My massive hands span her waist. Soft. Yielding. The curve of her hips fits perfectly within my brutal grip. She smells intensely of clean cotton and sweet soap. Clean. Innocent. A total civilian dragged straight into the gutter by a gambling degenerate father. Arthur Reeves stole Bellanti shipping logs to cover his losses, painting a massive target on his only daughter's back. He threw her to the wolves for a few extra days of breathing. I am the biggest wolf in Chicago. I caught her. I am never giving her back.
Mine. My collateral. My woman.
She swallows hard, the delicate sound echoing in the silent, cavernous space. The commercial-grade refrigerators hum a low, steady drone in the background. White flour dusts the dark marble between us, a messy remnant of my 2 a.m. baking obsession. I am brutally heavy, a forty-four-year-old underbossdripping with twenty years of violence and blood, towering over her small, curvy frame. She trembles under my intense focus.
The relentless tactical noise in my mind goes silent.
Twenty years. Two decades of constant, deafening noise. The strategies, the betrayals, the blood debts, the agonizing, relentless roar of vengeance.
It all started in the rain. I was twenty-four years old. The phone rang in the dead of night. I drove to the alley on the South Side. I found my father, Carlo Costa, lying in a freezing downpour. The dirty city water washed his blood into the storm drains before the county morgue even had a chance to zip him into a bag.
I identified the body the next morning. The stench of bleach and dead flesh permanently etched into my sinuses. I have never known a single moment of quiet since that night. The tactical war in my brain has been a brutal, never-ending siege.
Until I looked at Clara Reeves.
I drag my thumb over the swell of her hip, smearing white flour directly into the dark cotton of her sleep shorts. Marking her. Claiming her space. The vibration of her trembling travels straight up my forearms, settling deep into my chest. I step closer, crowding her against the stone counter. No space remains between us. The heavy gold chain resting against my collarbone clinks softly against my sternum.
"They destroyed it," she whispers, the words fragile and broken.
"Yes." I refuse to sugarcoat the violence of my world. "A professional hit squad. They tore your apartment to shreds. You have nothing left out there."
Her jaw tightens. The terror morphs into a desperate, grasping need for an anchor. "My dad…"
"Your father is a dead man walking." My voice is a harsh, grating rasp. "He stole from the Bellantis. He traded your safety for a temporary stay of execution. He is dead to you. I am your absolute shield now. I am the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave."
She brings her small hands up, gripping the dark cotton of my t-shirt. Her fingers dig into the solid wall of my chest. She seeks balance. She seeks me. The heavy ink on my left shoulder flexes tightly under her touch. I stare down at the messy bun secured on top of her head, the stray strands of brown hair framing her terrified, beautiful face.
The primal, feral instinct to consume her hits me with a violent, bone-deep thrum.
I grip her hips and lift her off the floor. She gasps as I set her firmly on the cool black marble counter. Her bare legs instinctively wrap around my waist, pulling my heavy frame between her thighs. The white flour coats the back of her legs. I press the heavy, throbbing bulge of my erection straight against her center. The zipper of my slacks grinds into the seam of her shorts.
A sharp, needy sound tears from her throat. Her fingernails bite deeper into my chest.
My cock surges violently in my pants. Aching. Demanding. The thick length is painfully hard, leaking hot precum into my boxers. I am obsessed with the heat radiating from her core. I need to ruin her. I need to rip the clothes from her body, bury my face in her neck, and claim every inch of her soft, curvy flesh. Theviolent urge to thrust my hips forward and take what belongs to me overrides my common sense.
"Matteo," she breathes, the syllables shaking on her lips.
"Mine." I drag one massive hand up from her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her fitted tank top. My rough, calloused palm scrapes against the smooth, heated skin of her stomach. She arches her spine, pressing her center harder against my heavy erection.
The friction is absolute torture. I grind my hips in a slow, agonizing circle. The thick fabric of my slacks rubs directly over her sensitive mound. She whimpers, tossing her head back. Her eyes slam shut. The terror of the outside world melts away, replaced by the consuming fire of my touch. This is exactly what I want. I want to obliterate every single thought in her head until nothing remains but me.
I push the fabric of her tank top up higher, exposing the heavy, perfect curves of her breasts. She wears no bra beneath the thin cotton. The cool air of the penthouse hits her bare skin. Her nipples peak instantly, tight and begging for attention. I cup one heavy tit in my large palm. The soft weight fills my hand perfectly. I roll my rough thumb directly over the tight, sensitive nub.
A loud, desperate moan spills from her lips. Her hips jerk forward, seeking more pressure against my rigid cock.
The sound destroys the last shred of my restraint. I lower my head, my coarse beard dragging harshly against her delicate collarbone. I open my mouth over the peak of her breast. I suckle hard, pulling the soft flesh deep past my lips. My teeth lightly scrape the sensitive nerve endings. She cries out loudly,her hands flying up to grip the thick, dark hair at the back of my head. Her small fingers tangle in the sharp grey hair at my temples. She pulls me closer, her body bowing into my mouth.
I move to the other breast, granting it the same brutal, wet attention. Saliva coats her skin. I suck the tight peak until she is writhing on the marble counter, unraveling under my absolute control. My name falls from her lips in a continuous, frantic loop.
My right hand drops away from her waist. I drag my fingers down her stomach, slipping directly beneath the elastic waistband of her cotton sleep shorts and the thin panties beneath. Heat blazes against my calloused skin. I press my bare palm flat directly against her slick mound. She is soaking wet. The heavy moisture covers my skin, offering no barrier over her sex.
I press my middle finger directly against the swollen knot of her clit through the fabric. I drag my finger back and forth in a hard, demanding line.
She screams into the quiet kitchen. Her hips buck violently against my hand.
"You are so wet for me," I growl against her skin, my voice dark and feral. "Dripping on my counter. Begging for my hands."
"Matteo… please." She thrashes her head side to side. Her fingernails drag down my tattooed arm, leaving faint red marks on the dark ink.
