Page 31 of Until You Break

DAMIANO

The next day began with a buzz from my phone on the nightstand. I swung my legs out of bed, crossed to pick it up. A message from Luciana lit the screen

Damiano: Thanks sis, see you there.

My eyes were already pinned to the bed, watching him where I’d left him. My chest fluttered.

How would Emilio react?

I snorted at my own thoughts. When the fuck had I become so soft? If my brothers saw me now... It didn't stop me from picking out Emilio's favorite record. Piano music filled the room.

He lay against the pillows in one of my T-shirts, legs tangled in the blanket, skin kissed darker than mine from summer days he still carried.

Bruises traced his chest and throat where my mouth had marked him last night, faint but certain.

His eyes flickered when he caught me watching, shame and thrill in equal measure.

By the wide window, the coffee machine hissed to life. Steam curled, blending with the low piano line I’d already set on the record player. I poured two cups, set them down, and slid back into bed beside him. He pulled his knees up, watching me with wary amusement.

“You actually make coffee.”

“For you, I do it myself.” I handed him a cup, fingers brushing his. “Buongiorno.”

His mouth softened, lips quirking. “Good morning.”

I tucked myself under the warm sheets. Emilio’s sketchbook sat open near his hip.

“What were you drawing?”

“Nothing.” He tried to cover it with his hand, but I slid the book free. The page showed fast strokes, darker lines pressed harder than they needed to be. The garden outside the window, shaded and alive under his pencil.

He caught me looking and muttered, “Sometimes I wake up at night and draw. Couldn’t sleep. Your view is perfect for it.”

“You're talented,” I murmured. “I’d buy your work, if you’d draw something else. Something like…me.”

He chuckled, cheeks flushing from my praise, looking both handsome and boyish. Irresistible. Mine.

I took a sip of coffee, then leaned back into the pillows beside him. My free hand found his face, turning him to me. My thumb brushed the line of his cheek.

“So this dream,” I said, voice low. “Your gallery. What would you hang on the walls?”

Emilio's smile softened, eyes unfocused, dreamy. “My work. Other artists’ work. I always imagined a place of my own. White walls, glass high enough to catch the light. Mama and I used to go to galleries, museums. We’d fantasize about it.

Once I thought I’d make one for her, for us.

A place where we could spend hours and forget everything else.

I’d put up young artists too, the kind I studied with, who never had a chance to be seen.

Mama always said discovery was the soul of art. ”

“You sure had a lot of time to dream,” I said. “I never saw you at meetings. I saw Salvatore. I saw Enzo. But never you. Where were you?”

“With my mother. My father never brought me. Said I didn’t have the heart for it.” His jaw tightened. A pause, bitter. “He was probably right.”

“You’re wrong.” My thumb traced his cheekbone. “He didn’t see what I see.”

Emilio’s gaze sharpened, voice quiet. “What do you see?”

I held his eyes. “A man who’s intelligent. Who has vision. Who carries both experience and art inside him. Someone strong enough to stand in my world, and still see the beauty in it.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, lips curling sly.

“Is that how you see people like us?” His eyes glinted, teasing.

He plucked the cup from my hand, set it aside, then leaned in close.

“You know, in Paris, I was surprised. Students there romanticized the mafia. They didn’t know I was from one, but they loved the idea. ”

I brushed my mouth to his ear. “What did they think?”

“That they were cool.” His breath caught when I kissed under his jaw, teeth grazing.

“Tell me what else.” My mouth slid lower, sucking his throat until his pulse fluttered.

“They thought they were sexy.” His lashes dropped when I bit just enough to leave color there.

“And?” I murmured against his skin.

“They thought they were powerful.” His voice cracked as I caught his lip between my teeth and kissed him deeper.

“Hmm. We are. What else?”

He pushed me back into the pillows, leaving a trail of hot kisses down my sternum and stomach. His fingers teased the waistband of my briefs, rolling them down slowly. He looked up through his curls, eyes dark, pupils blown. “That they’d be good in bed.”

“Oh?” My breath hitched when his tongue flicked against the wet slit of my cock. I was already hard for him, impatient for more.

“Hm. That’s what they said.”

"And what do you think?"

His grin turned filthy. "That they were right."

Heat curled in my chest at his audacity, a rough laugh breaking from me.

