Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
“If you can make a woman laugh, you can make her do anything.”
― Marilyn Monroe
Angelo
“The bastard’s hiding. No one’s laid eyes on him since that night,” my uncle Fernando grumbled, voice thick with frustration. “Probably shitting himself knowing you made it, and figuring you’ll be tearing after his worthless ass.”
Vittori leaned in. “He’s not hiding. He’s sitting back, waiting for you to find him. He knows you’ll come, and he’s betting it’ll end his way—his last pathetic move, all for that dead whore of his.”
My father slammed his fist against the table. “He stole ten fucking million, Angelo! Ten million! And he’s still breathing? That piece of shit should’ve been rotting in the ground days ago! What the fuck are you waiting for?”
I grabbed my coffee, just to have something in my hands. The burn as it slid down did nothing to numb the fire gnawing at my head, the same goddamn image looping in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to erase it.
Jade fucking Whitenhouse.
Mia diavoletta.
That raven hair, always looking like it was begging to be grabbed, her dark eyes that dared me to do it—dared me to lose control. That pale skin, the kind that bruises too easily, marking every damn reminder of who’s been there. And those fucking freckles, scattered across her chest like a goddamn map, begging to be followed.
Her tits. Perfect, maddening, and so fucking full I swore they were made to bring me to my knees. Pink nipples I wanted to bite, suck, and turn red under my teeth. And her waist—small enough to snap if I wasn’t careful, curving just right into those hips I knew would fit perfectly in my hands.
Then those legs.
God, those fucking legs. Long and sleek, wrapped in those fucking heels, like a wet dream built to destroy me.
And the dragon. That fucking tattoo. Colorful ink carved into her perfect skin, coiling down her back like it was made to taunt me.
Every line, every scale, every inch stopping just above those dimples on her lower back—dimples I wanted to sink my teeth into.
Her ass? Fuck me . I closed my eyes, gripping the edge of the table as I tried to shove the thought down, but it was already too late.
Six years.
I’d been battling this fucking obsession for six goddamn years.
And until now, I’d kept it under control.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t give in to the pull of Jade Whitenhouse, knowing she was the one who could break me, make me lose every ounce of control I had left.
But for some reason, my mind had stopped working, and my heart was too tired of waiting, too tired of denying what it was feeling.
Jade Whitenhouse wasn’t just under my skin; she was in my blood.
And it was fucking poison.
Exactly why I’d never given in—because I knew the second I did, I’d never let go. I’d force her into submission, make her survive on me, depend on me, until she couldn’t help but feel the same.
For two days, she’d been out cold in my bed, her hands clinging to the covers like they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her skin had been flushed with fever, damp with sweat. I’d cleaned her off every hour—hadn’t been able to help myself.
She’d twisted and turned, tangling herself in the sheets, her face buried in my pillow.
The first night, after the doctor had checked my leg for infection—the bullet wound throbbing like a reminder of all the ways I’d fucked up—I’d tried to keep my distance.
I’d given her the bed, and settled in the guest room.
But past midnight, I’d heard it—her screams, raw and jagged.
I had been in the room before I’d even had time to stop myself.
She was curled into a ball, shaking so hard it made my chest ache, her breath coming in broken gasps.
Her voice was wrecked as she whimpered one thing: “Please don’t kill me too, Angelo.”
I didn’t have time to question her.
She broke down completely, sobbing like her world had shattered.
Without thinking, I climbed into the bed and pulled her against me, locking her in my arms to stop the shaking, to stop whatever the hell was hurting her.
She clung to me. Like it wasn’t a choice—like she needed to. Her head was buried into my chest, tears soaking through my shirt as her breath hitched and finally, finally started to even out.
I stayed there the whole night, listening to her breathing steady while my own head spun. By morning, I’d already made the call—Grace could handle things at the office.
I wasn’t going anywhere. I needed to stay beside her.
So, I stayed.
And I fucking shouldn’t have.
The second night, she found her way to me again. Not with words or screams, but with the way she shifted closer, her face pressed into my neck, her leg thrown over mine like she couldn’t sleep without feeling my body against hers.
And by the third night?
She didn’t have to reach for me—I was already there, lying awake, feeling her breathe against my chest, and hating every part of me that didn’t push her away.
Because it had felt… too fucking good.
For six years, I’d been dreaming of this, fighting to keep it at bay, convincing myself I didn’t want what I could never have.
And now that it was mine? There wasn’t a chance in hell I’d let it go.
Three nights. That’s all it had taken.
