The line clicks dead. I lower the phone, staring blankly at the vibrant explosion of floral arrangements covering my workspace. The Bellantis are still out there. The war is still breathing down our necks. The photograph of me exiting the SUV—taken from across the street the night of the L'Ombra extraction, by a patient watcher with a long lens—still lives in the locked drawer of Dominic's desk, a reminder that we are being watched.
But standing here, in the impenetrable sanctuary Dominic built for me, the fear has mutated into something else. Something sharp and defensive. I am not a captive anymore. I am the Don's weakness, and I am his reason for tearing the world apart.
The heavy deadbolt at the front of the shop disengages with a sharp, mechanical clack.
I look up. The heavy door swings open, and Dominic steps inside.
The sheer, blunt force of his physical presence immediately consumes the room. He is dressed in a custom, charcoal-grey suit that molds flawlessly to the broad, heavy lines of his chest and shoulders. The silver threads at his temples gleam in the overhead lighting, a stark contrast to the pitch-black intensity of his eyes. He is forty-five years of violence and absolute authority, moving with the prowling, silent grace of an apex predator. Behind him, two massive Costa soldiers flank the entrance. Dominic doesn't even look back at them. He just lifts a hand, a silent command, and the heavy door slams shut, the lock engaging again.
He stands just inside the entrance, taking me in. His gaze drags over my messy copper curls, the dirt on my cheeks, the damp canvas apron clinging to my waist, down to my bare legs and the scuffed boots on my feet. The cold, ruthless mask of the Chicago Don vanishes the second his eyes lock onto mine, replaced by a dark, consuming hunger that makes it impossible to inhale.
He crosses the room. I don't move. I can't. The sheer presence of him roots me to the concrete floor.
When he reaches the steel worktable, he doesn't stop. He closes the distance until the toes of his handmade leather shoes bump against my boots, his massive frame towering over my much smaller one. He smells of dark roasted coffee, bergamot, and the faint, metallic scent of the city streets.
His large, calloused hands reach out, not to grab my waist, but to gently frame my face. The contrast of his lethal, capable hands treating me like something fragile and precious sends a heavy flush of heat straight down between my thighs. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, wiping away a smudge of potting soil.
"You've been crying," he murmurs, his deep, gravel-rough voice dropping an octave. His eyes narrow, instantly scanning the room for a threat that isn't there. "Who upset you? Give me a name, Sienna."
"No one," I say quickly, reaching up to wrap my hands around his thick wrists. I can feel the steady, heavy pulse of his blood beneath my fingertips. "Lucia called me."
Dominic goes still, but it is a different kind of stillness than before—not the frozen paralysis of a man terrified to speak to hissister, but the quiet tension of a man who already knows what was said and is bracing for the way it will land.
"She told me about the girls," I say softly. "Tyra's reading sentences. Sera screams like a Costa."
Something shifts behind his eyes. A fracture in the bedrock. He closes them for a moment, his jaw working, and when he opens them again, the raw, bleeding vulnerability I saw the night of his confession is back—unshielded, unmasked.
"I know," he says roughly. "She told me on the call."
I slide my hands up his forearms, gripping his biceps through the expensive wool of his suit jacket. "She's not going anywhere, Dominic. Neither am I."
A harsh, shuddering breath escapes him. His hands drop from my face, catching me by the waist. His large fingers bite into my hips, lifting me off the ground with effortless, terrifying strength. I gasp as he sets me down heavily on the edge of the stainless-steel worktable, sweeping a dozen discarded stems of eucalyptus out of the way to make room. He steps perfectly between my parted thighs, crowding into my space, pressing the solid, unyielding heat of his cock against my pussy through the thin fabric of my dress.
"You belong to me," he growls, the raw possessiveness bleeding out of him in waves. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling the scent of my skin like it's oxygen. "Tell me you know that. Tell me you aren't just staying out of pity for a broken man."
"I'm staying because you're mine just as much as I'm yours," I breathe, threading my fingers into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, loving the rough texture of the silver strands athis temples. I tug, forcing him to look at me. "I don't pity you, Dominic. I want you."
That is all the permission he needs. The tether of his control snaps.
His mouth crashes down on mine. There is nothing gentle about the kiss; it is an absolute conquest, a claiming of territory. His lips are hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting, possessing, taking everything I have to give and demanding more. The blunt force of his hunger sends a spike of pure adrenaline straight to my pussy. I open for him completely, my tongue tangling with his, a wet, desperate friction that has my hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket.
He groans, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against my chest. His hands go to the knot at the back of my apron, tearing it loose. The heavy canvas drops to the floor. Underneath, I am wearing a simple, thin cotton sundress. It is entirely insufficient defense against the Don of Chicago.
Dominic's large hands slide up my bare thighs, the heavy, rough pads of his calloused fingers dragging against my sensitive skin. Every place he touches leaves a trail of searing heat. He bunches the fabric of my dress in his fists, pushing it up past my hips, pooling it around my waist. The cool air of the heavily air-conditioned shop hits my bare skin, but it is immediately eradicated by the blistering heat of his large, warm palms as they cup my bare ass.
He lifts me slightly, pulling me flush against the hard ridge of his erection trapped beneath his tailored trousers. I let out a sharp, needy whine against his mouth, my hips instinctively rocking forward, seeking the friction.
"Impatient," he murmurs against my lips, biting down lightly on my lower lip, making me gasp. "I spent all morning sitting in a room with men who want to carve up my territory, and all I could think about was the way you unravelled when you came on my fingers last night. The way you gave yourself to me."
"Show me," I whisper, my voice breathless, my hands frantically pushing his suit jacket off his broad shoulders. It hits the floor in a heap of thousand-dollar wool. I tear at the buttons of his dress shirt, needing the heat of his skin against mine. He lets me strip him down, standing perfectly still while I yank the shirt from the waistband of his trousers. His chest is a landscape of hard muscle, dark hair, and old, faded scars that tell the story of a lifetime of violence. I press my palms flat against his pectorals, feeling the heavy, thunderous pounding of his heart.
Dominic's hands move to the thin lace of my underwear. He hooks his fingers into the delicate material and pulls it down, tearing it right down the seam with a sharp ripping sound. I gasp as he tosses the ruined scraps aside.
"Spread for me,mia vita," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural register.
I obey instantly, my thighs parting wider, my heels hooking behind his hips. He steps completely into my space. His large, calloused hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding my slick, swollen pussy. I am already dripping for him, wet and aching. He lets out a dark sound of approval as he coats his long fingers in my moisture, and the sharp, musky scent of my arousal fills the space between our bodies—undeniable, shameless, entirely his.
He doesn't hesitate. He presses his thumb hard against my clit, pinning the swollen nerve against my pubic bone, whilesimultaneously sliding two thick fingers deep inside my slick, tight channel.
