Page 20 of Until You Break

DAMIANO

The day had run long with messages and meetings, the kind that grind without drawing blood. By dinner, the house pulled itself back together. Wine sat on the table, rosemary hung thick in the air, family gathered in the kitchen like it had always been this way.

Emilio still thought he had choices left.

He wore that belief like a thin coat, pretty, useless against weather.

If he stayed upstairs, I’d go up and carry him down in front of them all.

But he came of his own will. No cuffs, no leash, no drugged compliance.

That choice carried more weight than anything I could have forced.

Pride curled hot in my chest, though I’d never speak it.

The kitchen ran on campaign rhythm, pans talking in code, knives bright as decisions, lamb spitting under garlic and oil.

Rosemary seared deep into the air, fat dripping onto hot pans, red wine already reduced sharp at the back of the stove.

Bowls of olives sweated on the counter, and flatbread tore easy under eager hands.

The weight of a family meal pressed in, ancient, ritual.

I wondered if he would come down. He had never stepped into this house by choice before; every time until now had been force.

This would be the first step toward living here, not just being taken.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Luca announced to no one in particular, because silence makes him itch. He tilted grappa, grin already loaded. “Tonight we celebrate your wedding properly. Rooftop. Fireworks. Someone gets stabbed, someone gets laid.”

Alessandro didn’t look up from his paper. His page turned like a blade filing itself. “Your answer to everything.”

“Because it works,” Luca said, pleased with his own gospel. “Remember Zio Leone’s funeral? Half the women didn’t go home until dawn.”

“Half were cousins,” Alessandro murmured.

“Palermo style,” Luca sang.

Let them warm the air. Beneath their noise, a steadier drum kept time with Marcella’s clocks.

Would he come down?

Emilio did. For a moment I only looked at him, pride sharp in my chest, a rush so fierce it almost startled me.

He had come of his own will—no cuffs, no leash, no drugged compliance.

That choice carried more weight than anything I could have forced.

Adoration curled hot in my gut, though I would never speak it aloud.

He paused at the threshold like a man at the lip of a cliff, then stepped through. Damp hair combed neat, collar straight, wearing the clothes I had selected for him and brought up to our room, and the sight made me crazily smug.

He sat, shoulders squared, hands open like he’d learned that was safer, heat high on his cheekbones.

A pulse worked in his throat like it wanted to speak first. “Good evening,” he managed, voice quiet, formal, the kind of greeting that sounded too small for this table.

Shy, uncomfortable, yet he forced it out, fragile as glass.

To me it looked delicious, my husband, fragile and mine, and still brave enough to speak into the weight of all their eyes.

Luca’s eyebrow tipped, cheap respect, still currency. Something old creaked in my chest. Pride makes the same sound no matter how often you oil it.

“Set another place,” Mama told the nearest pair of hands. Then to him, softer by a temperature, not a degree, “You eat with us. You live here, you eat here. Sit.”

Dinner felt almost normal. Family gathered around the table, food and wine warming the air.

Alessandro kept checking his phone between bites, muttering about a ship’s schedule.

Luciana chatted about Milan and a show she wanted to see, filling the pauses with easy chatter.

Luca spun a knife once before abandoning it for olives, grinning at his own mischief.

“Don’t fill up on olives, cognatino,” he smirked. “Our brother likes his husband hungry.”

Heat shot up Emilio’s throat. He stared at the bowl like figs were a battlefield. He didn’t answer. Luciana rolled her eyes and cut Luca off. “Enough, Luca. Don’t make him uncomfortable.”

Under the linen, my hand slid onto Emilio’s thigh. He jolted, stilled. A heartbeat later his palm found my knuckles. Damp. Brave. A small thing that went through me like a door.

“Our shipment arrived early,” Alessandro reported, folding his paper. “One of us will need to go and check it out.”

Mama sipped, set her glass down like a period. “After we’re done here, Damiano takes him to the warehouse. Routes. Eyes. Teeth. He sees what ‘ours’ looks like. He’s one of us now, and he needs to learn how our business works because he’s part of this family.”

