Page 8 of Until You Break

DAMIANO

They forced Emilio into the chair.

"My handsome fiancé." I let the word land like a bite. "Look at you. You hungry, piccolino?"

He bristled, lips parting to object, a short, animal sound like a snapped wire. "Don't."

"What? Fiancé?"

He steadied himself by smoothing the napkin once, twice. His fingers were unsteady. Linen whispered, neat lines for a man unraveling. "You don't own me."

"Oh, but I do. Mama decided," I added. "And I didn't see Riccardo objecting loud enough to stop it."

I leaned in. "So now you are mine to marry, mine to please." I chuckled at the uselessness of his struggles as the guards tightened their hold. "Adrian, what do you think? Do we need to shackle my feral fiancé? Or slip something sweet until he learns the taste of obedience?"

Short harsh laughs answered.

"No," Emilio said. The word cracked. He cursed under his breath and smoothed the napkin again. His fingers trembled.

A slow smile eased across my face. "Common sense returning. Good. That will make this more enjoyable." I leaned in, knuckles brushing his cheek. The skin was warm and trembled under my touch. "Your skin is hot, fiancé. Are you as hungry as I am?"

He tried to pull back. Adrian's hand closed at the nape of his neck and held him fast.

"Fuck you."

"Later, at dessert."

"I will not give in," he said, small and tired. He flinched when I set two fingers at his throat. "Words. Be careful. They stick," I murmured.

He flinched but did not move. His pulse drummed frantic under my ring. His pupils widened. A quick beat pulsed at his throat as if my voice had pressed fingers there without touching.

"Touch me again," he breathed, aiming for sharp and landing on scared. His lips trembled, corners betraying him faster than his tone. "I'll bite."

"You'll bite when I tell you to, and where," I said, silk on stone.

His large ember eyes darted to mine and away. Black curls clung damp to his temple in the candle heat. He was hot, not handsome the polite way, but hot the way fire is, burning everything too close.

"Why me?" he whispered. "Say it plain. Is it because I'm the weakest? Because I'm the only one who never desired this life?"

"The first time I saw you, you were behind a chair with the wrong name on it," I said.

"You thought you could slip away. Mama decided otherwise and Riccardo did not shout loud enough to change her mind.

So here you are on a plate for everyone to see.

You watched the room like furniture told to be still and you refused.

I liked that. I liked it better when you obeyed me tonight.

You are the weakest of the family, the one who always wanted out. Both are useful. Both are mine."

"I'm not furniture." His jaw set, color high over bone.

"No. You're art."

"I'm not yours to hang."

"You're already hung," I said, amused. "On my wall. On my words."

The dining room was built for men like me.

Stone table cold under the candles. Velvet curtains swallowed the city into hush.

Crystal caught flame and fractured it into obedient pieces.

Guards in the corners like statues with guns.

Holsters glinting, shoulders squared. Oil, lemon, pepper, charred meat.

The air pressed with weight. Silence stretched taut.

The latch kissed. Lina slipped in with olives slicked in oil and lemon, warm bread and a carafe of deep red. One guard shifted as she passed, fingers brushing his holster. Emilio's eyes flared and fled.

"Lascia la bottiglia," I told her. She bowed out. Our weather stayed inside.

I stood. Crossed the stone. Set my palm to the table and leaned until my thigh pressed the gap between his knees. He froze. He did not scrape back. Wood on stone would have sounded like panic. Heat rolled off him.

I plucked an oiled, gleaming olive.

"Open."

He shook his head, lashes low. "Please don't."

"Open." Quieter. Glass under silk.

His lips parted just enough. I pressed the olive past them with two fingers. Juice slipped and streaked down his chin. He startled. A flush hit his face.

"Tsk." My thumb wiped the oil from his skin. I raised it to my mouth and sucked it clean. He flinched, gaze faltering, confused and hot.

His throat lifted and dropped. His lips wobbled around the shape of obedience. Wide eyes burned like embers caught in smoke.

"There." A record, not praise.

I smeared oil across his lips, slow and obscene. He shivered; a sound escaped and died in his chest.

"Again."

He obeyed. Lips parting, swallowing. Ember eyes flicked up then away. Confusion flashed. Shame and heat tangled. His face tightened. The edges of anger softened into something else. My favorite look. The answering pull in his posture and the hitch in his breath when he obeyed.

Oil shined on my thumb. I smeared it across his lips, slow and obscene. He might have licked it clean but he pressed his mouth shut.

"You take what I give you."

"Stop." A whisper that begged.

"No."

Silence dragged. Candlelight loved him even trembling. His throat gleamed with a sheen of oil and fear that made him look more expensive than anything on the table.

"How does it feel, Emilio, to be back in Italy? Did you miss your Papà?" I asked, voice easy.

His eyes snapped to mine, bright with fury and something tangled behind it. His hand curled under the table, nails marking his palm. "Don't talk about him."

"Then talk about me."

His lips parted, flicking against the oil I'd left there. His chest tightened and his stomach flipped. Confusion flickered across his face.

"I won't," he said.

"You already are. Every swallow. Every flick of your tongue."

His blush climbed.

A lie for a lie. I plucked an olive. "I gave you mine when I said fiancé. Now give me yours."

