Page 11

“That’s what I thought, Bella.” Salvatore’s hips grind against me and his hard cock is so obvious. My hands float to the fly of his slacks and I begin undoing them.

“I hate you,” I tell him as I work the zipper open and pull him out.

“Then hate me with your legs wrapped around my waist.” When his lips claim mine again, the kiss is searing and his hand finds my sopping core, pushing past my panties to sink into me. I’m a whimpering, blubbering mess as he fingers me and sucks heavy breaths and moans from my lips.

“You think I’m scared of you?” I ask him, breathless as he continues rubbing my clit with the heel of his palm while he fingers me.

“No. You’re scared of how much you want this.” His lips cover mine again, and I wrap my hand around his thick girth, stroking him.

“You’re arrogant,” I hiss.

“You’re soaked.”

“Don’t touch me,” I snap, but I don’t mean it. This man could devour me sinfully and I would spread my legs wider.

“Then stop grinding on my hand.”

“I hate you.” My neck arches back as he looses my jaw and lifts the rest of my skirt out of the way as he grabs his dick and slides my panties to the side.

“Keep saying it. Moan it when I fuck you.”

My back is still against the wall as he enters me in one swift, forceful motion.

I moan loudly, burying my face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound.

He's so deep, so much deeper than any of the other men I've been with before.

He feels... right, and it infuriates me.

His thrusts are relentless, driving into me over and over again, his hands bruising my thighs as he holds me in place.

“Look at you. Spread open like you’ve been waiting for this,” Salvatore growls in my ear, his thrusts relentlessly pounding into me. The way he says the words makes me shudder, and I clench around him involuntarily.

"If you’re going to claim me, you'd better make me crawl," I pant, and he angles his hips just right, brushing against a spot inside me that makes my toes curl. "Oh, fuck...”

His hand travels up to my breast, squeezing it roughly as he continues to thrust into me.

"I’ll make you crawl, all right—back to me, every time someone else tries to touch you," he says with a wicked grin.

His fingers find my nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, and I can't do anything but shriek and claw at his chest.

“You want me crawling back? Ruin me enough that I don’t forget.” His dominance, his possession, it's all so wrong, yet it feels so right. And as he continues to pound into me, I can feel my climax building, threatening to consume me.

“After this, even your body will know who it belongs to. Every time you clench, you’ll remember me inside you.” His thrusts become more demanding and my fingers find my clit, rubbing it furiously. “Now break for me… right fucking now…”

Salvatore's dirty words and rough touches send a delicious shiver down my spine, and I can't hold back anymore. My pussy clenches and my body begins to convulse. His thrusts are ragged and greedy, stroking the spot inside me that makes me see fireworks when I shut my eyes.

“Look at me while you break,” he demands. “I want you to know who fucking owns you.” His hand grips my face again as he says, “Come on my cock like you were made for it.”

“Oh, God,” I whimper as I feel him explode inside me. His cock pulses and the throbbing warmth floods me.

“You take every drop. You fucking keep it,” he growls, and his thrusts begin to slow.

I don't look away again, and the visceral glare he holds me under pins me against the wall even as his cock slips out of me—as my dress falls around my legs, as his cum drains down my inner thigh, and as my palms splay on the cold tile.

I'm breathless—shocked, even. And all he can do is tuck his dick away and zip up.

My hands shake slightly as I smooth the emerald silk back into place.

The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—disheveled, flushed, transformed by surrender I never intended to give.

Salvatore watches me from where he leans against the marble sink, his shirt partially buttoned, hair mussed from my fingers.

"The dinner—" he begins.

"No." I cut him off, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need to go."

He straightens, and I see the flash of something dangerous in his eyes. "Stay."

"My schedule is too busy to keep doing this." The words sound hollow even to me, but I force them out anyway. "This was a mistake."

I don't wait for his response. I push past him and out of the powder room, through the corridor where laughter and conversation still echo from the dining room. The other guests don't see me leave—they're too absorbed in wine and politics and the comfortable certainty of their elevated world.

The drive back to Rome passes in a blur of darkness and regret.

My driver maintains professional silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead, pretending not to notice the way I press my fingers to my lips, still tasting Salvatore's kiss.

The city lights appear gradually, modern chaos replacing Tuscan elegance, and I feel the familiar cage of my real life closing around me again.