Three nights, and now every part of me was hooked—addicted, obsessed, ruined .
My body had made up its mind, and all it wanted was Jade fucking Whitenhouse.
Now.
I wanted her on her knees, mouth open and ready, so I could fuck that sharp tongue of hers into silence. I wanted her riding me, those perfect tits in my mouth, her pretty face softening as she fell apart. I wanted her on all fours, her back arched, that dragon tattoo daring me to trace it with my tongue.
I wanted to fuck Jade Whitenhouse until she forgot her own name and only remembered mine.
And I hated her for it.
The pretty woman had been a thorn in my side for six years, a walking disaster designed specifically to drive me insane. She didn’t listen. She touched my shit just to piss me off. She always had a comeback, always a smirk that made me want to throttle her—and now?
Now I needed her more than I needed my next breath.
And the worst part?
I already knew I wouldn’t stop myself. Not anymore.
And for a man who thrived on control, this was crawling under my skin and pissing me off.
“I’ll find him. Just got other shit to deal with first.”
Like ripping this fucking obsession out of my veins, like a junkie going through the worst kind of withdrawal.
My father pushed himself up from the chair. “Waiting makes you look fucking weak, Angelo!”
I opened my mouth to fire back, but before I could, the door slammed open.
Jade stormed in like a fucking hurricane, breath ragged and heavy, and the entire room froze—every single man locked on her.
She moved fast, too fast.
In the blink of an eye, she was at Vittori’s side, her hands a blur, snatching the gun from under his vest.
Without missing a beat, she fired.
The shot screamed through the air, so close to my head that I felt the rush of wind before I dodged it.
The men scrambled to their feet, their guns already out, all of them pointing at her, ready to turn the room into hell.
“You get shot and keep it from me? What the fuck are you playing at, Lazzio?”
I sighed, wiping the irritation off my lips like I had just tasted something rancid.
“Damn, Beatrix Kiddo,” Vittori muttered, half laughing as he lit a cigarette, looking like he was watching the best damn show in town.
He was the only one still seated.
My father looked so pissed, I thought smoke was going to start shooting out of his ears. “Miss Whitenhouse, what the hell is wrong with you?”
She didn’t budge, gun still aimed high, eyes colder than a deep freeze.
“Your son, sir. That’s what’s wrong.”
Uncle Lorenzo took a step forward. “He shouldn’t’ve saved your ass. Should’ve let you die in the snow like a popsicle, you fucking bitch.”
Before he could blink, she turned and shot him in the leg.
I almost laughed.
He screamed, clutching his thigh.
Uncle Fernando slid his gun back under his vest. “Bastard deserved it.”
Yeah, he fucking had.
My father’s eyebrows shot up. “Miss Whitenhouse, you’ve crossed the fucking line!”
She took a step toward me, her eyes seething with rage—and something else.
Guilt.
“I never asked for your help, Lazzio.”
Her voice cut through the air, dark and venomous, masking the faint crack that betrayed her.
She’d been fending for herself for so long, the thought of someone stepping in and caring was almost offensive to her.
“Leave us.”
The men all holstered their guns and filed out, one by one, my father glaring at me with a look that could’ve burned a hole through stone—pure disappointment.
Vittori, of course, was the last one to move.
He strolled over to her, holding his hand out for his gun.
She rolled her eyes and shoved it into his palm.
He gave me a half-amused chuckle, his eyes glinting with that “good luck with this one” look, before strolling out.
“How’s your head, Miss Whitenhouse?”
She crossed her arms. “Good. How’s your leg?”
I scoffed, pushing myself up and striding toward her, doing my best to hide the grimace that tried to break through the facade.
The pain in my leg throbbed, but I shoved it down.
“Good,” I said, my voice flat.
She shook her head, eyes narrowing. “Liar.”
I closed the distance between us, moving slowly, until we were inches apart.
Her angry eyes, blazing with fire, softened for the briefest moment, and I knew—she felt it too.
That spark, that tension, or whatever the hell it was hanging in the air between us.
My hand slid to her chin, fingers curling gently as I tipped her face upward.
She sucked in a breath, and I leaned in close, inspecting the scar on her forehead.
My lips brushed over the mark before I pulled back just enough to catch her eye again.
“Next time you try to kill me, diavoletta ,” I muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth, “aim lower.”
She jerked my hand away, shoving it off her chin like I’d burned her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your leg?”
I took a step back, arms folding across my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me about your nightmares?”
Those three nights had felt endless, and each time, I’d caught her—twisting, muttering like she was running from something, or someone.