"I'm not yours."

"Lie." I let it curl, low. "Pretty one. Keep it. I'll hang it with the rest."

I reached for the bread. Tore a small heel, still warm. Dipped two fingers into the shallow bowl, oil pooling gold, lemon zest floating like a secret, and pressed bread to oil, then to salt.

"Mangia." I lifted his chin with the crook of my knuckle.

He tried to look past me. Past the guards. Past the candles that made everything dangerous by making it beautiful.

"Now." I pressed the bite to his lips.

They parted and closed around the bread. The soft give met my fingertips. Teeth grazed with hesitation, not courage. He chewed. The line of his swallow slid down his neck like a pulled wire releasing. I watched it the way men watch a rival's hand near a gun.

The flutter there tightened something under my ribs.

"Slow."

Another heel. Oil. Salt. Lips.

They glossed. The shine gathered in the bow and caught the firelight. He knew it. His tongue chased a trace of lemon before shame could stop him. His eyes flashed up, wide and ember-bright, confusion showing like an exposed nerve.

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"The food?" he said.

"The attention."

"I don't."

"Lie," I said, gentle as a blade laid flat. "Pretty again."

Black curls stuck to his temple, a fine sweat haloed his hairline. Too hot for the room, or the room too hot for him. Both were true.

"You were gone a long time," I said, hands busy with ritual. "Sicily feels different when you come back with enemies. How does it feel, Emilio?"

"Like the city put on a mask."

"It always wore one. You only learned to see it."

"You make everything ugly."

"I make everything honest." I slid my fingers in after the bread until his lips closed around the last of my patience. "You missed your Papà."

He went still.

"Yes, you missed him. Or did you miss the idea more?"

"You don't know him."

"I don't need to. I know you. Look at me."

He did, angry, lit, confused.

"A lie for a lie," I said, and set the last bite on his tongue. He swallowed and a small sound escaped, caught and contained, too late.

"Better."

I reached for the carafe. Tilted the glass, let the red breathe against crystal before bringing it to his lips.

"Drink."

They pressed tight. A tremor in his jaw. He shook his head. "No."

I leaned closer. The rim brushed his lips. He pushed it back with a shaky hand, defiance sparking in ember eyes.

"I said drink."

He turned his face away.

My hand closed on his throat. Firm. Not choking but enough pressure to remind him whose house held his breath. His pulse fluttered frantic under my palm.

"Look at me."

He stilled, wide-eyed.

"Open."

His lips parted because the body obeys before the mind does. I tilted the glass. Red slid in. He coughed, tried to pull back. My hand held him steady, thumb against his jaw.

I tipped the glass. Red spilled, streaking down his chin. The tannins hit his tongue bitter, the alcohol burned hot. The sting forced another swallow, shame curling deeper.

"Tsk." Again my thumb caught it. This time I licked it off slower, tongue dragging heat over my own skin. His eyes widened, horror and something hotter fighting in their depths.

He flushed scarlet. His throat jumped under my palm as he swallowed the last mouthful.

"Better," I murmured.

I set the glass down. Took the knife. Cut through charred beef, juices bleeding onto white porcelain. Lifted a slice, still steaming.

"Open again."

"No," his voice shook.

"Yes." I pressed meat to his lips. He turned his head, jaw clamped.

My grip on his throat tightened just enough. Claim, not cruelty. His eyes went wide. His lips parted under pressure. I slid the meat in. Watched him choke once before he forced it down.

"Good," I said, soft. "See how much easier honesty is?"

His chest rose too fast, curls sticking to his temple. His lips glossed wine and oil. His eyes burned with fury and something worse, confusion that would not leave him alone.

"You think I'll keep swallowing?" he snapped, raw.

"You already do," I said, amused. "Lie for a lie."

My phone buzzed.

I did not let go of his throat. I answered with my other hand. "Parla."

"Retaliation," Luca said. "They are moving now. Men at the gates, engines in the lane, figures along the hedgerow. They mean to make noise, to draw us out. Guards are taking positions."

I smirked at Emilio, still held, glass within reach. He could not hear the map of movement but his color drained as if the room had been carved out from under him.

"Find who organized it," I said.

"Bene," Luca said. "You sound calm."

"I'm having dinner."

"With your feral prize?" Luca's laugh cut the line. "He on his knees yet?"

"Careful," I said.

I let the laugh hang and ended the call. I slid the phone into my pocket and brushed my knuckles once across Emilio's cheek, then across his lips, feeling the oil transfer to my skin. "Remember who you are to me," I murmured, claim folded into warning. "Remember this."

I released his throat. His breath came ragged. His lips trembled with wine, meat, oil. He made a sound I couldn't place, relief or something sharper.

My phone buzzed. A message blinked on the screen from Luca.

It's showtime, big brother.

I slid the phone shut and rose. I nudged Adrian.

"Adrian. Bring my fiancé to his rooms when he's ready. Stay sharp."

I paused in the doorway. From the lane below came a low, gathering rumble, engines answering one another like distant drums. The sound slipped under the windows and swallowed the candlelight. I let the door hang and stepped out, Palermo glittering and dangerous beneath me.