So I stay, shifting my weight onto my good arm so I don't crush her, still buried deep inside her, our hearts racing together in the aftermath. I can feel the flutter of her inner muscles around my softening cock, feel the mix of us starting to leak out where we're joined.
"Mine," I murmur against her temple.
"Yours," she breathes back.
"Marry me," I say.
She blinks up at me. "What?"
"Marry me. Not for protection. Not because of the situation. Marry me because I love you and I want you to be mine in every way that matters."
Her eyes fill with tears. "Luca?—"
"You've seen the worst of me. You watched me kill eighteen men without hesitation. You watched me strangle someone with my bare hands. And you're still here." I brush her hair back from her face. "So marry me, Francesca. Say yes and wear my ring and be my wife."
"Yes." The word comes out on a sob. She pulls me down, kissing me hard. "Yes, yes, yes."
I kiss her back, feeling something in my chest crack open. Something that's been locked away for years, maybe my whole life.
When we finally separate, I pull out carefully and gather her against my chest. She curls into me, her hand over my heart, our legs tangled together.
"I should have run when I had the chance," she murmurs against my skin.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I fell in love with the monster." She tilts her head back to look at me. "And I'd do it all again."
I hold her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start planning."
"Planning what?"
"Everything. The wedding. The new apartment. Our life together." I kiss her forehead. "All of it."
She falls asleep eventually, exhausted from fear and trauma and adrenaline crash and what we just did. I stay awake, watching her breathe, cataloging every bruise. The Bratva did this. Vlad is dead but there are others. They'll come for revenge.
Let them come.
I'll kill every single one before I let them touch her again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Sal:
Warehouse is ashes. Clean.
I text back:
Good. Take a week. Then we prepare for war.
Another text comes through from Don Marco:
We need to talk.
I don't respond. We'll talk when the time is right—after she's had time to heal, after I make sure the Bratva knows the cost of touching what's mine.
Francesca shifts in her sleep, murmuring my name. I move closer, careful not to wake her.
I should feel guilty for dragging her into this world. For making her watch that violence. For chaining her to a life where she'll always be a target.
I don't.
