And I shatter.
I fling into my orgasm, like the gate bursts open.
My pussy spasms around his cock as his speed increases.
In the back of my mind, I can hear him—That’s it, Bianca. Fuck. Come for me. Your beautiful fucking pussy, squeezing me like that—but I can’t even think.
I can’t do anything but feel.
Alessandro follows me over the cliff, his hips stuttering as his hand slams into the mattress above my head, grasping at the sheets.
His lips press down against mine, his breathy moans meeting mine in combination, somewhere between me and him.
It may have been a minute or an eternity, but eventually he rolls off me, landing on his side of the bed.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to return to this plane of existence after feeling galaxies beneath my fingertips. Alessandro reaches over and pulls me against his chest.
“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, his lips on my temple again.
“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound after what just happened and after all my anxieties from earlier. “I’m ready.”
Whatever the Families have planned, whatever trap they’ve spent weeks designing, I’ll face it as myself.
Tomorrow night, they’ll find out exactly what they’ve created.
And I have a feeling they’re going to regret underestimating me.
20
ALESSANDRO
The Montreal air bites through my wool coat as we approach Le Saint-Martin, crystal clear and sharp enough to cut.
Not a cloud mars the brilliant blue sky, but there’s a foreboding that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the men waiting inside that gleaming hotel.
I don’t mention it to Bianca. She has enough to worry about without my inexplicable sense of dread.
Instead, I study her as our escort leads us through the marble lobby.
She’s wearing an impeccably fitting black suit that emphasizes her height and the sharp angles of her bone structure—very much the image of a woman who belongs in boardrooms and power meetings.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that shows off the elegant line of her neck, and her makeup is flawless, subtle enough to look natural while highlighting those striking steel-blue eyes.
She looks every inch the heiress to a criminal empire. Confident, controlled, dangerous.
But there’s something else, something I’ve been noticing more frequently over the past few weeks.
Her eyes dart slightly to the left, then narrow as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
Her lips press together in a thin line, and her jaw clenches almost imperceptibly.
Then her expression smooths out, becomes neutral again, like she’s resolved some internal argument.
It happens again as we wait for the elevator, this time accompanied by the slightest shake of her head—so subtle I might have missed it if I wasn’t watching so carefully.
She’s having conversations with herself. Internal debates that play out across her features in micro-expressions most people would never notice.
I’ve been telling myself it’s nerves, pre-trial anxiety manifesting in unusual ways.