Alessandro asked what other men avoid because he doesn’t mind bleeding for accuracy. “What if he calls his father?”

“He won’t.” Marcella’s mouth never changes once she decides. Then a small smile. “He sleeps where we sleep now.”

Conversation wandered back to food and wine, forks scraping gently on china, glasses clinking.

Mama quizzed Luciana about her Milan trip, Alessandro complained about shipping routes with his mouth full, and even Luca managed to make the cousins laugh without throwing a knife this time.

For a stretch it almost felt like any family dinner, the rhythm older than business or blood.

Bread tore; wine refilled; the air softened around us like heat from the ovens had seeped into every wall.

The kitchen moved toward its ending. Plates scraped, wine sank to dregs. Conversations faded into softer laughter and the scrape of chairs, the kind of ending every family meal knows. Staff slipped in to clear, bodies moving around us like they knew not to exist unless summoned.

Chairs scraped. Order obeyed.

Emilio rose with the rest, slower, careful, as if testing whether the floor still belonged to him. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. I would follow.

By the time the house exhaled into quieter heat, he was already upstairs.

He sat by the window, sketchbook balanced on his knee, lines ghosting into shapes I couldn’t see yet. The lamplight caught on his damp hair, the slope of his throat, the stubborn set of his mouth, drawing as if graphite could fortify him against me. I stepped in, latch clicking like a little law.

“You won’t hide in here today.” I let the latch click like a little law. “I prefer your choice. I’ll take obedience.”

He bristled, chin tipping up. “You think I’m obeying? Maybe I just didn’t want them to think you keep me locked up.”

I smiled, sharp. “Mouthy again. Good. It means you’re not breaking too fast.” My hand brushed his shoulder, lighter than he expected. “And thank you for coming down to dinner. You could have made me drag you. You didn’t.”

He looked like he meant to protest, lips parting, then thought better. He stood. Not ready, still standing. Good. I preferred men who bring their own spine.

“Chair,” I ordered, and he sank into it, stiff, chin lifted.

I stepped close, rearranged the collar of his shirt until it sat the way I wanted, fingers lingering at his throat.

“Good boy,” I murmured, before claiming his mouth in a kiss that went on too long to be decent.

Deep, filthy, tongue stroking until he sagged against me, out of breath.

I broke it slow, my mouth still ghosting his.

“Now they’ll see exactly who you belong to. ”

He hissed under his breath, anger masking the desire he couldn’t quite hide. I caught his hand and laced our fingers, walking him with me through the house, past marble and shadow, out toward the garage. He moved where I directed, spine rigid, breath uneven.

Adrian drove. Quiet, useful violence wrapped in leather and silence.

Evening pressed warm against the glass, sea air curling through the cracked window.

Streetlamps painted the road in liquid gold, balconies spilled with flowers, and somewhere the harbor breathed salt and tar.

The city split into coins of light against the glass.

“Stop here.” I touched the headrest. Adrian eased the SUV to the curb.

I stepped out, came back with two cups sweating in my hand, pistachio and amarena bleeding together. I held one out like it wasn’t an offering but an order.

“Before it melts.”

He stared like it might bite. Ate anyway.

Half gone before the docks. A low hum slipped from him, appreciation he probably hadn’t meant me to hear.

He licked the spoon clean, careful work of tongue and teeth that belonged in a different room.

My pulse marked every drag, every flick, hunger riding it until I had to look away or take his wrist and make him finish on command.

The car held the silence a beat too long. He broke it.

“I used to paint ice cream cones,” he said softly, testing if the car would throw it back. “Pastels. Gold flecks, because I thought rich people ate gold. She laughed. Called me her sugar boy.”

Sweetness landed where I don’t like strangers landing. Still, I gave him enough. “Gold tastes like nothing,” I said. “Painted or eaten. People like to believe it means more than it does.”

His jaw worked, argue, thank me, both, then he cut the thread, eyes back to the window.

My phone buzzed.

Luca: Just confirmed. Made a few calls—boys are coming, and they all want to see your husband. Don’t be boring, fratello. Damiano: You’ll lose a finger if you light one too early. Luca: Then at least let me confirm the fight’s on.

