Page 18

SALVATORE

S he stands on the terrace, overlooking Naples as though the city offers answers I have not yet provided.

Her figure is motionless, her palms resting flat against the cool stone railing.

The slender shape of her shoulders is silhouetted by the city lights, making her appear fragile despite the strength I know she carries beneath her silence.

She came willingly tonight, not compelled, not commanded.

Yet, watching her from the shadows near the open doors, I recognize the tension woven through the line of her spine, a quiet defiance that she wears with dignity.

I move closer until she becomes aware of my presence, but she does not turn immediately.

Her dark hair falls in careful waves down her back, brushing the edges of her shoulder blades with every breath she takes.

When at last she glances back at me, there is no challenge in her expression, only a clear-eyed acceptance of where we now stand.

“You snuck away from your uncle’s estate again,” I say evenly, stepping beside her. My gaze remains fixed on the lights scattered below us, as though our conversation could matter as little as the traffic that flows beneath us. I wasn’t sure she’d come at my beckon, but here she is.

“The last time we were together, I told you what I want,” she replies.

Her voice is calm, no longer guarded, yet beneath its steadiness lies uncertainty she does not fully conceal.

“I’m not here simply because you beckoned, Salvatore.

You don’t think it’s possible that I have my own selfish reasons for being here? ”

The quiet honesty of her question satisfies something deeper than my pride.

I extend my hand, palm upward, offering her another choice that she must willingly accept.

Her gaze shifts briefly to my open hand, then rises slowly to meet mine again.

The space between us fills with a tension I don’t push to relieve.

I remain still, patient, allowing her to bridge this small distance herself.

“What is your reason, then?” I lift my hand slowly, admiring the way the lights from inside dance in her eyes. Here is this treasure, one whom all of Rome admires for the melodies she emits, but there is so much more to her than they see.

But I see her.

“You’re a fool… Don of your own family and you can’t read a woman?

” Rosaria starts to walk past me into my great hall, and I catch her arm and stop her.

Her eyes snap up to meet mine, and I see the way they’re hooded with lust. She is addicted to me, to my touch, to the way I make her feel powerful.

She came for a fix, and it strokes my ego.

“If you came for me, then why walk away when I’m right here?” My grip doesn’t loosen, but she relaxes.

“Give me what I came for and I won’t have to walk away disappointed.” Her arm slips from my grasp and she continues, back into the hall that is now empty except for my staff busily cleaning tables and scraping what’s left of dinner into trash bins.

Smirking, I follow her, wondering where she’s headed, and follow her back toward the front door where I again catch her arm, and this time, she spins around into me.

“Stay,” I say again. The first invitation during dinner long forgotten, she looks up at me pensively as I continue.

“And I will give you anything you want.”

A flicker of a smirk dances over her lips.

“Then take me to your room and I'll show you what I came for," she finishes, her voice a sultry whisper that leaves no doubt in my mind as to her intentions.

I'm intrigued by her boldness, her willingness to play this game by her own rules, if only for tonight. With a smirk curling my lips, I lead her up the stairs to my private sanctuary, where my staff doesn’t even venture except when beckoned or scheduled.

The moment the door is locked behind us, the tension between us palpable enough to choke on, Rosaria turns to me, her eyes smoldering with desire.

She reaches out and begins unbuttoning my shirt with delicate fingertips in a way that belies the urgency coursing through my veins.

Her hands are cool against my heated skin as she bares my chest, her eyes never leaving mine.

Most women I bed are meek and cowering, eager to please but never daring to take the lead. Rosaria is different. She is a firebrand, and I find it irresistible. My hands shake with anticipation as I reach for her dress, itching to rid her of the barrier between us.

My fingers work quickly, undoing the delicate buttons down her back, each one revealing more of her creamy skin.

Rosaria shivers as the fabric pools at her feet, leaving her clad in nothing but sheer black lingerie that teases more than it conceals.

Her nipples harden against the lace bra, begging for attention, and I am more than willing to oblige.

My hands find their way below her waist, sliding her lace panties down her thighs with a delicate touch.

My gaze never leaves hers, drinking in the desire that mirrors my own.

Rosaria's breath hitches as I kneel in front of her, my lips brushing against her thighs.

Slowly, I trail kisses up her inner leg, my tongue flicking over her heated flesh.

Her scent is intoxicating, driving me mad with need.

"Salvatore," she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair as I tease her mercilessly.

I love the way she moans my name, the way it sounds like worship on her lips.

My tongue dips between her folds, and she buckles against the onslaught of sensation.

Rosaria arches her back, rocking her hips toward my eager mouth.

I groan against her dampness, feeling her heat envelop my tongue, and I know that tonight will never be enough. There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to explore all the ways I want to make this woman mine.

My hands find their way up her body, caressing her supple curves as she moans.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, urging me onward, and I gladly oblige.

I tease her swollen clit with the tip of my tongue, circling it before plunging my tongue inside her heat.

Rosaria's moans fill the room, bouncing off the walls, and I relish in every single one of them.

Her hips rock against my face, her body moving to the rhythm of my tongue.

My fingers join in the sensual assault, sliding in and out of her wetness as I continue to torture her with my mouth.

Rosaria's knuckles are white where she grips the desk, her body arching off the surface as I continue to devour her.

She's so close, I can taste it on her skin, and I know that with just a few more swipes of my tongue, she'll fly apart.

Her moans grow louder, more desperate, and I relish in the power I hold over her.

"Sal," she moans, her voice a breathless whisper as she begs for release.

I don't keep her waiting any longer. My tongue flicks over her swollen clit once more, and she convulses around my fingers, her entire body shuddering with orgasmic pleasure.

