Page 33

SALVATORE

T he numbers on the shipping manifest blur together as I lean back in my chair, cigar smoke curling toward the vaulted ceiling of my strategy office.

Gianni sits across from me, his thick fingers drumming against the mahogany table while Tano stands by the window, eyes scanning the grounds below.

We've been discussing the coastal routes for two hours, mapping out every detail of our expansion into Costa territory.

"The dock supervisor won't be a problem," Gianni says, sliding a photograph across the table. "He has three daughters. Understands motivation."

I nod, stubbing out the cigar. The man's face stares up at me from the glossy paper—middle-aged, soft around the edges, the kind who folds under pressure. "And the harbormaster?"

"Different story. Old blood. Loyal to Emilio since the seventies."

Tano turns from the window. "We could make it look accidental. Boat engine failure. Happens all the time."

The phone rings on my private line before I can respond. The shrill sound cuts through the evening air. Only four people have this number, and two of them are in this room.

I answer without looking at the caller ID. "Yes."

"Salvatore." Her voice hits me immediately—breathless, ragged, wrong. Fear threads through every syllable. "Salvatore, I need?—"

"Rosaria." I sit forward, hand tightening around the phone. Gianni and Tano both go still. "What happened?"

"He found me. Emilio found me at the apartment." The words tumble out in a rush. "He said he'll kill me. He said I'm dead to the family."

My vision narrows. The room tilts sideways for a moment before snapping back into focus. "Where are you now?"

"Bruno has me. We're in the car. He pulled me out of there when Emilio's men started moving in. We're coming to you now."

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by rage so pure it makes my hands shake. "Good. Bruno did the right thing."

"Salvatore, I can't?—"

"You're safe now. Do you understand me? You're safe."

I hear Bruno's voice in the background, muffled but clear. "Twenty minutes out, Boss."

"I'll be waiting," I tell her and hang up.

Gianni looks at me expectantly. "Orders?"

"Clear the house. Both of you. Now."

They don't ask questions. Gianni closes his laptop while Tano moves toward the door. Within minutes, I'm alone in the office, the silence pressing down around me. I pour three fingers of whiskey and drain the glass in one swallow. The burn does nothing to calm the storm building in my chest.

Emilio Costa is a dead man. He doesn't know it yet, but he's already breathing on borrowed time.

I walk to the window and stare out at the circular drive.

The fountain in the center catches moonlight, water cascading from tier to tier in an endless loop.

My grandfather built this estate in 1923, carved it out of nothing with blood and determination.

Three generations of DeSantis men have stood at this window, watching for enemies at the gates.

Tonight, I'm watching for something else entirely.

The headlights appear exactly twenty-two minutes later, cutting through the darkness as the armored sedan rounds the bend. I'm already moving, taking the stairs two at a time, crossing the marble foyer in long strides.

The car pulls to a stop in front of the main entrance. Bruno steps out first, his eyes sweeping the perimeter before opening the rear door. She emerges slowly, unsteadily, and I'm shocked at what I see.

Red paint streaks down the front of her neck, dried into rust-colored stains across her creamy skin. More paint clings to her dark hair, matting the strands together. Her face is pale, stark white against the crimson splashes, and her hands shake as she pulls the coat tighter around herself.

I don't speak, don't ask questions. I simply walk to her, place my hand on the small of her back, and guide her toward the house.

Bruno nods once and disappears back into the car. The engine fades as he drives toward the security quarters, leaving us alone in the echoing foyer.

The marble staircase stretches upward, each step clicking under our feet. She moves carefully, one hand trailing along the banister, the other pressed against her stomach. The gesture makes my chest constrict.

My bedroom suite occupies the entire third floor. I lead her through the sitting area, past the fireplace where flames dance behind glass doors, into the master bathroom. The space is all black marble and gold fixtures, with a sunken tub large enough for four people.

I turn on the faucets, testing the water temperature with my wrist. Steam begins to rise from the surface, filling the room with warmth. Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric as she sheds her coat.

"The paint won't come off," she says quietly.

I turn to face her. She's standing in her slip, arms wrapped around herself, paint still streaking her collarbone and throat. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.

"I'll help you." I begin unbuttoning my shirt. "We'll get it cleaned up."

The tub fills slowly. I add bath salts, the kind that turn the water milky white and smell of lavender. When it's ready, I help her step down into the warmth. She sinks into the water with a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering closed.

I shed the rest of my clothes and slide in behind her, settling against the marble ledge so she can lean back against my chest. The warm water laps around us, soothing away some of the stress.

I take a washcloth and begin working at the paint in her hair, careful not to tug or pull. The red dissolves slowly, turning the white cloth pink. She sits perfectly still, letting me work.

"You don't have to take care of me," she whispers.

"Yes, I do."

I move to her throat next, where paint has dried in thin lines across her pulse point. The washcloth gently glides over her skin. Her breathing slows, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she says after a long silence.

"You're lying."

She turns in my arms to face me, water sloshing softly. "How do you know?"

"Because I know you." I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "And because when you're really fine, you don't need to say it."

Her mouth trembles. For a moment I think she might cry, but instead she leans forward and presses her lips to mine.

The kiss starts soft, tentative, but builds quickly. Her hands find my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle as she pulls herself closer. I taste salt on her lips—tears or bathwater, I can't tell which.

