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Chapter Seventeen

Francesca

I kissed him back with everything I couldn’t say.

With all the gratitude I felt. Because I did feel grateful, deeply, achingly grateful.

I know what it must have cost Dante to draw up those papers.

I know how much he loves his children, even if he doesn’t always know how to show it.

Giving me the chance to adopt them wasn’t just about logistics.

It was about trust. And from Dante Forzi, that’s not something freely given.

But I had to turn him down .

Because adoption is another chain. Another binding thread to a man I’m still determined to leave. And as much as I love those children, as much as they feel like mine, I can’t tie myself to him through them. Not more than I already am.

Still, I wanted him to know how much it mattered. How much I wanted to say yes despite needing to say no.

So I kissed him as if that day in his office never happened, the one that turned me to stone. As if the days that dragged me to the altar hadn’t bruised me from the inside out. I kissed him like he was the man I once thought he could be. Like I was a woman who could forgive.

And for a breathless moment, it was almost real.

But kisses aren’t magic. And when we pulled apart, we were still who we are—a man who’s a monster and a woman who is determined to escape.

Still… a part of me wants to give in. To surrender to what could have been, that fragile, flickering vision of the relationship we might have had—before I saw his true face. Before I learned what he was capable of. The cruelty. The control. The way he shattered me, like I was made to break.

I take what my mother always called an “everything shower” and scrub, shave, wax, and pluck until I’m polished and perfect. Until I look like the kind of woman she said a man might want to keep.

An acceptable bride. An illusion.

My heart hammers as I slip into a robe and tiptoe down the hall. My knuckles rap against his door, sharp and quick, but I don’t wait for permission. I push it open and step inside .

I’ve never been in his bedroom before.

It’s him, in every way—masculine, cold, restrained. Deep mossy greens and dark browns, with clean lines and no clutter. His cologne lingers in the air like a shadow I can’t shake. Something in my chest tightens. I should turn around and leave before he sees me.

But it’s too late.

The bathroom door opens, and Dante steps out, towel slung low on his hips, skin still damp from the shower. And sweet Mother of all saints, I die.

He’s all muscle and menace.

Not the suit-clad capo the world sees, but something more primal. More powerful. Thighs like steel, a chest carved from stone, and lower… I swallow hard.

There’s a reason I still felt him for days after our wedding night, even though I’d dissociated through most of it. And that reason is staring at me now with water dripping down his abs.

And for one terrifying, electrifying second, I wonder if I made a mistake coming here.

He freezes when he sees me, brow furrowing just enough to give me pause.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, his voice rougher than usual. It’s not cold—not yet. Just wary. Curious.

Shit.

Suddenly, I feel ridiculous. All that scrubbing and prepping, all that nervous energy building in my chest, and now I’m standing in the doorway of a man’s bedroom, tongue-tied and barefoot in a silk robe.

“No,” I manage, shaking my head. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just go.”

I turn quickly, hand reaching for the door handle, desperate to salvage my pride.

But I never make it.

Before I can twist the knob, his palm slaps flat against the wood, halting me cold. His chest presses into my back, hot, solid, and unmistakably close. His cock is already hard against my ass, the heat of it searing through the thin silk.

“What are you doing here, Francesca?” he murmurs with restraint. Or hunger. Or both.

I swallow hard, my lips parting, but no words come. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I only know I couldn’t stay away.

He dips his head, his lips brushing my temple, then trailing lower. “Say it,” he growls, his mouth tracing the curve of my ear. “Tell me why you came.”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just… needed?—”

His fingers slip under my robe, gripping my hips. “You needed me.”

Before I can answer, he spins me to face him and kisses me like he wants to devour every breath, all heat and teeth and hunger. His hands grip the backs of my thighs, lifting me as if I weigh nothing, walking me backward until my spine hits the wall.

The robe falls open, and his groan is pure sin when he sees I have nothing on underneath.

“Fucking beautiful,” he mutters, trailing his mouth down my throat, over my collarbone, to the swell of my breasts. “You came to me like this? No panties, no shame?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” I pant out.

He looks up from between my breasts, his eyes wild. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” He lowers me back to the ground and drops to his knees, and my breath stutters.

His mouth finds my pussy like he’s starved for it, and I cry out, legs trembling as his tongue strokes long and slow, then fast and devastating. His hands hold my thighs apart as he buries his face between them, groaning into me like he needs my pleasure to breathe.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet when you’re desperate,” he growls, fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.

I arch off the wall, shameless now, chasing his mouth, his touch, and the dizzying heat he builds inside me.

“Dante—”

“You’re gonna come for me,” he says darkly. “You came here needing me—now take what you wanted. Be my good girl, and come on my tongue.”

I unravel with a cry, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name like a prayer.

Before I can move, he lifts me into his arms again, effortlessly, like I belong there. Like I’m his. He walks across the room and lays me gently on the bed. The towel around his hips falls away as he follows.

I can’t stop staring. He’s… big . Thick and hard and all man. Every nerve in my body is lit with anticipation and fear and want.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse and stripped bare.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I came here for this. For you.”

