Moretti reaches for the soap that’s resting in a nook.The bar is thick, fragrant with sandalwood and bright citrus.He works it into lather, the scent rising rich and warm through the steam, the same bright note I caught on that Dallas rooftop when everything still felt like dangerous flirtation instead of a forced forever.
With surprising gentleness, he moves his hands over me with steady purpose, mapping every inch he now owns: the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, the sensitive undersides of my breasts.
My nipples tighten beneath the slick foam, aching peaks that pebble harder as his thumbs circle them once, twice, deliberate but unhurried.
“You’re swollen.”There’s pride in his tone as he parts my feminine folds, gliding two fingers along my outer lips, not entering, just inspecting with that same careful thoroughness.
The way he’s inventorying me should humiliate me.
Instead, it makes my pulse throb harder between my legs.His thumb brushes my clit once more, featherlight, and a helpless little sound escapes me.He hears it.Of course he does.His chest expands on a slow breath, and I feel the shift in him—still controlled, but the tenderness is real, not a trick.
Heat begins to coil again despite the soreness.The pressure is intense and becomes even deeper when he meets my gaze.It’s as if he can read every one of my reactions.
He smiles with triumph.
I want to hate him.
But part of me craves him.
I hate that even more.
As he rinses me, I look away.Then he crouches to wash my legs, water streaming over the powerful lines of his back, over scars that speak of every fight he has survived to stand here as his brother’s underboss.
Moretti eases his palms up my calves, behind my knees, parting my thighs with careful pressure so the soap can cleanse the last traces of blood and his release.
When he rises again, towering over me, he cups my face in both hands and tilts my chin until our eyes meet through the billowing steam.
“I take care of what’s mine.”The words settle heavy and final between us, no softness, only fact.
From the bedroom, his phone rings, the tone harsh.“Fuck.”
He exhales, jaw flexing, but he steps out of the shower without a word, water streaming off him.
Duty calls.
Always.
He snatches up a towel, wraps it low around his hips, and leaves the bathroom door open just enough that I still see the line of his back as he picks up the device.
In peace, I finish the shower.
My skin is flushed and sensitive everywhere he touched.Annoyed with him and myself, I turn off the water and step out.
There’s a thick white robe hanging on a hook, and I slip into it, cinching the belt at my waist.
My damp hair drips onto the terry cloth as I pad back into the bedroom.
He is still on the call, towel knotted at his hips, one hand braced on the dresser.The muscles in his arm stand out in sharp relief.“Nine p.m.”His tone is flat and final.
Noticing me, he ends the call and sets the phone down.
As if he hasn’t just been making decisions that might mean life or death, he pursues me.
“Who was that?”
“It was nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
“Moretti.”I scowl.I’m a Mafia daughter, and I will not settle for a lifetime of nonanswers.Especially when it may have something to do with my life.
