Page 15 of Until You Break

Laughter rippled, uneasy, sycophantic, sharp with curiosity. I felt his pulse hammering in my grip, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

Outside, the night air was warm and faintly salted from the coast. Flashbulbs popped in the distance as guests filtered toward their cars. I opened the back door of mine and waited. He hesitated like there was a choice, then slid in without looking at me.

The driver pulled us away from the venue, the hum of the engine swallowing the silence.

Emilio shifted once, subtle, as if to ease the discomfort of his stained trousers, but the move only reminded him—and me—of the bathroom.

His reflection caught in the window glass, tie ruined, mouth bitten, hair disheveled.

He flinched at his own image before dragging his gaze away.

I let it burn into him anyway. His ruined reflection looked like art, wreckage worth framing, proof of how far he had already fallen from the boy who once sketched in silence.

I let the silence stretch before I broke it. “Look around you. This is Bellandi territory,” I said, low. “Every street. Every corner. Every name that matters.”

“And what am I? Another street you’ve claimed?”

“Worse. You’re the city I burn if you disobey.”

He scuffed at that, but I caught the way his ears flushed.

Cute.

We slid deeper into Palermo’s evening heart, the city bleeding light like a slow spill.

Lamp gold slicked the cobbles, the stone still held the day’s heat.

Shutters rattled down, the air kept the smell of grilled meat and sugar, of char, fennel and fried dough.

A boy chalked a goal on a wall and pretended not to look at our car.

An old woman watered basil on a balcony, eyes sharp, nodding at the crest on my door before she nodded at the moon.

We rolled past Gelateria Romano, green awning striped and sun-faded, neon cursive buzzing like a lazy wasp.

“Romano’s been here since before I could walk.

His pistachio will make you forget your own name.

When I was sixteen, I caught his nephew skimming the till.

Romano didn’t ask questions when I corrected the habit.

He still thanks me for keeping him honest.”

I let my gaze drag over him. “You like ice cream, piccolino?”

He turned his head, wary. “Why?”

“Because I could sit you on that bench and feed you pistachio with my fingers. Melt running down your wrist. My mouth on it before yours. You wouldn’t taste the gelato, just me.”

His stomach tightened traitorously, a flash of hunger tangled with nausea. He hated that his body answered even when his mouth refused. “You turn everything into a threat. Even ice cream.”

“That’s because everything melts when I touch it. You will too.”

He tried to hide it behind the glass, but his knee edged away from mine like distance could save him.

The car curved, his knee brushed mine. I kept the contact and made it mean something, my hand dropping easy to his thigh, thumb a lazy back-and-forth that pressed a little too close to be polite.

I let my thumb edge higher, slow, tracing the line of muscle until he pressed back into the leather, trying to make the seat swallow him.

“Every turn takes us closer to my house,” I murmured.

“Every turn puts you deeper inside my hold. By the time those gates close, you’ll already know what I intend to do with you.

” He glared at the window, but his breath betrayed him, shallow and quick.

I pressed firmer, a subtle roll of pressure that forced his thighs wider by instinct.

“That’s it,” I said, soft enough for only him.

“Your body listens even when your mouth lies.”

We passed a corner where three men leaned under a street lamp, heads lifting at the car.

“That’s Rossi’s crew. Loyal enough. His son smiles like a knife.

Gallo’s people run the north, streets clean because his wife writes the orders with better handwriting than his.

And you. Can you say the same of Valenti turf? Do you know everything?”

“My father never brought me to meetings.” Emilio’s voice sounded soft, honest. “Never let me see this.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I didn’t belong.” He stared out at the narrow street like it might offer him a different answer. “When I was a kid I put on a suit, stood at his door because I thought maybe that day, he told me to take it off. Said it wasn’t my place.”

I slid my hand from his thigh to the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the curls he pretended he didn’t keep for me.

Soft there, deliberately soft, my thumb finding the warm hinge of his skull.

“You’ll know these streets,” I said. “Not because I hand them to you. Because I make you take them. You’ll smile in public when I tell you.

You’ll bleed in private when I want it. You’ll be my legacy, not your father’s. ”

“Dream on,” he muttered, but he leaned a fraction into my hand like his body already understood the language.

