The thought should terrify me. Vin Demonio is everything my father warned me against. Violence and power and danger wrapped in muscle and that devastating smirk.
But when I close my eyes, I don’t see the mob boss or the player or the man who never commits. I see the way he looked at me this morning, the way he massages my scalp when I’m warming his cock in my mouth. The way he calls memia regina.
I see a man who might, maybe, possibly, against all odds, be falling for me the same way I’m falling for him. Suddenly, I can’t wait of for the day to be over, for me to get home and feed him crispy roasted chicken and watch his eyes roll back in his head. I want to fall asleep with his cock in my mouth. I want to wake up to him fucking my face while he thinks I’m sleeping.
I want him to stay. Not just tonight. Not just until he finds Aurelio and ends the war. I want him to stay.
The realization settles over me with a warmth I can physically feel: I’m in love with Vincenzo Demonio.
And for the first time in my life, I’m going to stop playing it safe. I’m going to fight for what I want. Even if what I want is a man who swears he’ll never be kept. Even if it breaks my heart.
19
Vin
I’m halfway to the Arsenal before I even realize I’ve made the decision to go the restaurant instead of her apartment. There’s a fire in me that won’t fucking die down.
Sophie’s father. Salvatore fucking Bellamorte. The coward who brokered peace with Aurelio by turning his back on the family, who let his brother rot unavenged for two decades. And now he’s making moves against me, possibly workingwithAurelio to take me out?
Fucking infuriating.
And Sophie. Sweet, soft Sophie with her big brown eyes and her goddess-tier cooking and ‘good hostess’ bullshit. It’s all a fucking act. I won’t be made a fool of twice.
The anger pulses through my veins as I park at the Arsenal and slip inside. It’s nearly closing time. The lights are still on in the kitchen, that warm glow spilling through the pass-through window.
I should turn around. I should head to Matti’s, regroup, figure out a plan that doesn’t involve the woman who might be setting me up for slaughter. But my feet carry me forward anyway, around to the back entrance of the kitchen.
The door is propped open, and I slip inside silently, mixed feelings about the fucking terrible security. The break room where Rocco fucked that waitress is empty now, just metal lockers and that table still shoved against the wall.
Voices drift from the kitchen. Sophie’s is one of them, light but different somehow. Irritated. “Rocco, I told you. We’re done. You need to leave.”
“Come on, babe.” Rocco’s voice is slurred. Drunk or high, maybe both. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, ever since that asshole showed up. What, you fucking him now?”
I freeze in the hallway, hidden in shadow. Every muscle in my body coils tight.
“That’s none of your business,” Sophie says, her voice firmer now. “You made it very clear we weren’t dating, remember? So who I spend time with—”
“Bullshit!” A crash, something hitting the floor. I move closer, peering through the crack in the door. Rocco has shoved a cutting board off the counter, scattering prepped chicken and vegetables across the rubber mats. “You think you’re better than me? You think you can just throw me away?”
Sophie’s back is to me, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “I’m not throwing you away. I’m asking you to leave my restaurant so I can finish closing up.”
“Your restaurant.” Rocco laughs, bitter and ugly. “This piece of shit barely qualifies as a restaurant.”
“Get out, Rocco.” Her voice is steel now, and fuck if that doesn’t make my cock twitch despite the rage boiling in my gut.
“Make me.” He lunges forward, grabbing her by the arms and spinning her around. His mouth crashes into hers, sloppy andaggressive, nothing like a kiss. She shoves at his chest, turning her face away, but he’s bigger than her and stronger.
The fury that explodes through me is white-hot.
I’m across the kitchen in three strides, my hand clamped on Rocco’s collar and I yank him off her so hard he stumbles backward, arms windmilling. His face, slack with surprise, has just enough time to register who I am before my fist connects with his jaw.
The impact reverberates up my arm, satisfying as fuck. He goes down hard, crashing into the prep station and sending pots clattering. But I’m not done. Not even close.
I haul him up by his shirt and drive my fist into his gut. Once. Twice. He doubles over, retching, and I bring my knee up into his face. Blood explodes from his nose, spattering across the white tile floor.
“Vin!” Sophie’s voice, high and frightened. “Vin, stop!”
But I don’t stop. I can’t. All my rage at Aurelio, at Salvatore, at the entire fucked-up situation, pours out of me in a torrent of violence. I slam Rocco against the wall, my forearm across his throat, and watch his eyes bulge as he struggles to breathe.
