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He nips lightly at the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, his teeth grazing the tendon until I let out a soft, breathy gasp. His hand slides up from my hip to my breast, his thumb rolling over my pebble-hard nipple with lazy, practiced ownership.
"You're greedy this morning, Don Messina," I tease, arching my back into his palm despite my sore muscles.
"I am always greedy when it comes to you, Iris," he whispers, his voice dropping into that low voice that always makes my core throb.
"Please never change," I laugh softly, turning over in the circle of his arms until I am facing him.
The morning light filters through the sheer linen curtains, casting a soft, golden-gray glow across his face. Even with my cloudy, scarred vision, I can make out the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the thick black hair falling across his forehead, and the intense, ravenous darkness in his eyes as he looks down at me.
His hand comes up, his calloused thumb tracing the silver line of scar tissue starting at my right temple, crossing the bridge of my nose, and settling at the corner of my left eye.
He touches my scars without hesitation. Without pity. He touches them like a man tracing the borders of a conquered country that he intends to defend with his dying breath.
"You look like a queen this morning," he says quietly, his fingers tangling into my wild red curls.
"I look like a woman who was thoroughly handled by an unhinged mobster," I retort, though my lips curve into a warm smile.
A soft, polite knock at the bedroom door breaks the quiet intimacy of the room.
Two raps. Precise, hesitant.
Sofia, lying on her leather bed by the window, lets out a low, questioning huff, her tail giving two thumps against the wood floor.
Romeo's jaw tenses, but he does not reach for the Kimber on the nightstand. He recognizes the knock.
"Enter," Romeo calls out, his voice snapping back into the deep, authoritative tone of the Don.
The heavy double doors push open, and the scent of freshly brewed dark roast coffee, warm cinnamon scones, and crisp bacon fills the bedroom. Inga walks in pushing a brass service cart, her eyes respectfully trained on the floorboards, never glancing toward the bed where Romeo and I lie under the sheets.
"Good morning, Don Messina. Donna Messina," Inga says, her Scottish brogue crisp and formal. "I have prepared the breakfast service. Fresh orange juice, poached eggs, and the cinnamon pastries you favor, ma'am."
There is no tension in her voice. No sneaking around. Since the day I laid down the law in this penthouse, Inga has served me not as a spy for my husband, but as the true matriarch of this household.
"Thank you, Inga," I say softly, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the white linen sheet over my breasts. "Set the tray on the balcony table, please. The air is crisp today."
"Right away, Donna," Inga replies, wheeling the cart toward the glass doors leading out onto the private terrace.
She pauses before leaving, turning back toward us with a slight bow of her head. "Mr. Jamie and Miss Byrne have arrived in the lower lobby with the transport convoy, sir. Jack checked their clearance at the desk. And Mr. Victor Reznikov's private jet touched down at Teterboro forty minutes ago. Tony says the Russian convoy is twenty minutes out."
The air in the bedroom instantly shifts, charged with the metallic anticipation of a major syndicate summit.
"Send Jamie and Elizabeth straight up to the penthouse when they clear the lift," Romeo instructs, his voice dropping into cold, lethal calculation. "Have Enzo escort Victor and Gemma into the private boardroom down the hall when they arrive. No one draws a weapon inside this building today. We are signing a treaty, not starting a brawl."
"Understood, sir," Inga says, and slips silently out of the room, shutting the doors behind her.
Romeo sits up beside me, the muscles of his broad, scarred back flexing in the morning light. The black ink of the Messina motto stretches across his shoulder blades: Questa Nostra Cosa.
He turns to look at me, his eyes dark, his thumb reaching out to stroke the corner of my jaw.
"Today, Iris," he says softly, his gaze locked onto mine, "we put an end to forty years of bloodshed. Your brother takes the northern channel. Victor takes the European Baltic lines. And we hold New York and the Atlantic coast together."
I reach out, taking his large hand in mine, feeling the heavy platinum band on his fourth finger pressing against my emerald ring. Our matching palm scars align in the sunlight, two jagged pink lines carved into our skin by the same violence that brought us together.
"They won't like taking orders from a woman who cannot see their faces, Romeo," I murmur, my chin lifting with that stubborn, unbroken O'Connor pride.
Romeo lets out a low, dangerous laugh, his lips brushing against mine in a brief, fierce kiss that tastes of promise and fire.
"They won't just take orders from you, Kitten," he growls softly against my mouth. "They will bow to you. Now get out of this bed and put on that emerald silk suit I bought you. It's time to show the underworld who rules this city."