My apartment building rises before us, windows glowing yellow in the night. I climb the stairs slowly, exhaustion settling into my bones with each step. The key turns easily in the lock, and I step into my sanctuary—or what I thought was my sanctuary.

Emilio sits in my living room chair, hands folded in his lap, expression carved from stone. The sight of him in my private space sends ice through my veins, but I force my face into neutral lines.

"Uncle."

"Rosaria." His voice carries the calm that precedes volcanic eruption. "Sit."

I remain standing near the door, keys still in my hand. "How did you get in?"

"Your apartment isn't safe anymore." He ignores my question, rising from the chair with fluid grace that belies his sixty-three years. "You're moving back to the estate. Tonight."

"I'm not a child. I won't be ordered around."

His laugh holds no warmth. "You stopped being a child the moment you decided to play with fire. Now you'll face the consequences."

The words hit me with their implication, with the certainty that my secret meetings haven't been as secret as I believed. Fear crawls up my spine, but I lift my chin in defiance.

"This is my home."

"This is a target." He moves toward me, and I see the controlled but lethal fury he's been holding in check. "Do you think your little performances go unnoticed? Do you believe the DeSantis name offers protection instead of painting a bull's-eye on your back?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't." The single word cuts through my pretense. "Don't insult us both with lies. Pack your things. You have twenty minutes."

He moves toward the door, then pauses. "The car will wait. If you're not downstairs in twenty minutes, my men will come up and pack for you."

The door closes behind him, and I stand frozen in my own living room, surrounded by the life I've built away from family control, away from expectations and obligations. Twenty minutes to dismantle the illusion of independence I've clung to for three years.

I move through my apartment mechanically, throwing clothes into suitcases, gathering essentials with trembling hands. The space that felt like freedom an hour ago now feels exposed, vulnerable, as if its walls were made of glass instead of stone.

Nineteen minutes later, I stand in the lobby with two suitcases and a carry bag, watching Emilio's car idle at the curb. The driver steps out to take my luggage without meeting my eyes. I slide into the back seat beside my uncle, and we drive through Rome in oppressive silence.

The Costa estate sits on the outskirts of the city, behind walls topped with security cameras and guarded by men who've served the family for decades. My childhood prison, dressed up as palatial protection. The gates open for us automatically, and we follow the circular drive to the main house.

"Your room is ready," Emilio says as we stop before the entrance. "Rocco will be stationed outside. For your protection, of course."

I don't bother responding. We both know protection and imprisonment wear the same face in this family.

Inside, the house smells of lemon oil and old secrets, precisely as I remember. My room—the same room I occupied as a child—has been prepared with fresh linens and flowers, as if this were a homecoming instead of a cage door closing.

I sit on the bed that once held my dreams of escape and pull out my phone. Seventeen missed calls from an unknown number. Four voicemails. I don't need to listen to know who they're from.

Instead, I open my email, scrolling through the usual messages from the opera house, from my voice coach, from publicists and agents. At the bottom, a new message with no subject line, sent from an anonymous account.

I open it, and my blood turns to ice.

The photograph is clear, professionally shot. Me, standing outside Salvatore's villa this evening, emerald dress catching the last rays of sunlight, face turned toward the camera with unmistakable clarity. Below the image, a message in elegant script:

Withdraw from the Tosca audition next week and publicly endorse my candidacy, or this goes to every newspaper in Italy. You have 48 hours to decide.

At the bottom, a signature that makes my stomach clench—a red lipstick kiss, perfectly applied.

Alba.

I stare at the screen until the words blur, until the reality of my situation crystallizes into sharp, cutting focus.

The walls are closing in from every direction—Emilio's protection that feels like prison, Salvatore's obsession that demands everything, and now Alba's ambition threatening to destroy what little control I have left.

Outside my window, Rome spreads out in the darkness, lights twinkling across the seven hills where emperors once ruled and fell.

The city that made me, that crowned me its rose, now feels as far away as the stars.

I'm trapped in a web of power and desire, of family loyalty and personal hunger, and every thread leads back to the same inevitable conclusion.

I close the laptop and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling that witnessed my childhood fears and adolescent dreams. Tomorrow, I'll have to make a choice that will determine everything that comes after.

Tonight, I'll remember the taste of freedom, however brief, however dangerous it proved to be.

The house settles around me with familiar creaks and whispers, and somewhere in the darkness, Rocco takes his position outside my door. The Rose of Rome has returned to her thorns, and the performance is far from over.