And that name … Stella.
Her face drained of color. “What?”
“I’ve spent three nights next to you, Miss Whitenhouse. And every one of them, you screamed for someone—Stella.”
Her eyes flashed for just a second—too quickly for her to hide it—but I saw it.
Panic.
Real panic.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really? ‘Cause I heard you. Who’s Stella?”
She froze, her lips parting like she had something to say, but nothing came out.
I let out a dry chuckle. “What’s the matter, Miss Whitenhouse? Did I finally succeed in making you speechless?”
She cleared her throat. “It wasn’t Stella, it was Bella… you know, like Bella from Twilight ,” she said with a small laugh. “The woods probably reminded me of all that brooding vampire drama?—”
“Stop lying, Jade.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide for a second before narrowing in that stubborn defiance I knew too well. “I’m not.”
I took a step forward, and she mirrored it, stepping back, keeping that damn distance between us.
“All you ever do is lie, Miss Whitenhouse.”
She snorted. “Well, you should already know that, Lazzio. You’ve known me for more than six years now.”
I moved again, another step closer, forcing her to retreat just a fraction.
“Who’s Stella?”
She tilted her head, ignoring my question again. “Who shot you?”
Another step forward.
She took another step back, but this time, her back hit the wall.
Trapped.
“James Greg.”
She nodded slowly, but there was something in her gaze—like she’d already known, like she’d been expecting this answer.
“Who’s Stella, Miss Whitenhouse?”
“Why does he want you dead?”
I lifted a shoulder, casually stepping closer.
My arms framed her face against the wall, caging her in.
“I took something from him.”
She didn’t budge, just let her arms fall at her sides, her eyes tracing every inch of my face.
“Miss Whitenhouse?—”
She leaned in, close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin.
Her pretty face was just inches from mine now.
“Who kidnapped you, Angelo?”
My blood ran cold, a chill so deep it sank straight to my bones.
My heart thudded erratically in my chest.
How the fuck did she know? Only my parents and Grace knew about that—something they never spoke of, not once since it had happened.
I moved faster than I thought possible, grabbing her by the throat.
“Don’t play with fire, diavoletta ,” I breathed out.
She giggled, her dark eyes lighting with amusement. “You’ve never looked hotter than now, Angelo.”
My grip tightened as I brought my face closer, lips hovering above hers.
“How the fuck do you know?”
She smiled, fingers slipping into my hair, tugging me closer, teasing me with the briefest brush of her lips against mine. “Your mama’s very easy to crack.”
I scoffed, feeling her lips graze mine again, noses brushing, her tongue touching my lips ever so slightly.
Cazzo.
I pressed her body into mine, a deep groan slipping from my throat.
The heat between us was unbearable, and at that moment, I had two choices: kill her with the gun tucked under my vest, or…
Fuck it, who was I kidding?
I tightened my grip around her throat, pulling her closer, my mouth crashing onto hers hard. She gasped, and her faint moan was all the confirmation I needed—this was what she wanted, too.
Her fingers dug into my jaw, and her teeth grazed my lips, rough and hungry.
I let go of her throat roughly, shifting my hands down to her hips, grabbing a handful of her ass. Her dress clung to her body like a second skin, and I pressed her harder against me, feeling my dick harden.
Fuck, yes.
Fucking finally.
She yanked at my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and I dropped my mouth to her neck, licking a path up to her jaw before finding her lips again.
She moaned louder, her body writhing against mine like she couldn’t get close enough.
I tried to find the zipper of her dress, desperate to strip it off, but she shoved me away.
My breath was ragged, chest heaving.
I looked at her, confused, and she smiled—an evil fucking grin that made me want to kiss it right off her face.
“Let’s play a game.”
What?
“Let me fuck you first,” I muttered, stepping forward, but she side-stepped me, an amused glint in her eyes.
Looked like she was the one playing hard to get now.
“Two truths and a lie.”
She walked toward my chair, her hands caressing the table. Each movement was measured, sensual.
When she finally reached the chair, she sat on it with effortless elegance, crossing her legs with a flick of her ankle.
She looked like an evil queen, waiting for her subject to kneel before her.
And for a second, I almost fucking did.
“If you can spot the lie, I’ll let you fuck me right here, right now,” she said, her voice low, almost playful. Yet her eyes were darker than the night itself. “But if you don’t…” She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening. “You’ll tell me what happened during those fourteen days you were kidnapped when you were nine.”
Every muscle in my body tensed, a knot twisting deep in my gut.
