"Lorenzo, I'm?—"
His thrusts become erratic. "Come for me. Now."
The command tips me over. I shatter around him, my vision going white as waves of pleasure crash through me. I hear myself screaming his name, feel him follow me over, his groan muffled against my throat as he empties himself inside me.
We stay like that for long moments, both panting, neither willing to move. Finally, he lifts his head to look at me.
"You're shaking," he observes, concern creeping into his voice.
"Good shaking," I assure him, running my fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "Very good shaking."
He kisses me softly, tenderly, such a contrast to moments before. When he pulls out, I whimper at the loss.
"Stay," I whisper when he starts to move away.
"Just getting something to clean you up."
He returns with a warm washcloth, taking care of me with a gentleness that makes my chest tight. When he's done, he tosses it aside and pulls me against him, my back to his chest.
Lorenzo's phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the peaceful silence. He reaches for it without letting go of me, his other arm still wrapped around my waist.
"Shit," he mutters, his entire body tensing against mine.
I turn in his arms to face him. "What is it?"
His jaw works as he reads the message again. "We have a leak."
"What kind of leak?"
"The kind that gets people killed." He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "Nico just intercepted communications. Someone inside our organization has been feeding information to the Russians."
He's already buckling his belt, transforming from my lover back into the dangerous man. The change happens so fast it makes my head spin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lorenzo
The interrogation room reeks of blood and piss. Giovanni sits in the metal chair, wrists zip-tied to the armrests, his suit torn where Dante dragged him down the concrete stairs. His left eye has swollen shut, purple-black spreading across his cheekbone like spilled ink. The right eye tracks my movement as I circle him, calculating, defiant.
Behind me, Pietro leans against the wall, arms crossed. His knuckles are split from the initial beating, blood crusting between his fingers. Nico stands by the door with his tablet, recording equipment spread across the metal table like surgical instruments.
"Twenty years," Giovanni said, his voice a dry scrape of sound from his split lips. "Twenty years I've served this family. Longer than you, Lorenzo. Longer than all of you."
I stop in front of him. "And how many of those years were you selling us out?"
His good eye glitters. "Does it matter?"
Pietro pushes off the wall, fists clenching. "You held Vittoria at her christening."
"I held a lot of things." Giovanni spits blood onto the concrete. "Your father's secrets. Your mother's tears when she found out about his mistress."
Pietro lunges. I catch his arm, holding him back while Giovanni laughs—a wet, broken sound.
"See? No control. Just like Giuseppe always said."
"Giuseppe trusted you." Pietro's voice cracks. "We all did."
"Giuseppe trusted his cock more than his family." Giovanni shifts in the chair, zip-ties cutting into his wrists. "You want to know the truth? Fine. Let's talk about truth."
