I looked at my patched-up wounds, I didn’t feel repelled. Not even a little.

It was all so confusing, what it meant, where it would take us, but one thing was certain, I would be okay.

I walked toward the bathroom, my steps slow, as I turned on the shower. The water cascaded over me, drowning the tension in my body, washing away the weight of the world, and my tiny sexual wounds loved it.

Everything that happened in that room spilled through my thoughts.

It wasn’t long before I sensed another presence, though I hadn’t heard the door open. When I turned, my husband leaned casually against the basin, arms folded across his chest, watching me silently.

I knew a part of him was vulnerable at the moment. Worried about what I would think of him now that I had witnessed his darkness for myself.

Love was not a feeling. It was an action. But what I was feeling inside of me right now, I had no idea how to put it into words.

We just stared at each other.

I opened the door without shutting the water off. His eyes shifted to my breasts and body and then flickered back to my eyes. I saw the shame on his face as I stepped in front of him.

He didn’t say a single thing. I unhooked his folded arms and pulled him in for a hug, not worrying that I was still dripping wet.

He smelled amazing and I just held him tight.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, that same question he’d been asking me over and over the past few days.

My jaw throbbed with a dull ache, and I knew it would be worse by tomorrow. I glanced at him and muttered, “How badly do you need that ball-in-the-mouth thing, really?”

“The gag?” He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Not that bad.”

“Then I’m more than okay,” I whispered before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

His hand slid down to grip my ass while the other cupped my face, his fingers folding tenderly around the back of my head. The kiss deepened, and a low grunt escaped me.

He pulled back instantly, concern flashing in his eyes. “Sorry—what do you need?” he murmured, brushing a kiss to my forehead.

I let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You. Always you.”

Italian words slipped past his lips and then he assaulted my mouth with his again. He planted my ass on the basin as I reached for his shirt.

I pulled it over his head as he helped by lifting his arms.

My lips immediately ascended on the column of his neck as both our hands fiddled with his pants. He took off the belt and I unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.

With one swoop, he pulled down his jeans and briefs, stepping out of everything.

He grabbed my leg, and I helped guiding his erect cock inside of me.

We both grunted. I was still a bit tender from having my pussy lips inside a device for hours. But I needed him now, just like he needed me inside that dungeon.

He stopped and hooked his arms under my legs, opening myself for him wider.

He thrust himself deeper into me and stopped. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

“Fast and rough.”

He growled and smashed my lips with his mouth. The kiss was fast and passionate. My jaw ached but fuck the pain.

He pumped me hard and the friction drove me nearly to breaking point.

I exploded and after that, everything became a fucking blur of screams, more euphoria, and a lot of cussing.

It was the first time Alfonso ever fucked me that hard.

Multiple orgasms rolled through me and the only thing I could say was that it was chaotic and everywhere.

I only snapped out of it when he released deep inside of me and then somehow discovered we were inside the shower.

He spoke a string of words in Italian, which made me laugh as I didn’t understand a single one of them, but I knew the tone all too well.

We still had this fucking pull. It was a passion that burned more as a need than a simple want.

Our lips met, and he growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating between us.

He chuckled against my mouth. “Finish your shower, then come eat the food I made for you.”

A smile tugged at my lips as I watched my husband step out. And just like that, I felt like myself again. Whatever had happened in that place was already fading into a distant blur.

A soft smile played on my lips. My mother had been right—I could do this.

The sun finally broke through the heavy clouds that had shadowed me all week, and for the first time in days, its warmth finally reached me.

* * *

The rest of the week passed in a blur. My husband had returned to his usual self—calm, confident, in control, and we were screwing each other’s brains out every chance we got.

Today we were flying home, his home, and the nerves were starting to settle deep in my stomach. The thought of turning it into mine made me more anxious than I wanted to admit.

Just before we boarded the plane, I called my dad. He answered with his usual teasing warmth.

“All honeymoons have to end sometime, sweetheart,” he chuckled.

I giggled softly. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course you can, angel.”

I hesitated for a beat. “Is there a way I can speak to Mom?”

There was a pause on the other end. Heavy and telling.

Everyone in the Santore family knew my mother and I rarely saw eye to eye.

But these past few weeks, this marriage, I’d started to understand her in a way I never had before.

I was beginning to see the strength behind her coldness, and I had a new respect for it.

“Just hold on,” my dad said quietly.

The silence stretched, and I could feel Alfonso’s gaze on me as he waited by the steps of the plane. Still, he didn’t rush me.

“Camilla,” my mother’s voice came through the line, uncertain, almost cautious. She sounded as surprised as my father had been.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“For what? The last time we spoke, you chased me away.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But you were right about so many things. And I just wanted to say… if it weren’t for the lessons you taught me, I wouldn’t have survived any of this.”

There was a long silence. I imagined her somewhere in the house I grew up in, clutching the phone with that unreadable expression she always wore when emotions got too close.

“Is he good to you?” Her voice dropped, gentler now, as if she didn’t want to be overheard.

“He is,” I said without hesitation. “More than I ever expected. I’m… I’m good, Mom.”

“I’m glad.” Another pause. “When are we going to see you?”

“I’ll have to ask him. We’re going back to Italy, and after that, I’ll find out when we can visit.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Take care—and send our love.”

“I will. Talk to you soon.” I hung up before she could say more.

The tears were already gathering, and I didn’t want them to fall before I boarded the plane. I’d spent years thinking my mother was cold, even cruel, but now I saw the strength behind her distance. She wasn’t heartless. She was forged, like me. And for the first time, I understood her.

I wiped away the last of my tears, steadying myself before stepping out. No trace of emotion could remain, not for the world I was walking back into. My husband and his guards stood waiting, composed and silent, their patience never faltering.

We boarded the plane without a word. This time, the stewardess was different—older, professional, and refreshingly uninterested in Alfonso. It was a small detail, but one I appreciated more than I cared to admit.

The flight would take about eight hours, and exhaustion weighed heavily on both of us. It didn’t take long before sleep claimed us. I woke hours later, curled into him, his arm wrapped protectively around me, my head resting against the steady rhythm of his chest.

It was the best sleep I’d had in days—deep, dreamless, and warm. And somehow, this quiet moment between us made all the turmoil worth enduring.

The drive to Alfonso’s home was short, but the moment we arrived, I was struck by the grandeur of the mansion.