His body covers mine like a shield, one arm braced beside my head, the other cradling my thigh as he settles between my legs.

He kisses me, slow and deep, his tongue coaxing mine in a rhythm that turns my bones to liquid.

His hand slides over my waist, my hip, then dips between my thighs, finding the proof of how ready I am.

“You’re soaked.” He groans, rubbing slow circles against my clit. “Sweet girl’s hungry for it.”

I moan, my hips lifting to meet his hand.

He slips one thick finger inside, then another, preparing me with gentle, patient strokes.

“You’re tight,” he breathes out. “Still so untouched.” He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “I’ll go slow this time. I swear.”

And then, slowly, he starts to push in.

I gasp, gripping his shoulders as he stretches me inch by thick, aching inch.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice raw. “I’ve got you. Stay with me.”

His hips press flush to mine, and I feel full in a way that steals my breath. My body adjusts around him, warmth blooming between my legs as the pain ebbs and pleasure takes root.

He begins to move with slow, reverent strokes that make my toes curl. But hunger creeps in, his control fraying as the rhythm builds. Faster now. Harder.

“You feel so fucking good.” He sighs into my neck. “So tight. So mine.”

His hand finds mine, fingers lacing above my head, and the intimacy of it makes my heart stutter.

His mouth finds my breast, my jaw, my lips—again and again, like he can’t stop tasting me.

“You’ re taking me so well, Francesca. My good girl.”

I moan for him, rising to meet each thrust, gasping his name with every ragged breath.

When he slams into me deeper, harder, I feel it again—that sweet spiral, tight and trembling low in my belly.

“I can’t. Dante?—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart again.”

And I do.

“Mine,” he snarls, his voice breaking. “Every time you come— mine .”

I shatter around him, crying out as he groans and thrusts deep one last time, spilling inside me with a ragged curse.

He stays there, forehead resting on mine, both of us breathing hard.

And for a moment, we’re not enemies. Not pawns or puppets. Just two people tangled in something too raw to name.

He rolls onto his back, his breathing ragged, and his arm reaches instinctively for me. He tries to bring me with him, tuck me against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we didn’t just lose ourselves in something that shouldn’t have happened.

I let him guide me for a second, but the weight of it hits me all at once.

The pleasure.

The intimacy.

The way I forgot everything—who he is, what he did—just because his body knew how to make mine sing.

I slip out of his hold, carefully and quietly, gathering the edges of the sheet around me like armor.

“Where are you going?” His voice is low but already laced with warning.

“Time to sleep,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Exactly,” he replies. “So stay.”

I hesitate at the foot of the bed, every nerve still humming, every part of me screaming to escape before I forget again.

“I’m going back to my room.”

He sits up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. His expression hardens. “Imagine the kids,” I add quickly. “If they come looking for me and I’m not there?—”

“They’ll get used to it,” he snaps. “You are my wife, Francesca.”

I look up at him, my throat tight.

“ Mine .” The word slices through the air, sharp and possessive. A claim.

“I’m not yours, not in the way that matters,” I whisper. “I’m not a body to tuck into your bed when it suits you.”

His jaw clenches. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” I hold his stare, and for once, he doesn’t flinch.

The silence stretches.

Finally, I speak again, quieter now. “You said you wanted me to try. I did. But that’s all I have to offer to you.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his muscles tense with something I can’t name. Not anger. Not entirely. Something darker and sadder.

“You forget I see the woman who reads bedtime stories like they're scripture. The woman who laughs when she thinks no one’s watching. You want to pretend none of that matters, but it does.”

I swallow hard. Now is not the time to explain again that I know the truth deep in my bones. That I learned very young to see people as they are, not as I wished them to be.

“Goodnight, Dante.”

He doesn’t stop me this time. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as I put on my discarded robe from the floor and slip through the door, barefoot and still aching.

And somehow… that silence is louder than anything else.

As soon as I step into my room, I close the door softly behind me and press my back against it, clutching the robe to my chest like it might keep the memory of him out.

But it’s useless. My skin still tingles.

My thighs are still trembling. My body still hums with the aftershocks of something I can’t name.

I never imagined sex could feel like that. Raw. Consuming. Beautiful.

I don’t regret it. Not the act itself. I wanted it, wanted him . Maybe I needed to prove something to myself or to silence the part of me that still wondered what it might’ve been like if things had been different.

But I didn’t expect to love the way he touched me. The way he kissed me. The way he said my name like it was a promise instead of a punishment.

I didn’t expect to feel… cherished.

And now, with the cold settling back into my bones and the shadows creeping in, I feel the sorrow creep in with it. The ache of knowing that for one hour, I let myself believe it could be more. And now I have to bury it.

Because I couldn’t stay.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to when he asked. But I knew if I stayed, he would have made love to me again. And I would’ve let him. Gladly. I would’ve forgotten again the man he truly is. The man who spit on me. Threatened me. Broke me.

I can’t afford to forget.

Sex has to stay sex. A transaction. A surrender. A way to keep him calm and me protected.

But now? The lines are blurred. And the only person I can blame is myself.