“That’s it,” I rasp, fucking her harder. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
I shift my angle slightly, driving upward. She screams, her hands scrabbling at my back, nails biting into my skin. Her climax is building, a visible earthquake shaking through her body. Her thighs tremble. Her stomach quakes.
“Rafael… I’m… I’m going to…”
I don’t let her finish. I slam into her, once, twice, three times, my own control fraying. “Do it,” I command, my voice breaking. “Now.”
And she does.
It’s not just a climax. It’s arelease. A torrent. Her body seizes around me, a vice-like grip that borders on pain. Then, a gush of hot fluid erupts from her, soaking my cock, my thighs, dripping.Squirting. A flood of her pleasure, uncontrollable. The scent of her, musky and sweet, mixes with the cordite and oil in the air.
The shock of it, the sheer visceralproofof her surrender, triggers my own end. A guttural, raw sound rips from my throat as I thrust one last time, deep, and spill into her. My release is hot and violent, filling her as her own fluid coats me. I collapseagainst her, my forehead pressing into hers, our bodies heaving for air in the dim, flickering light of the range.
We stay like that. Joined. Dripping. The smell of sex and gunpowder is heavy, primal. My cock is still inside her, softening slowly. Her legs are still wrapped around me, locked tight. Her breath is hot on my neck.
I look at her. My wife. My quiet space. The woman I’ve just trusted with my future, my body, my rawest need.
Fuck.
I really am in so much trouble.
Her hands are still on my back, now stroking gently through the sweat. She nuzzles into my neck, her lips brushing my skin. “You’re mine too,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”
I do know it. The knowledge is a weight in my chest, terrifying and beautiful. I pull back slightly, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are soft, satisfied, but there’s a new heat there too. A curiosity..
Fuck.
I really am in so much trouble.
And the worst part is, I’m the one who handed her the gun.
CHAPTER 34
GIA
It’s late. Rafael is still downstairs. I can hear the low, rhythmic mumble of voices from the study—Matteo’s sharp cadence, Enzo’s gravelly interjections, and Rafael’s steady, commanding bass. They’re planning. They’re building walls. And here I am, the termite in the foundation.
I slip into the master bathroom, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence. I don’t turn on the main light. The vanity LEDs are enough, casting a cold, clinical glow over the marble and making my skin look like it belongs to someone already dead.
“You’re a natural, little Gia. Dangerous and precise.”
His words from the training constantly in my head, a cruel, jagged irony that makes my stomach churnMy fingers are trembling as I reach into my jewelry box, my hand fumbling past the pearls and the gold until I find the hidden compartment. I pull out the burner.
I try to remember the files Rafael showed me earlier—the logistics, the maps, the guest lists. The trust he handed me like a gift, laid out in neat rows of data.
I am a traitor.
I begin to write a message listing all the details of the security rotation schedule for the Villa d'Este when I stop.
My hand just... stops.
I see the red marks where the guards will stand. I see the path Rafael will take to the podium. I see his death, written in pixels and coordinates. If I send these, I am handing my father the scalpel to cut Rafael’s throat.
He called me his quiet space. He told me I was the only thing that wasn't a target.
I lower the burner. The cool marble of the counter is biting into my palms, but I don't move. Minutes pass, measured only by the thudding of my heart and the distant, muffled hum of the men downstairs. I look at the message. I could send it right now. I could end the countdown. I could save Laura.
But if I send this, I’m not just saving a sister. I’m murdering the only man who ever made me feel like I was more than a signed contract.
