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"I did not agree to five million, you little viper," Victor's deep baritone growls in the background, thick with sleep and irritation. "I said three."
"You'll pay five, big boy, or I'll use that straight razor on your chest while you sleep," Gemma shoots back cheerfully.
A sharp slap against bare skin echoes through the phone, followed by Gemma's laugh.
"Call you when I'm bored, Romeo," she says, and the line disconnects.
Jamie shakes his head with a low whistle. "Your cousin is unhinged."
"She's a Messina," I say simply, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
After Jamie departs to oversee the dock transfers with Enzo, the penthouse settles into a heavy, peaceful quiet. Iris walks out, down the hallway, and towards our bedroom, where I hear the tub filling with running water. Following her, as always, I stop in the bathroom doorway and watch her slowly take her clothes off and sink into the warm water with a pleased hiss escaping her lips.
In the quiet after Jamie leaves, I say the thing I should have said the night I put a ring on her finger.
“Now that the smoke has cleared, Kitten," I say, the words scraping against my throat, heavy with the terrifying truth I promised to give her. "You have a choice. The church is dead. Victor is contained. Jamie has his own syndicate, and you have enough wealth in your own name to disappear anywhere in the world. You can walk out of this penthouse tomorrow morning, and I swear on my soul I will not hunt you. I will not put a collar on you. I will let you go. That’s what love does: you let go of what you love most, even if it feels like you're dying.
I hold my breath, heart racing, and if there's a God, I’m praying he’ll let her stay by my side.
Iris stares at me, her chest rising and falling beneath the water line of the bathtub. A faint, wicked smile curls the corners of her mouth, her eyebrows arching with dangerous amusement.
She pulls her hands from mine, reaches up, and wraps her arms around my neck, dragging my chest down into the warm tub until water splashes over the marble floor.
"Did that blow to the head make you stupid, Romeo?" she whispers against my lips, her thighs parting to cradle my hips as she pulls me completely into the water with her. "You spent three years crawling into my bed, fucking kidnapped me to Sicily, you killed a bishop for me, and you think I'm going to let you walk away now?"
My heart slams against my ribs like a battering ram. "Iris," I breathe.
"You're my monster, Romeo Messina," she growls, her teeth sinking into my lower lip, drawing a tiny drop of copper that tastes of victory and blood. "You're my Don. And you are going to fuck me until I forget every second I ever spent without you."
She chooses me. Not the cage. Me. I don’t deserve it; I probably never will, but I take it anyway.
TWENTY-SIX
IRIS
The low, familiar drone of downtown Manhattan traffic rises fifty floors into the morning air, vibrating faintly through the soundproof glass of the penthouse windows.
It used to be a terrifying sound.
For three years, every distant car horn, every squeal of subway brakes beneath the pavement, and every siren racing down Fifth Avenue was a reminder of the world outside that I could not see. I used to curl under three heavy blankets, listening to those sounds with my heart clawing at my ribs, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the monsters who took my eyes to come through the deadbolted door.
Today, the city sounds small.
I wake up nestled against a furnace of solid muscle, my bare back pressed flat against Romeo's broad, tattooed chest. His heavy arm is locked over my waist, his palm cupping my lower hip, anchoring me to the mattress as if he expects me to evaporate into the morning mist. His chin rests in the dip between my shoulder blades, his warm, steady breath puffing against my skin in slow, rhythmic waves.
The soreness between my thighs is a sharp, throbbing ache that makes me smile against the silk pillowcase.
Romeo followed through on his promise last night. He took every single ounce of debt out of my hide, pounding into me until the headboard rattled and my throat was scraped raw from screaming his name into the dark. There was no mercy in his touch, only that hungry worship that leaves me marked, bruised, and thoroughly claimed.
I shift slightly, sliding my toes down the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets.
Instantly, his grip tightens. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my hip, pulling me an inch closer, his thighs slotting between mine beneath the duvet.
"Stop wriggling, Kitten," his morning voice rumbles against my spine, deep, gravelly, and thick with sleep.
"The sun is up, Romeo," I murmur, reaching behind me until my fingertips find his stubbled jawline, tracing the hard cut of his chin. "And your heavy arm is cutting off my circulation."
"Then learn to breathe through your ribs, wife," he growls affectionately, his lips pressing a slow, hot kiss to the nape of my neck.
