Page 32 of Ruthless Grace

Luca strokes himself faster, his hand a blur against his cock, his ragged panting filling the room alongside the roar of the motor. “Come for me, principessa,” he rasps, his voice a ruined whisper. “Let me watch you fucking come.”

“I’m not coming for you,” I whisper back, my gaze burning into his. “I’m coming for me.”

I press the wand harder against my clit and drive my fingers deep inside.

The pressure inside my belly winds so tight it snaps, unleashing a volcanic, body-cleaving orgasm that crashes through my pelvis in relentless, violently hot waves.

My abdominal muscles lock tight. My toes curl into the dark silk sheets. My pussy clamps hard around my fingers, milking empty air as my thighs shake uncontrollably against the mattress.

“Luca!” I scream his name as my climax shatters through me, my vision blurring, my throat raw with unfiltered, explosive pleasure.

Luca lets out a harsh, choked curse at the sound of his name, his hand pumping his dick in a frantic, desperate rhythm as he watches my hips buck against the bed. He stays right on the edge, his muscles quivering, his body locked in agonizing, self-inflicted torment as he forces himself to endure the sight without touching me.

I ride the vibration all the way through the peak, letting the roaring orgasm wash every drop of tension out of my body until I’m left floating, breathless, drenched in sweat, and completely victorious.

Slowly, the waves fade into a warm, heavy hum.

I pull my fingers out of my wet pussy, lower the wand, and hold down the power button.

The buzzing motor cuts off. Absolute, deafening silence drops over the master suite.

Luca stands at the foot of the bed, his dick still gripped in his hand, his chest heaving, his face flushed, ruined and unraveled.

I lie back against the velvet headboard, my chest rising and falling in slow, languid rhythm. I wipe my fingers on the silk sheet, adjust my robe over my lap, and look directly into his dark, wrecked eyes.

I offer a small, razor-sharp smile.

“Did you enjoy the show, husband?” I ask, my voice smooth, quiet, and entirely triumphant.

Luca stares at me, his knuckles white around his cock, his jaw working as he swallows hard. He doesn’t say a word. He can’t. He knows he’s been completely, utterly undone.

I reach over, click off both bedside lamps, and plunge the master suite back into darkness.

I pull the dark silk sheet up over my bare shoulders, rest my head against the soft pillow, and close my eyes. Within sixty seconds, I am drifting off into the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve had in weeks.

And nobody tells me when I’m allowed to come.

12

LUCA

I sit alone behind my massive mahogany desk at Valentino headquarters, the wedding night still burning under my skin.

The room is dark, lit only by the green-glass glow of a banker’s lamp. Spread across the blotter before me are the cold-case transit manifests from the night of Matteo’s death.

I trace the ink of the river departure log with my thumb, staring down at the four-minute gap that still haunts my ribs. The timestamp for Matteo’s convoy leaving the north dock never matched the first emergency call from the river road. A four-minute discrepancy. A jagged hole in the Santoro narrative that I have hunted through every year of my reign.

The office door opens with a quiet click. Fausto Carbone steps across the threshold, silent and efficient as always, holding a crystal tumbler of amber scotch. He sets the glass down right beside my transit ledgers.

“Still auditing the ghosts, Don Luca?” Fausto asks quietly.

I don’t look up from the page. I tap my finger against the four-minute gap in the log. “The math doesn’t close, Fausto. The convoy left the north dock at 02:14, but the wreck on the river road wasn’t called in until 02:18. Four minutes unaccounted for. Every time I look at it, I see Dante’s hand in the margin.”

Fausto steps closer, leaning his weight casually against the edge of the desk, his expression the picture of loyal, comforting certainty.

“A corrupted signal relay on the river, Don Luca,” Fausto says softly. “Or a delayed dispatcher log from the NOPD precinct. The Santoros scrubbed their perimeter comms before our recovery teams even reached the asphalt. There’s no hidden margin there—just Santoro blood and a ruined truck.”

I look up into Fausto’s steady, unblinking eyes. For a fraction of a second, the comforting weight of his answer settles over me, just as it has every time I’ve raised this question. I nod slowly, taking a sip of the scotch, letting the burn ease my chest.