"Brat," I muttered, lips curling in amusement as I stroked his curls back.

His filthy confidence made my cock ache, made me want to ruin him and worship him all at once.

"Prove it, then." He slid further down, hair brushing my thigh, spreading my knees.

I threaded my hand into his hair and tilted his face up.

“Take me in, amore. Let me feel how sweet your mouth is.”

He did. I pressed my thumb down on his tongue. He closed his lips and sucked, heat wrapping my knuckle. His eyes lifted back to mine.

“Fuck, piccolino, you drive me insane. Every part of you makes me want more.”

“Good.” His filthy smile made my cock twitch. Then he licked the wetness of my tip and I groaned. The first pull of his mouth was careful, then not. Wet. Hot. Mine. I fed him more, the head sliding over his tongue, his throat catching and loosening as I held his hair and guided his pace.

“I love when you look at me while you take me,” I whispered, praise heavy in my voice. “Let me see you swallow me.”

He hummed, vibration buzzing up my spine. I eased deeper until his throat flexed around me.

“Easy, amore. Breathe with me. You’re perfect like this. Lips soft, mouth so sweet wrapped around me.” He gagged once, I eased a fraction, thumb stroking his cheek where I felt myself moving. “That’s it. You take me so well.”

His spit slicked me. Drool streaked his chin, messy and obscene, exactly how I wanted him.

“You’re beautiful like this. My perfect mess. Your mouth was made for me.”

He flushed when it smeared his chin, and I kept him there because shame looked fucking good on him.

I didn’t let up, hollowing my cheeks, dragging moans out of him with every plunge, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth.

His throat worked frantically, gagging and swallowing, wet noises filling the room as much as the piano did.

His eyes squeezed shut, lashes damp, then flew open to find mine, glass-bright, desperate.

Tears beaded at the corners as he forced himself to take more.

His fingers dug into my thighs for balance, shaking, but he didn’t stop.

“Yes, just like that,” I praised, voice rough with need. “You feel incredible. I could stay buried in your throat forever. Look at you, fighting to hold me, eyes ruined and perfect.”

Only then did I grip his hips hard and pull him off my cock, leaving him panting, eyes shining, chin slick. I forced his gaze down to the mess I’d made. “Look at the state of you,” I murmured, half praise, half possession. “Beautiful. Wrecked for me.”

“Not yet, let me have you longer. I need more of you.”

A wounded sound broke in his throat. I smiled into the heat of him and slid him off my body completely. He wavered above me, dazed, his mouth red and wet, my cock shining in the corner of his vision like a promise.

“Lie back. I want to see all of you. Every inch that’s mine.”

He obeyed, chest rising fast, thighs quivering. His cock lay hard against his stomach, slick already beading at the tip. I ran my palm from his sternum down, dragged two fingers through the mess, and pressed them to his mouth.

“Taste yourself. Let me watch you.”

He did. Tongue warm, grateful. My breath edged harder.

“Good boy. So fucking perfect.”

I reached to the nightstand, tore the foil, and rolled the condom on. Lube followed, cold at first on my palm, then warmer as I worked it over my cock. His eyes tracked every movement like the words he wanted had no shape without watching my hand.

“Open for me.”

His knees fell apart. I knelt between them and slicked my fingers, pressing one in slowly. His breath hitched. I circled, stretching him, then added a second, holding his eyes while I did it.

“Breathe.”

He did, chest lifting, lips parting as the tension eased into something else entirely. I found that place inside him that made his back lift off the bed, and pressed again until his moan turned shameless. His toes curled against the sheet.

I worked him open slowly, fingers scissoring deep until he stretched around me, every twitch of his body telling me how much he could take.

His breath hitched, sweat sliding at his temple, hair sticking to his skin as I spread him wider, pressing until his back arched off the sheets.

His knuckles whitened where he gripped the fabric, mouth open like the word was stuck.

“Now I’m going to fuck you.”

The first thrust was slow enough to burn. I pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, deeper. His hands scrambled at my shoulders, I caught his wrists and pinned them above his head.

“You don’t come until I say.”

“Damiano—”

“I said.” My grip shifted, thumb pressed under his jaw, head tipped just so. “Say it.”

“I won’t,” he gasped.