“Look at me,” he demands. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Our gazes lock through the screen, the connection electric despite the miles between us. His rhythm becomes erratic, his breathing harsh.
“Now, Carmela. Come for me now.”
The orgasm crashes through me, my back arching off the bed as I cry out his name. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch Silvo’s release, his powerful body shuddering as white ropes of cum paint his stomach.
“Fuck,” he groans, stroking himself through the aftershocks. “That should’ve been inside you.”
I’m still trembling when he speaks again, his voice raw with promise.
“Tomorrow night, I’m breeding you properly,” he vows, eyes dark with possession. “All fucking night long, Carmela.”
My breath catches at the hunger in his voice.
“We’re locking the door,” he continues, “and forgetting about this war, about everything except each other. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk, until neither of us can move anymore.”
I press my thighs together, aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through me at his words.
“Promise?” I whisper.
“Count on it,” he growls. “Be ready for me, wife.”
28
CARMELA
Morning light streams through the windows as I sit cross-legged on the floor of Silvo’s office, surrounded by stacks of files. My back aches from hours hunched over documents, but the pain fades when another puzzle piece clicks into place. The names and dates blur together in a web of connections that grows more intricate with each file I examine.
I haven’t slept since my phone call with Silvo at three in the morning. After our... intimate conversation, I tried to rest, but my mind wouldn’t stop spinning. The discovery of Maria and Vincenzo’s tragic history opened a floodgate of questions, and I needed answers.
So I came back to the office. Made coffee. And kept digging.
The leather portfolio sits open beside me, those haunting photographs of Salvatore and Vincenzo as young friends a constant reminder of how deeply personal this war truly is. But now I’m looking beyond the emotional core to the tactical implications.
A soft knock interrupts my concentration. Isabella peeks around the door, two steaming mugs in hand.
“I figured you’d still be at it,” she says, settling onto the floor beside me and handing me a cup. “Couldn’t sleep either after what you told me last night about Maria.”
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, grateful for both the caffeine and the company. “I can’t stop thinking about it. A woman’s choice seventy years ago, and we’re still bleeding for it.”
Isabella nods, scanning the documents spread around us. “Did you find anything else?”
“Actually, yes.” I pull up the laptop and show her the timeline I’ve been constructing. “After I understood the Maria connection, I started looking at the attacks differently. Not just as random strikes, but as something more deliberate.”
I bring up a digital map where I’ve marked each attack with a red pin, then overlay it with another map—one showing locations significant to Salvatore and Maria’s relationship.
“Oh my God,” Isabella breathes, leaning closer. “They match.”
“Exactly.” I point to each location in sequence. “The warehouse in Miami where they first attacked? That’s where Salvatore had his first legitimate shipping business—the one he started to prove to Maria he could provide for her. The restaurant they hit in South Philly? Salvatore proposed to Maria there.”
Isabella traces the pattern with her finger. “The club on Market Street—that was Salvatore’s first real estate investment after they married.”
“And here,” I tap another pin, “the jewelry store they torched last week. Salvatore bought Maria’s engagement ring there.”
Isabella sits back, processing. “They’re not just attacking us. They’re systematically destroying every place that represents Salvatore and Maria’s love story.”
“Erasing history,” I murmur. “Or reclaiming it. Showing that nothing Salvatore built with Maria can last.”
