If I were ever going to fall in love, it would be with her. The blonde thief who challenges me at every possible turn. Who, even as my cum drips down her skin, looks at me as though she wants to incinerate me.
De-fucking-licious.
Chapter 11
Raven
Icollapse onto my couch, wincing as my body sinks into the cushions. Every muscle screams in protest, reminding me I’ve been awake since the home invasion courtesy of Matteo.
Thankfully, my landlord changed the chain and door while I was at work. I know he’s going to add the repairs onto my next rent bill, but so be it. I’d happily pay twice that amount for not having to tackle the cleanup in here after hurricane Matteo.
The Thai takeout container on my coffee table sits half-empty, abandoned next to a glass of cabernet that I’ve refilled twice already.
My apartment is still a disaster zone from his search, and I can’t bring myself to care. There’s a smudge on my wall I keeptrying not to look at—my attempts to scrub away his handprint only made it worse.
Shifting positions makes me wince again. Not from pain, exactly. Just… awareness. My wrists still tingle with ghost sensations of leather biting into skin. I rub at them absently, tracing the phantom pressure points from his belt.
The marks have faded to almost nothing—barely visible pink lines that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow from anyone who happened to see them.
So why can’t I stop touching them?
“Get it together,” I mutter, grabbing my wine glass and taking a long sip.
My phone buzzes on the cushion next to me, and I nearly drop my drink. Heart hammering, I snatch it up only to find a spam text about extending my car warranty.
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I toss the phone down and try to focus on the TV. Some cooking competition plays on low volume. The contestants rush around while the judges glare from the front line.
Normally, I love watching people crack under pressure while making risotto, but tonight I can’t follow a single moment. My brain keeps rewinding to Matteo’s unfriendly visit, hitting replay on the same moments in high definition.
Matteo’s hand around my throat. And the way he held his silver lighter like it was sacred. Seriously, I almost expected him to do a Smeagol impression and lovingly croon, “My precious.”
I grab my phone again. Nothing. I set it down. Pick it up. Check my socials. Put it down. Two minutes later, it’s back in my hand like a nervous tic I can’t control.
He’s in my contacts now as Psycho Bastard. Yep, I renamed him immediately after he left. But that doesn’t make me any lessaware of the fact that Matteo Russo has my number and I have his.
Matteo Russo. My stomach feels like it’s twisted into a pretzel. Not just any Russo. The family Piper married into. The family everyone in Cleveland speaks about in hushed tones. The fucking Mafia.
Mental pin: I didn’t just steal from any random hot guy. I stole from the Mob.
The pin slips immediately. Some thoughts are too big, too sharp to contain.
I’m going to be hisgirlfriend.The word feels ridiculous even in my head. What does that even mean? Arm candy at Mob functions? A prop? The idea that I might have to touch him again, that his hands might be on me again…
My body betrays me with a flush of heat I refuse to acknowledge. I down the rest of my wine in one gulp.
The worst part is that I said yes. I could have chosen the ten favors, stretched them out over years, maybe even found a way to weasel out of them. Instead, I chose immediate servitude like an idiot.
All because the thought of being bound to him for years made something in me panic. I grab the takeout container and force myself to eat another bite of cold noodles that taste of nothing.
“It’s fine,” I tell my empty apartment. “It’s just a job. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before.” Though difficult clients don’t usually break into your apartment, tie you up, and come on your face. At least not the kind I usually deal with.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Leo with a photo of him and Ollie at some restaurant. They look happy. Normal. People whose biggest concern is whether they got the lighting right for their Instagram post.
Me: Looks amazing. Miss you guys already.
It’s almost nine o’clock, and the sun is just starting to set, bathing my apartment in that perfect May golden hour light that usually makes everything look magical. Tonight, it just makes the chaos more visible.