Her juices coat my fingers and chin as she pants above me, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

She writhes and convulses, jerking and twitching as her thighs squeeze my head tightly, and my name falls from her lips in a breathless moan as her body shudders through the last of her orgasm.

I can't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at having been the one to elicit such a powerful response from her.

Slowly, I stand, my gaze never leaving hers. Rosaria's chest heaves with each ragged breath she takes, her eyes still hazy with pleasure. I reach for her hand and guide her to my bed, where she collapses as I tug my slacks off and toe off my shoes before joining her.

She eagerly spreads herself for me, but I flip her over, smacking the curve of her ass hard, leaving her gasping and clutching at the sheets. “Say you’re a good girl, Rosa,” I purr against the back of her neck as the stubble on my jaw scrapes her shoulder blade.

Rosaria's body tenses at the sudden spank, a mixture of shock and arousal coursing through her veins. This side of me, the one who craves control, is part of the allure. My dominance over her is addicting, just as intoxicating as the way I set her body ablaze with my touch.

"Y–Yes, I'm a good girl," she pants out, her voice shaky with desire.

I chuckle darkly in response, a satisfied smirk playing on my lips as I place kisses on her spine. My hands roam over her curves, squeezing and kneading her supple flesh as she squirms beneath me. My fingers dip lower, teasing her center before retreating again, leaving her aching for more.

"Good girl," I praise. "Ask me for more," I growl gently in her ear, my cock pressing against her dampness.

I know she can feel how much I want her, how much I desire to be inside her.

Rosaria fists the sheets in both hands, her body trembling with need.

Her breathing is ragged, and I know she's on the verge of begging me for more.

"Just give me what I want," she moans, her voice low and husky with lust. "Or get off me and let me go home.”

With a growl of approval, I position myself at her entrance, the head of my dick teasing her wetness before plunging inside her. She arches her back with a moan as I fill her completely, our bodies melding together as if they were made for one another.

The delicious friction of our bodies working together is enough to send me reeling.

I grip her hips, holding her in place as I thrust into her over and over again, our moans mingling together.

When I bring my hand down on her ass again, leaving a bright red hand print, she gasps again, bucking upward into me.

It drives my cock so deep, I hit her cervix and draw a groan of pleasure.

Her moans spur me on, and I increase my pace, driving into her with a ferocity that leaves us both gasping for air. I can feel it building inside her, the way her walls squeeze around my cock, milking me in a way that threatens to send me over the edge too soon.

"Rosa," I growl, my voice thick with need.

"Come for me, Cara mia ." It's all the encouragement she needs.

Her body tenses beneath mine as her second orgasm of the night crashes over her, her cries of pleasure music to my ears.

The tightening of her muscles around my cock sends me over the edge as well, and with a final thrust, I spill myself inside her.

As our breathing slowly returns to normal, I roll off her, collapsing on the bed beside her.

Rosaria's body trembles as she catches her breath, her chest heaving.

Sweat glistens on both of our bodies, evidence of the passionate encounter we just shared.

My hand finds hers, entwining our fingers as I pull her back against my chest.

Afterward, she doesn't move for a long time, just lies on her side with my hand around her waist. The silence between us is filled with unspoken truths and the weight of what we've just shared.

I can feel the rhythm of her breathing against my chest, as if she's calculating her next move even in this moment of stillness.

"You could stay," I tell her, my voice barely above a whisper. The words escape before I can stop them, revealing more vulnerability than I typically allow myself.

She shifts slightly, and I feel her shake her head against the pillow. "I can't."

"Why not?" I press, though I already know the answer already. Emilio is a sworn enemy for now, and if she chose my side of this dispute, it would escalate to full-scale war.

"Rome is a prison," she says, her voice carrying a weariness that speaks to years of careful navigation through dangerous waters. "But it's still my stage."

I tighten my grip around her waist, not possessively, but protectively. "You don't owe them anything, Rosaria."

This time, she turns in my arms to face me, and in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see the conflict playing across her features.

"You don't understand what it means to belong to people who raised you," she says, and there's a finality in her tone that tells me this is an argument I cannot win with logic or passion.

The silence returns, heavier now. I want to argue, to tell her that belonging should never come at the cost of freedom, but I recognize the futility. We both know the rules of the world we inhabit, the invisible chains that bind us to loyalties we never chose but cannot easily abandon.

When she finally rises and begins to dress, I watch her the whole time.

Every movement is graceful, as if she's performing even now.

She steps into her dress with the same poise she brings to the stage, her fingers working the buttons until her creamy skin is cloaked.

There's something almost ritualistic about the way she transforms back into the woman the world expects her to be, hiding the vulnerability she's just shared with me beneath layers of silk and composure.

I remain still, propped up on one elbow, studying her profile in the low light. She knows I'm watching—she's always aware of her audience—but she doesn't acknowledge it until she's fully dressed and ready to leave.

At the door, she pauses and looks back at me, her hand resting on the handle. "Don't make me miss this," she says, and the words carry multiple meanings I don’t let slip past me, especially when she smirks.

I hold her gaze, understanding exactly what she's asking of me. "I won't."

After she leaves, I lie in the darkness for several minutes, staring at the ceiling and breathing in the lingering scent of her perfume. The room feels emptier now, as if her presence had filled spaces I hadn't realized were hollow.

Finally, I reach for my phone and dial Bruno's number. He answers on the second ring, alert despite the late hour.

"Keep eyes on her," I tell him. "Every second until she's back in this bed."

"Understood, Boss."

I end the call and settle back against the pillows, but sleep doesn't come easily. Instead, I find myself thinking about prisons and stages, about the difference between protection and possession, and about a woman who moves through both with equal grace and resignation.