My mind remains blissfully silent.
My phone buzzes sharply in my pocket. The harsh vibration breaks the heavy, feral tension hanging in the air.
I do not break eye contact with the beautiful, messy, flushed woman sitting on my counter. I reach into my slacks and pull the burner phone free. The encrypted screen flashes brightly in the dim light of the kitchen. A message from the Costa soldiers guarding the perimeter down on the street.
The hit squad did not retreat to the south side. They tracked the extraction vehicle. They are currently circling the block outside Il Corvo.
I drop the phone onto the marble counter. The device clatters loudly against the stone.
The brutal, possessive rage returns, wiping away the remnants of the agonizing lust. I step forward again, my massive chest backing her firmly against the counter. I lean in, a rough knuckle dragging along her jawline until my face is inches from hers. The fear returns to her eyes, bleeding through the haze of her recent climax.
"Stay exactly where you are," I command, my voice a lethal, vibrating threat aimed at the men outside my walls. "Do notmove from this counter. Do not open the doors. Do not answer the secure line."
Her breath stutters against my collarbone. "Where are you going?"
"I am going to take out the trash." I turn my back on the absolute perfection of her body, striding heavily toward the reinforced steel door of the penthouse, racking the slide of my weapon.
5
Clara
The metallic clackof the gun racking shatters the heavy air in the kitchen.
Matteo strides through the penthouse, a lethal shadow moving fast. The heavy steel door of the penthouse thuds shut behind him. The lock engages with a massive clank. The absolute finality of the sound echoes through the pristine kitchen.
My thighs are trembling. I am still sitting on the flour-dusted marble island, my clothes thoroughly wrecked, my body humming with the vicious aftershocks of the climax he just forced from me. White powder coats my bare thighs where my sleep shorts are twisted around my hips. The scent of toasted flour, dark rum, and the intoxicating heat of his skin clings to my clothes.
I do not move. I cannot move. For what feels like agonizing hours, the only sound is the hum of the commercial refrigerators. Then, the heavy tumblers of the front door roll back.
He walks into the kitchen.
There is no softness in him now. The domestic illusion of the midnight baker is gone. The man staring at me is the brutal underboss of the Costa family. He is the man who bought my life for a million dollars. He is the man who executed men on a city street to keep me safe.
He crosses straight to the brass farmhouse sink. He turns the heavy faucet, scrubbing dark red blood from his massive hands with brutal, silent efficiency. He dries them on a towel, shoving his gun into the waistband of his dark denim jeans.
He walks toward me. His heavy boots make no sound on the hardwood floor.
My lungs lock. I grip the edge of the cold marble counter. The sheer size of him is staggering. He is brutally heavy, a mountain of muscle and scarred skin, the heavy ink on his left shoulder flexing with every deliberate step. The silver hair at his temples only makes him look more distinguished, more dangerous.
He stops right between my open knees. His thick, calloused, newly clean fingers slide into my messy hair.
"The scout cars are handled," he says, his breathing heavy, his dark, brooding eyes locking onto me. "My men are clearing the block. No one is coming through that door."
He tilts my head back. His thumb strokes my jawline.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"You came back bathed in blood," I manage to say. "And you put people in the ground."
"I eliminated a threat." His thumb presses harder against my pulse point. "A threat against you. No one breathes in your direction without my permission. Do you understand me?"
The fierce, possessive demand in his tone makes my stomach hollow out in the best possible way.
This is insane.
I am a third-grade teacher. I grade spelling tests with scented markers. I should be terrified of the blood he just washed down the drain. I should be running for the door.
Instead, a hot, heavy pulse throbs directly between my legs. The wetness pooling in my panties is undeniable.
