"Stop fighting me," I tell her. I don't raise my voice. I don't have to. The quiet, absolute authority in my tone makes her freeze. I shift my hand, sliding my large palm up the curve of her spineuntil my fingers wrap around the nape of her neck. The skin there is painfully soft, flushed with heat. Her pulse beats against my thumb, frantic and chaotic like a trapped bird.
"I have a shop," she stammers, her wide, amber-hazel eyes darting to the locked doors, then up to my face. The sheer size of me, the silver at my temples, the blood on my cuffs—she is taking it all in, and her mind is fracturing. "I have to open the shop at six. Please. Just drop me on the corner. I swear to God?—"
"Your shop is closed," I state, my thumb stroking a slow, deliberate path over the pounding vein in her throat. The tactile sensation of her skin under my calloused flesh sends a violent, pulsing throb straight to my cock. I don't give a fuck that she's traumatized. I don't give a fuck that I have another man's blood under my nails. All I can feel is the friction of her thighs across my lap, her soaking pussy drenching the fabric of her dress as she presses against my cock. My blood surges, a primal urge to shove my cock into her and quiet her sobbing with the rhythmic slap of my balls against her thighs. She is terrified, and I am hard enough to break—that is the only truth in this car.
"What?" The word is a breathless sob.
"You aren't going back to the florist shop, Sienna. You aren't going back to your apartment. You live with me now."
"Dom," Fabio's voice is a low, dangerous rumble from the driver's seat, blunt and confrontational. He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "The van. The Bellantis know the delivery van was there. If they trace the plates to her, they'll use her to get to us. She's a liability."
"Let them try," I say, my gaze never leaving Sienna's tear-streaked face. "If a single Bellanti breathes in her direction, Iwill gut them in the street and hang their entrails from the Bean. Santi has already cleared the alley. Your van is currently being stripped for trackers and parked in my private sub-basement. It belongs to me now, just like everything else you own."
Sienna whimpers, her hands curling into tight fists against my chest. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to wake up from the nightmare. I pull her closer, burying my face in the copper curls at her temple. I shouldn't crowd her. I know I am suffocating her. I am a forty-five-year-old mafia patriarch who has known nothing but violence, grief, and cold strategy for two decades. I don't know how to be gentle. I only know how to possess.
The ride to the Gold Coast brownstone takes eleven minutes. I spend every second of it memorizing the erratic rhythm of her breathing, the exact shade of her pale skin, the delicate, arching slope of her collarbones where my jacket slips open.
When the SUV descends into the underground parking garage of the compound, the heavy steel security doors grind shut behind us, locking out the world. The vehicle stops. I don't wait for Fabio to open my door. I shove it open and step out, carrying her effortlessly—her body still locked against mine, her feet never touching the concrete.
The basement level is brightly lit, concrete and steel, reeking of exhaust and the faint scent of gun oil. Santi is waiting at the private elevator. My brother is a six-foot-five wall of muscle and quiet, calculated paranoia. He is the watcher, the one who caught every threat from the shadows with a patient, lethal demeanor. He stands with his arms crossed, his dark eyes snapping from the blood on my shirt to the completely numb bundle in my arms.
Santi doesn't move to press the call button. He steps into my path, his massive chest blocking the doors.
"Civilian?" Santi asks. His voice is a sparse, deliberate rasp.
"Mine," I say. The word reverberates through the concrete garage. It isn't a clarification; it's a threat. Challenge me on this, and see what happens.
Santi's jaw ticks. He looks at Sienna. She shrinks back, hiding her face against the crook of my neck. The soft exhalation of her breath against my collarbone sends a vicious spike of territorial rage through my blood. No one looks at her. Not even my own blood.
Santi reads the violence in my eyes. He steps aside and punches the elevator button. The doors slide open. "Clearing the fourth floor," he mutters into the comms strapped to his wrist.
I step into the elevator, the doors closing to seal us in the mirrored box. Sienna finally opens her eyes, catching our reflection. She looks so incredibly small against me. I am a massive, shadowed disaster of a man, clad in bespoke wool and dried blood. She is vibrant, young, and entirely ruined for anyone else but me.
"Where are you taking me?" she whispers to the mirror.
"Home."
The elevator chimes at the fourth floor. The doors open directly into my private suite—a space keyed only to my biometrics and Santi's override. The glass is reinforced ballistic polymer, rated for high-caliber rounds. To the world, it's a view of Lake Michigan and the glittering sprawl of the Gold Coast below. To me, it's a kill-zone with a 360-degree sightline. Stark, brutalistarchitecture—slate gray stone, black leather, cold steel. A war room disguised as a penthouse.
It suddenly feels entirely inadequate for her. It's too cold. Too hard.
I walk past the massive living area and straight into my bedroom. I set her down on the edge of the king-sized mattress. The mattress is firm, wrapped in dark gray sheets. She sinks into it, her knees knocking together, her hands still clutching my suit jacket shut over her chest.
I take a step back, giving her three feet of oxygen. It costs me immense physical effort not to reach out and touch her again. My hands feel empty. They twitch at my sides.
"Don't move," I tell her.
I pull the encrypted phone from my pocket and hit a speed dial. The line connects instantly to the ground-floor security desk. "Nico."
"Boss," my cousin answers, the sound of a knife sharpening echoing in the background.
"I need things. Now," I bark, the adrenaline of the night bleeding into my tone. It comes out harsher than I intend. "Peonies. The exact shade of pink she brought to the restaurant. I want them here. I want a silk robe, size small. Black or deep red. And hand cream. The expensive shit. Call a concierge, break into a boutique, I don't give a fuck how you get it. You have twenty minutes."
Sienna flinches violently at the raw aggression in my voice. She curls her legs up onto the bed, making herself as small as possible, trying to disappear into the dark bedding.
The sight of her cowering from me acts like a bucket of ice water over my rabid brain. I snap the phone shut, tossing it onto the glass nightstand. I take a deep, controlled breath, forcing the violent mob boss down and locking him in a cage.
I drop to one knee in front of her. I am still a foot taller than her, even kneeling, but it removes the looming threat of my height.
