It’s not art. It’s not rage. It’s the end of a sentence that started at a cocktail table with a laugh at the expense of my queen.
When it’s over, it’s over. Tiernan checks for a pulse out of habit. There isn’t one. He nods once, the way he nods when a door is shut and won’t open again.
“I’ll handle the rest,” he says. He means the part where floors get mopped and trash goes where it goes and a phone gets switched off for good. He means the part where the world forgets a name that shouldn’t have been said at my table.
“In-house,” I say. “No favors.”
“In-house,” he confirms.
I wash again. Water too hot, then not enough. I scrub down to where the smell lives and then past it to be sure. I don’t look at my face in the stainless. I know what I’ll see.
“Anything else?” Tiernan asks.
“Yeah,” I say, drying my hands slow. “Make sure his crew understands it wasn’t for a debt. It was for disrespect. They’ll remember the difference longer.”
He grunts once. He’s already writing the message in the air.
I leave the jacket on the hook and take a fresh one from the locker. Spare shirt. Different shoes. Pop’s cuff links back in, like a ritual I perform to bring my heartbeat back into something human.
Tiernan keys me out. The heavy door swallows the light. Upstairs, the hallway is what it was before—quiet, carpets, the kind of lamps rich people pick when they want to look like they don’t notice money. I pass two of our men who pretend not to know where I’ve been. They nod with their mouths and not their eyes.
In the master suite, the shower is already running. Someone thought ahead. I step under it and let heat do its one honest job—bring me back into body. The water runs pink for one breath, then clear. I stand there until the anger isn’t heat anymore, just a thought. I scrub the smell out of my hair and the noise out of my ears. I turn the water off when the mirror fogs all the way.
She’s not asleep.
I can feel it before I see her. Caterina is propped against the headboard, hair unpinned, nightshirt a soft nothing. No makeup. Her rosary on the nightstand. Her eyes on me like a truth I have to pass through to get into the room.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” I say, drying my hair with the towel like I haven’t just been in a different world.
“Were you with another woman?” she asks. The words are calm. Her eyes are not.
“No,” I say. “I was killing the man who insulted you.”
Something in her shoulders tightens, then releases. She slides her knees apart, making space like she’s got work for me.I cross the room and set my palms on the mattress and crawl between her thighs because I need the anchor and she decides when I get it.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” I ask. I don’t do drama. I need the truth.
She looks at my mouth, then my eyes. “I think you’re mine.”
“That’s not the question.”
She wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me down to her like she’s putting a leash on a dog that will only ever heel for her. “Monsters don’t come home and ask it out loud,” she says. “Monsters pretend they were at a bar. You came home. You told me. Use me if you need to. Let me be your sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary.” I take a breath, then take my time, and use patience to find every one of her pleasure points.
I crave her. Crave every point of contact. Her hands in my hair. My mouth on her throat where I count every pulse of her heart. She tips her chin when I tell her to, and when I call hergood girlshe makes a sound I want to hear every night until the house falls down around us.
“Mine,” I say into her mouth, and she answers, “Yes,” like the world was waiting for this connection between us.
“I am so ready to taste you, baby.” I growl against her skin. “I need it.” With my hands and mouth I explore every inch of her body until I reach her center.
“Spread your thighs, kitten. Put your legs on my shoulders, and don’t be afraid to squeeze my head.”
She’s already wet and throbbing when I press my tongue to her, a slow, possessive stroke from the bottom of her heat to the tight little bundle that makes her gasp. I anchor her hips with my hands and lap again, lazy at first, letting her roll against my mouth, letting her sweet sounds get rougher, uncoordinated, greedy. Her fingers dive into my hair and tug while I groan against her, and the vibration makes her choke on my name.
“That’s it,” I murmur into her, lips wet, chin slick with her arousal. “Give me everything, kitten.”
I seal my mouth around her clit and draw her in, tongue circling, then pulsing—measured, relentless. She arches hard, thighs bracketing my head. I welcome the pressure and flatten my tongue, building a rhythm that turns her breaths into wrecked little cries. She tries to squirm away when the pleasure spikes; I haul her closer, pinning her to my mouth, and she breaks for me—trembling, clutching, a helpless, beautiful mess.