“You’re right,” I said, and brushed a curl of his temple, letting my knuckles drift down the side of his face until his pulse jumped. “Tonight I’m in a refined mood.”

We climbed the road where the air tasted like stone and lemon oil, sea brine coming in cold through the cracked window. I watched the moment he recognized the turn-in for our gates, the way his throat worked, the way he squared his shoulders because he likes to pretend that matters.

By the time we reached the steps, the air in the car had weight. I got out first and waited. He swung his legs out, jaw already set, and tried to pass me like I wasn’t there. I caught his chin between two fingers and brought his face up to mine. “Why me?” he asked.

“Because you were given to me,” I said, truth and indulgence in equal parts. “And because before I knew your name, I knew the shape you would make in my hands.”

He tried to pull back, but I didn’t let him.

I bent and took his mouth, slow at first so he could feel me choose to be slow, then rough so he could feel the difference.

He bit when I pushed deeper, good boy, and caught the edge of my tongue.

Salt and metal. I growled against him, sucked the sting from his lip, felt him tense, shame bright in his body because he liked it anyway.

He shoved at my chest, scratched low where jacket meets shirt. The scrape burned. I laughed and dragged him closer anyway, my hand fisting in the back of his shirt to keep him where I wanted him. “You ever done that for a man before?” I asked, voice low, cruel. “Or is that mouth mine first?”

“No.”

“A woman?”

“One.”

I smiled against his mouth. “Then I’m going to ruin you.”

We started up the stairs and I kept my palm at his nape, thumb under his jaw, thumb always under his jaw. He tried to quicken his step like he could get ahead of me, of this, but I reeled him back with a small tug that made the muscles in his throat jump. “Slow, mariposa. Let them see.”

A servant froze on the landing above, eyes gone wide before she remembered herself and vanished down another hall.

A guard at the corner stepped back into shadow, expression stiff as stone.

Good. Let the house whisper what it saw.

I wanted him to feel it in his skin, that every wall, every shadow, every mouth in this place belonged to me, and they were all learning the shape of his obedience.

“No one’s watching,” he hissed.

“They’re always watching,” I said, low against his ear. “Especially when you can’t see them. Head up. Mouth shut until I ask for it.”

His nails caught my lapel and dragged. Petty and pretty. I took his wrist in my hand and turned it, not hard, just enough to remind him whose bones they were. “You want to use those claws?” I said. “Use them in my bed. You’ll be there from now on.”

His head snapped, eyes bright like a knife you don’t see until it’s too late. “Like hell.”

“Exactly like hell,” I murmured, and let my breath warm the curl at his temple. “Hot. Inescapable. Mine.”

He shoved again. I didn’t move. I let him feel the futility and then rewarded the effort by sliding my fingers deeper into his hair and tugging his head back a notch to bare his throat. “You fight like you want me to win.”

“I fight because I hate you.”

“Same thing.”

“You’re delusional.”

I gave him an amused chuckle. “And you’re flushed. Look at you.” I dragged my knuckles slow down his cheek until heat rose to meet them, then over the bow of his mouth. “Part.”

“I’m not.”

A fraction more pressure at the back of his neck and his jaw obeyed, lips parting on a breath he tried to swallow.

“Good,” I murmured. “Remember how easy that was.”

We reached the landing. He jerked free, one last, pretty, hopeless lunge, and I caught him again, palm hard at his throat, thumb grinding under his jaw until his breath stuttered.

I bent close enough for him to taste the threat in my voice.

“You climb these stairs because I allow it, piccolino. You breathe because I want to hear it. Fight me again and I’ll have you on your knees here, in front of every shadow listening.

” His pupils flared, fear and fury tangled, and I smiled slow.

“That’s it. Burn hotter. I’ll enjoy putting the fire out. ”

I shoved him the last steps, until his back met the heavy oak door at the end of the hall. My thumb pressed harder under his jaw as I bent close, voice dark with promise. “From now on, this is where you sleep. My room. My bed. You don’t leave it unless I decide you do.”

The latch clicked shut behind us, sealing him inside.