She was playing a dangerous game, and the stakes—fuck, the stakes were higher than I’d expected.
My instinct screamed to take her, right then, right there. To fuck her, and make her regret ever starting this twisted game. The thought of punishing her, making her feel every ounce of my fury, was too good to ignore.
I could already see her squirming beneath me, clinging to whatever power she thought she had, only for it to shatter under me.
“Shoot.”
Her eyes flickered in surprise, like she hadn’t expected me to just play along.
“Okay.” Her finger brushed her chin, her gaze heavy with mischief, like she was plotting something twisted. “Well… I’m fluent in Italian, I’ve studied a dozen ways to poison your coffee, but to my damn luck, Grace is the only one allowed to bring it to you… and…”
She stood up and walked toward me, giving me that look.
The kind that made my chest tighten and blood burn.
She closed the distance between us.
Her finger traced the edge of my vest before pressing her hand against my chest, right over my heart.
“And last but not least,” she whispered darkly, “I’ve already touched myself thinking about you.”
I let out a rough chuckle, my hand tightening on her wrist as I pulled her closer.
“Is that so, Miss Whitenhouse?”
Her finger traced my jaw. “It’s for you to figure out, buddy.”
I released her wrist, my other arm tightening around her waist as I lifted her with ease. Carrying her toward the big oval table, I set her down on the edge, her legs dangling freely.
She spread them wide, inviting me in.
“Judging by how you get off on fucking with me,” I muttered, “I’d say you’ve been busy planning ways to poison me.”
Her breath caught as I grazed my hand over the exposed skin of her thigh. She braced herself with her arms behind her, silent—her eyes locked on my hand as it slid higher, teasing, until it disappeared beneath the edge of her dress.
I felt the lace of her underwear.
A dark smile spread across my lips. She was already fucking soaked.
I pushed aside the fabric, leaning in closer as my lips brushed her neck, kissing and sucking at her skin.
Her scent hit me—dark oud, with a hint of caramel. It was fucking intoxicating.
“And with how fucking wet you are right now, Miss Whitenhouse,” I growled, letting my finger glide through her folds, watching her drop her head back, her moans thick with desperation. “I’m sure you’ve been imagining me buried deep inside you.”
I slid a finger inside her, feeling her pussy clamp down, tight and eager.
“Am I wrong?” I whispered.
I pushed my finger deeper, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.
Then I added another, fucking her hard and fast, her slick coating my hand as I bit down on the curve of her neck.
My free hand tangled in her hair, gripping tight as I yanked her head back. She gasped, her body arching into the pull.
When she tried grinding against my hand, desperate for more, I tightened my grip, jerking her head back harder.
“Don’t fucking move,” I said, my fingers working faster, deeper.
Her pussy clenched around me, impossibly tight, her body trembling as she neared the edge.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” I muttered, my lips brushing her ear.
“Yes,” she breathed out, breathless and needy.
I let out a low, dark chuckle. “That’s my girl.”
Leaning in, I kissed her hard, and she responded with equal hunger, her hands flying to my face, her tongue plunging into mine. She kissed me like she needed me more than air.
Her body went rigid, a broken cry tearing from her as she came, nails sinking into my scalp, yanking at my hair like she wanted to tear it out. She bit down on my lip, her teeth digging in, pulling a growl from deep in my chest that rumbled against her mouth.
I didn’t stop—my fingers still fucking her, slick and tight, until her body stopped shaking.
“Fuck,” I muttered against her lips, grabbing her jaw to hold her in place as I pulled my fingers free, dripping with her. I brushed them over her lips. “Suck.”
Her mouth parted eagerly, her tongue flicking out to lick them clean, eyes never leaving mine, as if daring me to look away.
I pushed my fingers in deeper, and she sucked them with a desperate intensity, her lips pulling tight, her cheeks hollowing out.
“Guess I won, Miss Whitenhouse.”
Honestly, it felt too damn easy.
I couldn’t help but think she’d picked those three just to make sure I’d fuck her.
A wicked smirk curled at the corners of my lips.
My finger slid out of her mouth, and before I could react, she shoved me back, stood up, and kissed me—a quick, teasing peck on my lips.
I reached for her hips, but she stepped out of my grasp, her body moving with purpose.
She walked slowly toward the door, hips swaying. Stopping at the door, she glanced back at me with a smug grin.
“ Grazie per l'orgasmo, Angelo,” she chuckled softly. “ Ma non, ho vinto io. ”
She didn’t wait for a response.
With a wicked laugh, she was gone.
Che cazzo.