My back arches as I circle my clit harder, my free hand sliding up my body, cupping my breast, pinching my nipple the way I remember him doing when he pushed me closer to the edge. His teeth had grazed my skin then, biting just enough to make me gasp and beg for more.
I’m panting now, chasing it, my thighs trembling as the orgasm builds like a storm rolling through me. My body’s already shaking before it hits—and when it does, I shatter, crying out into the empty room, my legs clenching around my hand as wave after wave crashes through me.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
When the tremors finally fade, I lie there, flushed, my skin damp with sweat. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I stare at the ceiling, my body still tingling with aftershocks.
And in the thick silence, one truth settles deep inside me.
I want him again.
I want what only he gave me.
I lie in the dark and wonder about him. Who he was, what his life looked like, whether he ever thinks about that night the way I do.
And I hate myself for it.
3
ALARIC
I always thoughtDante would be the one to bury me, not the other way around.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I stare out the windows of my study, watching rain streak down the glass. The Moretti estate stretches before me—seventy acres of grounds, marble fountains, tight security. This was supposed to be his someday.
Now he’s the one in a coffin—well, technically not. His body was never found.
“Boss?”
I turn from the window to find Benedetto Marconi standing in the doorway, his weathered face grave. My consigliere for twenty years, the only man I trust completely.
We’ve been through everything together—wars with rival families, federal investigations, the four years we spent in Italy handling the European operations. The old country business required a delicate touch, connections that took decades to build and maintain. Benedetto was the only one I trusted to manage that expansion alongside me.
For nearly four years, we lived between Naples and Sicily, strengthening alliances with the old families while Dante ran the American territories. It was profitable work, but isolating—months away from New York, from the empire we’d built here. Benedetto never complained, even when it meant missing his grandchildren’s birthdays, even when the weight of managing two continents wore us both thin.
Behind him, the formal dining room is filled with the usual suspects—family members, captains, soldiers, all dressed in their finest black suits.
“Come in, Benedetto.”
He crosses the Persian rug, his footsteps muffled by centuries of craftsmanship. The study is my sanctuary—dark mahogany shelves lined with first editions, Italian marble, crystal decanters filled with whiskey older than most of these men. Oil paintings of my ancestors watch from gilded frames, men who built this empire with blood and bullets.
“The arrangements are finalized,” Benedetto says, settling into the leather chair across from my desk. “St. Michael’s Cathedral tomorrow at two. Father Romano will officiate.”
I pour two glasses of Macallan, the amber liquid catching the lamplight. “How many are expected?”
“Two hundred, maybe more. The Torrino family confirmed. The Benedettis are flying in from Chicago. Even the Russians are sending representation.”
Of course they are. Dante’s death created a power vacuum, and every family within a thousand miles wants to see how we’ll fill it.
“What about the girl?”
Benedetto’s expression darkens. “Still nothing concrete.
Apparently, Dante had a whole fiancée for two years who I didn’t know about. I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my chest. Kasimira Vale. We’ve pieced together the basics in the weeks since Dante’s death—his household staff knew her well enough, the security team remembered her routines. A few of Dante’s men had seen her around, though none of them interacted with her directly.
“So we’ve got nothing on her? The funeral is tomorrow, and I need answers.”
“I got a call an hour ago,” he admits. “But it’s unconfirmed. Tony Marconi thinks he spotted someone matching her description in a small town upstate. Rosehill. Population five thousand.”
