My fingers are on her, in her, and she’s so wet I nearly lose it right there. I free my cock with shaking hands, the filtered air cold but her heat pulling me in like a furnace.
“For every moment you were invisible,” I growl, lining myself up and driving into her in one brutal thrust.
She cries out, the sound echoing off the marble and glass, bouncing around the cavernous room. The old couch creaks ominously under the sudden violence, but I don’t ease up. I fuck her hard, each stroke a declaration, a new flag planted in territory that is now ours.
“Make them hear, stellina,” I demand, my hand fisting in her hair and yanking her head back so I see her face, lips red and slick and parted in shock. “Let them listen. Let them remember you every time they sit in this fucking room.”
I fuck her even harder, my hips slamming into her ass, the impact sending little shockwaves up her spine. The couch rocks dangerously, a priceless antique reduced to a cheap fuck-bench by our need.
“You’re—insane,” Emma gasps out, but nothing in her voice says no.
Her fingers dig into the leather, leaving crescent moons. Her eyes roll back as I hit the spot that makes her gasp, then shudder, and her pussy clamps down so tight I nearly yell. She loves this, the depravity of it, the power. Every time I fuck her like this, something in her opens up. Some hidden hunger that matches my own.
“This is what you do to me,” I tell her, barely able to form the words. “You ruin me, Emma.”
It’s true. I’m obsessed, addicted, and I don’t care if she never lets me go.
She twists just enough to look over her shoulder at me, eyes burning.
“Then don’t ever stop.”
She throws it at me like a challenge, daring me to break her, to break myself, first.
I slam into her, over and over, my hands on her waist, fingers digging so deep she’ll wear my grip for days. Each thrust is a statement, a memory rewritten in muscle and bone. The smell of sex, of her, mixes with the sharp tang of old lemon polish and leather. I want to fuck her until every trace of the Hewsons’ ownership is gone, until all that’s left is my mark.
She comes first, of course. She always does now, the tremors starting in her legs before she even realizes it’s happening. Her scream is pure, honest, ripping out of her with no artifice left. She shakes beneath me, her hands slipping on the polished leather, and I catch her by the throat, steadying her as she convulses around my cock.
My own finish comes seconds later, so violent I see white, my hips bucking uncontrollably, seed spilling into her until I’m empty.
I don’t move, not at first. I lean over her, panting, my forehead pressed to the back of her neck. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair wild and tangled. I want to bite her, mark her, but I settle for kissing the top of her spine. Slowly, I pull out, watching as my cum leaks down her thighs, pooling obscenely on the Hewsons’ priceless Persian rug. The sight makes me want her again, but I know we don’t have much time. The staff will be back soon, and I want her dressed and composed before the world knocks down the door to see what’s left of us.
Emma sags onto the couch, her eyes glassy with satisfaction. She looks back at me and the smile curling her lips is sly and feral. “I hope you realize the servants will find this tomorrow. They’ll see the stains, smell the sex, know exactly what happened here.”
“Good,” I say, tucking myself back in then sliding onto the couch beside her.
"They’ll tell this story for years. How the invisible servant became the woman who destroyed the Hewsons, then fucked her mafia husband on their furniture." The darkness in her voice matches mine perfectly.
I lean toward her, my lips brushing her ear. "You think this is revenge, stellina?" My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "This is just practice."
She shivers beside me. "Practice for what?"
"The Hewsons were pawns. Desperate, stupid pawns. The Russians sent those photos. They knew exactly when to strike, exactly which buttons to push." My teeth graze her neck, feeling her pulse race under my lips. "And when we find them, when I show you what we do to the ones who actually tried to tear us apart…"
Her breath catches as I turn her to face me, taking in her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, the savage satisfaction in her eyes.
"We hunt together?" she asks, already knowing the answer, already craving the violence we'll share.
"We hunt together," I confirm, catching her mouth in a brutal kiss that tastes like possession and promise. "And stellina? What we just did to the Hewsons will look like mercy compared to what's coming."
Her smile against my lips is pure predator, and my cock stirs again despite everything. My perfect, dangerous wife. No longer hiding in shadows but casting them herself, ready to shape the world around us.
31 - Emma
Lake Michigan stretches endless and blue, nothing like the murky Chicago River where bodies disappear. Three weeks since I took a bullet for Alessandro, and my chest still aches when I breathe deep, but the doctors say that’s normal. What’s not normal is being invited onto the Rosetti family yacht as myself—not Frances, not the servant girl, just Emma.
TheSerenitàrocks gently in the July heat. Seventy feet of pristine white fiberglass and teak wood, it's modest by billionaire standards but perfect for a family gathering. Marco stands at the helm with Valentina, his arm around her waist as she laughs at something he's whispered. Dante and Ana are settled on the cushioned benches, baby Antonia sleeping in Ana's arms despite the noise. Nico's manning the grill, arguing with Luca about proper meat temperatures while Faith rests in a deck chair, one hand on her seven-month bump.
And Sofia stands alone at the railing, her white sundress whipping in the wind. She hasn't looked at me directly since that night, but she's here. That means something.
