“Vin—”
“Back in your mouth, baby. Let me finish my dinner.” He’s smiling when he says it, that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face.
I take him back into my mouth, settling in with my head on his thigh, and close my eyes. His fingers thread through my hair in a soothing rhythm, a background to the soft sounds of him eating, quiet hums of satisfaction, and the occasional endearment.
This is exactly what I always wanted, what I dreamed of during all those lonely nights.
Not just the sex, though God knows that’s incredible. Not just the submission, though surrendering to him feels like coming home.
This. The quiet intimacy. The trust. The feeling of being cherished while I cherish him in return.
He says I belong to him, and despite knowing who he is and what he does, and all the reasons this should terrify me, I believe him.
I believe in us.
42
Vin
Ifeel it before I see it: a black and orange fireball 10 times as large as the one that consumed my car exploding above the buildings in front of me.
I’m three blocks away from the Arsenal, on my way to meet Matti and Tommy for lunch, and the boom almost throws me back in my seat. Panic and adrenaline surge through me as I swerve and almost hit three cars as I scramble for my phone. Before I find it, the phone starts ringing through the car speaker system.
“The Arsenal got blown up.” Matti’s voice is tight, controlled, and he’s already talking when I hit the call button. Background noise of sirens, shouting, chaos crackle across the line.
I slam the accelerator to the floor. “Where’s Sophie?”
“She’s—”
Siena’s scream cuts through the call. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT, VIN, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOUR FUCKING FAULT!”
My hands lock on the wheel, knuckles white. Blood roars in my ears. The Maserati fishtails around a corner, tires shrieking.
“Is she hurt?” My voice comes out flat. Dead. Because if Sophie’s hurt, if she’s—
“She’s fine,” Matti assures me. “She wasn’t close to the blast and I was near her so I was able to get her out. But Siena’s right, this is—”
I hang up and punch the gas harder.
Salvatore Bellamorte, Sophie’s dad. It had to be. Rocco ran straight to daddy after he grabbed me, told him his precious daughter was spreading her legs for a Demonio. It’s not the first time I’ve seen an overprotective Italian father decide that their daughters were better off dead than dishonored. Giovanna, Tommy’s woman, nearly became a statistic because her father couldn’t stomach the shame of her marrying into our family.
It could be Aurelio, too. Rocco feeding him intel, Aurelio striking at the one unguarded place connected to me.
Either way, someone’s dying tonight.
The Arsenal comes into view, flames licking through shattered windows, black smoke billowing into the sky. Fire trucks angle across the street. Cops direct traffic, and a crowd of neighborhood people stand in clusters watching Sophie’s dream burn.
I abandon the car in the middle of the street, door hanging open, engine running, and shove through the barrier of onlookers.
“Sophie! SOPHIE!”
Finally, I see her.
Standing on the sidewalk wrapped in an oversized shock blanket, her face smudged with ash, eyes wide and glassy. Sienahas an arm around her shoulders, and Matti stands guard, scanning the crowd.
The vise around my chest releases. She’s alive.
I’m moving before I think, closing the distance between us. Sophie looks up as I reach her. Raw relief and fear break across her face.