We move together in the warm water, her body responding to mine with desperate need. Every touch burns away the memory of her uncle's threats, every kiss erases the fear from her eyes.

"Is the baby okay?" I ask against her mouth.

She nods, not pulling away. "Yes."

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by possession so fierce it takes my breath away. Rosaria slides onto my lap, straddling me in the hot water.

Her thighs settle around mine beneath the water, heat meeting heat. The curve of her hips brushes my hands and I hold them there, not moving, letting her decide.

Her fingers come up to thread through my hair, her breath catching as she looks down at me.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she says, voice hoarse. “He said I’d vanish like I never existed.”

“You’re here now,” I answer, dragging one hand up her back until my palm rests between her shoulder blades. “And no one touches what’s mine.”

Her breath hitches again, but this time it’s not fear. She leans in, kissing me deeper—hungrier. Her body grinds against me in the water, and I pull her down hard as I feel myself swelling in response to her instigation.

"I love you," she whispers into my ear, her warm breath sending shivers down my spine.

"I know," I say, unable to hide the possessive undertone in my voice. This woman is mine, and I'll do anything to keep her safe.

She smiles against my neck, her lips brushing against my skin. "I don't deserve you."

"You deserve better than me," I say, grazing her stomach gently with my fingertips.

"But you're stuck with me anyway." Her laughter ripples through the room, mingling with the sound of the water sloshing in the tub.

It's a sound I could listen to forever—her carefree laughter.

She shifts in my lap, water cascading over the edge of the tub as her hips rock into mine.

The laughter fades, replaced by a soft moan as she feels how hard I am beneath her.

"I'm yours, Salvatore," she whispers, her eyes dark with desire and something else—trust. "And I don’t want to leave you again."

Her words fuel the fire inside me, stoking the flames of my need for her. I kiss her again, harder this time, claiming her lips as my own. My hands roam over her body, memorizing every curve, every dip and swell. She's mine now, and I won't let her go without a fight.

I lift her slightly, just enough to position myself at her entrance. Her breath catches as the tip of my cock slides against her, teasing the place where she’s already wet and ready.

“Now,” she whispers. “I want to feel it rip me open.”

I push into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her mouth fall open as I fill her. Her fingers grip my shoulders, nails digging in as she takes all of me. The water shifts around us, heat folding into heat.

Her inner walls clench around me and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to slam into her repeatedly.

Instead, I kiss her—deep, possessive kisses that leave both of us breathless.

Slowly, I begin to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in again, setting a leisurely pace.

She whimpers into my mouth, rolling her hips to meet every thrust. “Harder,” she begs. “Stop being gentle and just fuck me.”

I grab her ass with both hands and slam her down onto my cock. The sound of her slick cunt meeting my skin echoes off the marble.

“You want to be used?” I grunt, driving up into her, harder now. “You want to be stretched open and filled until you can’t fucking breathe?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” Her head falls back as I pound into her, water splashing out with every snap of my hips. “God, Salvatore, don’t stop.”

I growl in response, thrusting even harder into her tight channel. Her nails score my shoulders, but all I can think about is claiming her, marking her as mine.

“Touch yourself,” I order, voice rough. “Rub your clit while I fuck you.”

She obeys instantly, one hand sliding between us, fingers working fast. Her pussy tightens around me, squeezing with every brutal thrust.

“Salvatore, I’m gonna come.”

“Do it,” I snarl. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.”

She shatters in my arms, legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream as her orgasm tears through her. I keep fucking her through it, relentless, chasing mine.

A searing rapture builds in my core, coiling tighter and tighter with each powerful stroke.

My orgasm is a white-hot explosion, tearing through me as I thrust deep inside her, claiming her as mine.

I slam so deep she jerks forward, and I spill inside her with a growl—filling her, owning every inch.

Her name on my lips is the only sound in my universe as she convulses around me, her pussy milking my cock with the force of her climax.

She collapses against me, panting, her body trembling as I hold her tightly in the cooling water. My heart slams against my ribs. Her cheek presses to mine, skin slick, breath warm.

“I feel you everywhere,” she whispers.

“You were made to,” I murmur, lips brushing her jaw.

We stay like that, tangled and spent, water lapping at our shoulders.

“You’re mine now,” I say, voice low. “No one touches you. No one fucking takes you from me.”

She lifts her head and looks at me directly. Her pupils are still blown, her breathing still uneven, but her voice holds steady. “Then make sure no one ever tries.”

I run my hand down the length of her spine, anchoring her to me.

“They won’t. I’ll see to it myself.”

She doesn’t smile. She just exhales and rests her forehead against mine, as if that promise settles something in her. As if, for the first time tonight, she can finally breathe.

When the water begins to chill, I lift her from it and wrap her in thick towels, drying every inch of her skin with careful attention. She shivers despite the warmth of the crackling fire, exhaustion finally catching up with her.

I carry her to the bed and she curls against my chest, her head tucked under my chin. Her breathing evens out, but I know she's not asleep, even when I flick off the lights and the only illumination is from the fireplace.

"He'll never touch you again," I say into the darkness.

She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. Then I hear her whisper softly, "Promise me."

"I promise you." My arms tighten around her. "On my life, on my name, on everything I am—he will never lay a hand on you."

This time, when she says she believes me, I hear the truth in her voice.