I slide one hand under her lower back, tilting her pelvis up to change the angle, hitting a deep, sensitive spot that makes her walls spasm completely.
"Dominic!" she shrieks, her nails dragging down my back, leaving hot, stinging trails.
Her climax hits her like a physical blow. Her inner walls pulse violently, crushing around my cock in rapid, spasming waves. The tight, milking pressure is too much. The mental image of her completely undone underneath me breaks my control. I let out aguttural roar, driving my hips forward into a final, brutal thrust, burying myself as deep as I can go.
I explode inside her. Hot, thick pulses of my seed flood her pussy, the release violent—a massive, draining rush that empties every ounce of tension, rage, and guilt from my body. I pump into her, my pulse thundering violently against my ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of hers.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is our jagged, overlapping breathing.
My weight is crushing her, but when I try to pull away, her arms tighten around my neck, refusing to let me go. I stay buried inside her, her body still clenching softly around me, while the last tremors work through us both. Only when her grip finally loosens do I withdraw—a slow, wet slide that leaves her gasping and leaves me hollow in a way I have no name for. I collapse against her immediately, pressing my face into the curve of her neck, pulling her flush against my chest. My hand finds her hip, anchoring her there. The heavy silence of the Gold Coast compound surrounds us. Outside this room, I am the Don. Outside this door, I have a war to finish, an empire to protect, and brothers who look to me for every order.
But in this bed, I am just a man who has finally found his breath.
I slowly roll to the side, taking her with me, keeping her body pressed the length of mine. I throw my heavy leg over hers, keeping us entirely tangled. I drag the duvet up over her bare shoulders.
Before either of us can speak, a sharp, mechanical vibration buzzes against the mahogany nightstand.
I stiffen. It's the burner phone. The one I gave Sienna last night after I called Lucia.
Sienna shifts, her eyes darting to the nightstand. The screen is illuminated in the dim light. She reaches over to the nightstand, her fingers brushing the cold glass where the burner phone sits. She pushes up onto her elbow, the duvet falling away from her chest, and grabs the small, black device.
I watch her face. I don't breathe.
Sienna swipes the screen. Her eyes scan the short line of text. She stops. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Slowly, she turns her head to look at me, her expression incredibly soft, carrying an emotional weight that makes my chest ache.
Without a word, she turns the screen toward me.
It's a text from a Pine Valley area code.
Thank you for telling me about her. Keep breathing, fratello.
I stare at the glowing letters. Lucia sent this to the burner—the phone I gave Sienna. She is reaching past me to the woman I told her about on the call last night. She is opening a door that I have no right to walk through, and she is inviting Sienna to step inside it.
I texted my sister four words the night she ran.It was always you.She sent back silence for a year. And now, after one phone call where I admitted there was a woman in my brownstone—a florist who stayed after hearing the worst of me—Lucia is reaching out. Not to me. To her.
"Dominic," Sienna whispers. She drops the phone onto the mattress and moves closer, pressing her palm flat against the center of my chest, right over my hammering heart. "She's not just forgiving you. She's welcoming me."
I close my eyes. The burn in the back of my throat is thick and jagged. I reach up and cover her hand with mine, lacing our fingers together.
"I don't deserve it," I say, the words rough.
"No," Sienna agrees softly, entirely honest. "You don't. But family isn't about what we deserve. It's about who we bleed for." She leans in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth.
I open my eyes, looking at the woman who found me surrounded by blood and chose to stay. The morning sun warms the copper of her hair against my chest, and for the first time in two decades, the light doesn't feel like a warning.
I sit up, pulling away from the warmth of the bed. The air in the room is cool against my sweat-dampened skin. I walk to the heavy oak armoire, pulling out a pair of dark slacks and a crisp white button-down. "Get dressed."
Sienna blinks, pulling the sheet up to her collarbone. "What? Why? Are we under attack?"
"No." I slide my arms into the shirt, leaving the top three buttons undone. I turn to face her, strapping my leather shoulder holster over my chest and checking the weight of the Glock 19. "We are going for a ride."
"To where? Dominic, I thought I wasn't allowed out of the compound."
"You aren't," I reply, my tone leaving zero room for argument. "But you lost your flower shop because of me. The Bellantis burned your grandmother's legacy to the ground to send me a message. I can't undo the fire. But I can build you a fortress."
Her eyes widen, a spark of something fragile and desperately hopeful catching in the amber depths.
Forty-five minutes later, I am sitting in the back of the armored SUV, Sienna tucked firmly against my side, my hand settled at the curve of her waist. Santi is behind the wheel, his massive shoulders tense, his eyes scanning the mirrors with lethal precision. Two chase vehicles flank us. We are a moving armory.