I showed Emilio. His mouth twitched like he didn’t want to smile.

“Tonight,” I told him. “The guys want to throw something on the roof terrace. Not tradition—more like a celebration. A party for us, for the family, for what we are now.”

We reached the warehouses fast. The air cooled, cars lined the lot under buzzing lamps. Adrian parked the SUV, men already moving to meet us before the engine settled.

Two men stepped forward, ties loose, work still on their hands. They shook mine first, firm, respectful. Their eyes flicked to Emilio, hesitation caught between respect and curiosity.

I hadn’t killed Dino. That would’ve been too easy. A man who touched what was mine deserved worse. So I kept him breathing, scarred and broken, a reminder to every set of eyes that betrayal of my husband cost more than blood.

“This is my husband,” I said, proud as sin. “You greet him like you greet me.”

They obeyed. Calloused palms met his.

His glance came back to me. “The crates from Genoa came in light,” one said, cautious. “Two short on the manifest. Could be an error.”

Next to me, Emilio’s breath hitched. “Damiano… he’s alive.”

I followed his gaze to Dino, battered, branded, carrying crates like penance. The man who had betrayed Emilio and had brought him into my hands.

“He is,” I said, loud enough for every man to hear. “Every scar on him is proof of what happens when family betrays its own. You can live through shame. You won’t outrun it.”

Laughter broke quick and mean, turning Dino into the punch line.

Emilio went still under my hand, silence riding his throat so the room knew exactly where he stood, beside me.

His eyes betrayed him anyway, a flash of guilt and old memory quickly swallowed.

In his chest, shame flared, he wanted to defend, to explain, but silence was the only shield he had left.

We finished the work. I gave him two lines, enough to anchor him. “We’re checking manifests against crates. Making sure no one steals what’s ours.” Softer, “Errors cost blood.” Then I told Adrian, “Let’s go home.”

The gates opened, and we rolled back into the mansion’s courtyard.

Gravel crunched under the tires, headlights cutting across rows of black cars already lined like soldiers.

Laughter and shouts spilled from open windows, music vibrating faint through stone walls—the house already alive with celebration.

I let my hand fall to his thigh, warm and heavy, pressing down until he stilled.

My smile edged smug. “They know where you sleep,” I said, not a question, not a comfort, a claim. “They know whose bed you warm.”

Emilio’s head tilted, eyes catching the lights, the noise. “What is this? Has the party already started?” he asked, voice tight with wary curiosity.

I let a slow smile curl my mouth, secret and smug. “You’ll see,” I told him, low. “This is only the beginning.”

Inside. Upstairs.

Music drifted low from a speaker, bass a steady heartbeat against the walls. He stood in the glow of the lamp while I crossed to the wardrobe, pulling clothes for both of us. I pressed a shirt to his chest, fingers brushing too long, then bent to fasten the watch on his wrist myself.

He tried to button too fast, fingers clumsy with nerves he couldn’t hide.

I caught his wrists lightly, stilled him, and bent close.

“Easy,” I murmured, letting the praise cut through his tension.

“You look better when you take your time.” I slowed him with a kiss, deep, filthy, until he hummed into my mouth, breath stolen when I finally let him go.

My hands stayed on him, possessive at his waist, thumbs digging into soft heat through fabric.

He obeyed, fingers moving clumsy with nerves.

I touched him between motions, adjusting a collar, stealing another kiss, dragging fingers over his skin until his breath caught again.

I touched him between motions, adjusting a collar, stealing another kiss, dragging fingers over his skin until his breath caught again.

Shame flickered when he realized he liked the attention, and he smothered it, cheeks hot.

Desire coiled between us with every piece of clothing that shifted.

When he was dressed, I checked him once more, satisfied, then touched his wrist again.

“Time to go.” My hand stayed firm at his nape as we stepped out.

Music already drifted down from above, laughter spilling through the stone like the walls themselves partied.

Together, we would climb to the roof, where the night was already waiting to begin.