This wasn’t about power or possession or the twisted games we played. This was something raw, somethingreal.
His hips rolled against mine, each movement deliberate, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the way my body responded to his. His eyes never left mine, the intensity in them burning away every lie, every wall, until there was nothing left but the truth between us.
The room was a cocoon of heat and sound—the damp slide of skin, the whisper of sheets beneath us, the low, guttural noises spilling from his throat every time I tightened around him.
His hands found mine, our fingers entwining, his grip almost bruising as he pinned them to the mattress beside my head. The position arched my back, pressing my breasts against his chest, the coarse hair there abrading my nipples with every thrust. I could feel his heartbeat, wild and erratic, matching the frantic pulse between my thighs. His breath came in sharp gasps, his forehead beaded with sweat, a single drop rolling down his temple to splash against my collarbone.I licked my lips, tasting salt and need, and his gaze darkened, tracking the movement like a predator.
His pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, more desperate.
The bedframe knocked against the wall with a rhythmicthud, the sound mingling with our ragged breaths and the wet, obscene noises of our bodies coming together. I could feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, his scent in my lungs, his taste on my tongue. My body coiled tighter, my muscles trembling with the effort of holding back, of drawing this out just a second longer.
His name spilled from my lips in a broken plea, and his mouth crashed down on mine again, swallowing the sound as his hips stuttered, his cock swelling inside me.
Then, with a final, deep thrust, he sent me spiraling.
My back bowed off the bed, my body convulsing around him as pleasure ripped through me, white-hot and blinding. His name tore from my throat, a cry that was half prayer, half surrender. He followed me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body shuddering above me, his hands gripping mine so tightly I knew there’d be marks tomorrow. And Iwantedthem. I wanted the proof of this, ofus, branded into my skin.
He followed me over, his body shuddering, his hands gripping mine tightly. His forehead rested against mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps. We stayed like that for a long moment, our bodies entwined, our hearts beating as one.
Then, he rolled off me, pulling me into his arms. I rested my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close, his chin resting on the top of my head.
We lay in silence, the weight of what had passed between us settling over us like a blanket. This was more than sex, more than desire. This was intimacy, raw and real and terrifying in its intensity.
"I love you." The words came out quiet but certain. Not slipping out—chosen. Said deliberately to this man who'd kidnapped me, protected me, given me space to become something more than anyone had ever let me be.
I tensed, waiting for his reaction, half-expecting him to push me away, to retreat behind his walls of ice and control.
But he didn't. He stiffened for a moment, his breath hitching. Then, his arms tightened around me, his hold almost desperate. He didn't say the words back, but he didn't need to. I could feel it in his touch, in the way he held me, in the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.
For the first time, there was no war between us. No battle for control, no struggle for dominance. There was only this—only us, entwined in the darkness, surrendered to the force that bound us together.
And in that moment, I knew—I was his. And he was mine. Completely. Irrevocably.
Terrifyingly.
CHAPTER 23
Dante
Istood at the head of the conference table, watching the last of my capos file in. Seven men who'd built empires in blood and silence, who answered to no one but me. Torres. Rothstein. Marcos. Vince. DeLuca. Petrov. And Ferrara, who'd been with me since the beginning, back when I was still clawing my way up from the gutters of this city.
The room smelled of leather and old smoke, the kind that seeped into wood paneling over decades. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the eastern wall, bulletproof glass tinted dark enough to keep the world out. A crystal decanter sat untouched in the center of the table, surrounded by empty tumblers. No one had reached for it. They knew this wasn't that kind of meeting.
Julietta stood beside me, her posture relaxed but alert. She wore black—tailored slacks, silk blouse, her auburn hair pulled back in asevere knot that exposed the elegant line of her throat. No jewelry except the ring on her left hand, the one I'd slid on her finger in that courthouse. Her eyes swept the room with the same tactical assessment I'd taught her, cataloging exits, reading body language, measuring threats.
She belonged here. In this room. At my side.
The realization didn't surprise me anymore. What surprised me was how badly I needed them toseeit.
"Sit," I said.
Chairs scraped against hardwood. The men settled, their attention fixed on me with the kind of focus that had kept them alive this long. Marcos folded his hands on the table. Vince leaned back, arms crossed. Torres watched Julietta from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable.
I didn't sit. Neither did she.
"Four months ago, I made a decision without consulting this table." My voice carried through the silence, each word deliberate. "I extracted Julietta Altieri from a hotel suite hours after her fiancé was killed. Some of you questioned that move. All of you wanted to know why."
No one spoke. Good. They were learning.
