“Please,” I whimper, another orgasm building. “Make me yours. Completely.”
“You’re already mine,” he growls, thrusting so deep I see stars.
I feel him swell inside me as his movements grow erratic. “I’m going to come,” he pants. “Taking it all, aren’t you? My perfect fucking wife.”
When he erupts inside me, hot and pulsing, it triggers my second climax. I cry out as pleasure overwhelms me, my body milking every drop from him.
We collapse against each other, both of us panting, sweat cooling on our skin. My legs still tremble from the force of my orgasms. I feel Silvo’s breath hot against my neck as he slowly pulls out of me.
“Don’t move,” he commands, his voice softer now but still authoritative.
I watch in the mirror as he retrieves my panties from the floor. His cum starts to trickle down my inner thigh, but he quickly catches it, sliding the lace back into place with surprising gentleness.
“There,” he murmurs, adjusting the delicate fabric. “Keep it all in there. My cum inside you, right where it belongs.”
The tone of his voice makes me shiver despite the filthiness of our state. My makeup is smeared, my carefully styled hair now wild around my flushed face. Silvo doesn’t look much better—his slicked-back hair now disheveled, his tuxedo wrinkled where I grabbed him.
He turns me to face him, not caring about the mess we’ve made. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.
“We’re going to be late,” I say, but there’s no urgency in my voice. I don’t care about anything beyond this room, beyond this moment.
Silvo cups my face between his hands, his thumbs tracing my swollen lips. “Worth it.”
He kisses me deeply, slowly, neither of us caring about my smeared lipstick or the lingering taste of sex. It’s messy and primal and perfect.
When he pulls away, his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. Three days ago, I told him I loved him. Tonight, that love feels more fragile and precious than ever—one wrong move at this gala could destroy everything we’ve built.
35
CARMELA
Isabella helps me repair my makeup while I adjust my dress. In the hallway mirror, I catch Silvo’s smug reflection as he straightens his tie, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.
Thirty minutes later, we arrive at the Bellevue Hotel ballroom. The moment we step inside, the air feels charged with electricity. Both families have shown up in full force, creating distinct territories within the gilded space. Chandeliers cast golden light across the room but fail to warm the cold stares exchanged between rival capos.
“Ready?” Silvo murmurs, his hand possessive at the small of my back.
I nod, feeling the weight of my soaked panties beneath my gown—a secret reminder of what happened before we left.
The Morettis stand near the bar, Nico’s silver-gray head visible above the crowd. When he spots us, his expression remains carefully neutral. Maximo stands beside him, wearing hatred more openly than his designer suit.
“They’re watching us like hawks,” I whisper to Silvo as we make our way through the crowd.
“Let them,” he replies. “Tonight is about appearances. We smile, we drink, we make small talk. Nothing more.”
We pause to accept champagne flutes from a passing server. My gaze catches Valeria’s across the room. She stands in a stunning midnight blue gown beside a blonde woman I recognize as Adele. Valeria offers me the smallest nod—so subtle no one else would notice.
Isabella and Fed approach, creating a buffer between us and the nearest Moretti associates. The room buzzes with conversation, yet everyone seems hyperaware of invisible boundaries. No one crosses the invisible line dividing the two families.
Antonio De Luca, Silvo’s father, works the room with practiced ease, shaking hands and laughing as though this were any ordinary charity function. But I notice how his eyes constantly scan for threats, how his hand occasionally drifts toward where a weapon would normally be concealed.
“Your dress is exquisite,” a woman comments as she passes, her eyes lingering a moment too long on my neck. I realize with a flush that one of Silvo’s marks is visible despite Isabella’s best efforts with concealer.
“Thank you,” I reply, fingers unconsciously rising to cover the spot.
Silvo’s grip tightens slightly at my waist. Across the room, Nico Moretti raises his glass in our direction—a gesture that could be read as either a respectful acknowledgment or a silent threat. The silver-gray threading through his dark hair catches the light, framing a face that’s undeniably handsome.
He laughs at something someone says, and I find myself studying the way his entire face transforms. When serious, he looks carved from stone—when he smiles, unexpected warmth radiates from him. It’s disarming.
