Chapter 4 Belle
BELLE
Iwake up feeling like I've been fucked by a freight train.
Every muscle aches in that specific way that screams you let a dangerous man rearrange your insides last night.
My thighs burn when I move. There's a bruise on my hip shaped like his thumb. Another on my throat where he sucked hard enough to mark.
I should be mortified.
Instead, I press my fingers to the bruise on my neck and shiver.
This is the kind of sore that hums low and satisfied, that makes my thighs twinge when I shift.
The memories flash through my brain like a porno slideshow starring yours truly and who has to be the scariest man in New York.
Holy shit.
I, Belle Donovan, certified disaster and former card-carrying virgin, just had mind-blowing sex with the actual Beast of New York.
The other side of the bed is cool, the pillow dented. Of course, he's gone.
The Beast doesn't do morning cuddles. Shocker.
Still, though, the ghost of him lingers on my skin, in the ache between my thighs, in the faint bruises forming where his fingers gripped too hard in the heat of the moment.
"You're mine now," he'd whispered against my lips.
And damn if my body hadn't screamed yes please in response.
What kind of twisted mind fuck is this? I should be plotting my escape, calling the FBI, or at least having a breakdown about my father selling me to the mob.
Instead, I'm lying here, replaying every brutal, perfect second of last night like it's my favorite movie.
I stare at the ceiling and think back to the way Luca had looked at me when he caught me with my hand between my legs.
The heat in his eyes when he spread me open.
The delicious weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
The sane part of me should be drafting a text to my future self that starts with "Dear idiot, never again."
Instead, I lie there and feel the ache where he was, and my chest does a stupid little tighten, like I lost something I never had.
I replay it. I don't even try not to. Every brutal, perfect second.
His mouth on me like prayer and blasphemy got married. His hands pinning me down like gravity chose a favorite.
The way he looked at me—as if I were a secret he'd waited years to break open.
I never imagined my first time would be with a mafia don. That sentence alone should come with a lawyer and a therapist.
He is dangerous.
He is exactly every headline I used to tut-tut over at brunch.
And yet regret is conspicuously absent.
In its place is a heat that blooms when I breathe too deeply, a private, shameless smile that creeps onto my cheeks.
I fling back the covers before the smile gets permanent and march to the bathroom.
Cold shower. Exorcism by water. Maybe that'll wash away the crazy.
I crank the handle until it hisses, and the spray slaps my skin icy enough to raise goosebumps.
Spoiler: the demon is stubborn.
I scrub my hair like I'm trying to erase him, but the more I chase him out, the more my mind slides there—his voice in my ear, rough and low; his weight caging me; the sound I made when he—
My hands start to trace the path Luca's took last night. Over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs.
I close my eyes and I'm right back there—his mouth hot against my skin, his fingers stretching me open, preparing me for him.
"Fuck," I whisper, leaning against the shower wall.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
I'm supposed to be figuring out how to escape, not fantasizing about round two with the Beast of New York.
My life is spiraling faster than a TikTok trend, and here I am, getting turned on in the shower like some horny teenager.
I pull away my hand.
Stop it right now. Abort mission!
But fuck, he looked good naked.
I slap my palm flat against the tile and huff a laugh that sounds a little unhinged.
The water clearly isn't holy enough to baptize this out of me. I need to do something else.
By the time I step out, I'm flushed from the cold, and my pulse hasn't taken the hint.
I towel off and pull on the first set of clothes I can find. Get my hair in a high ponytail, and lips all chap-sticked.
Then, I pretend this is the face of a woman who definitely didn't lose her virginity to New York's favorite supervillain.
Yeah, right.
I think I need some coffee.
I venture out of my room, half-expecting to find a guard posted outside.
There's no one there, just more of those creepy little camera eyes blinking at me from the ceiling.
I wander the hallways, trying to remember the path to the kitchen, or dining room, or wherever people eat in a mansion the size of Rhode Island.
Instead, I find myself following the sound of grunts and thuds, like someone beating the shit out of a punching bag.
Or maybe a person. With Luca Moretti, it could go either way.
I push open a set of double doors and step into a sexy ass professional-grade gym.
Weight machines gleam under bright lights. A boxing ring dominates the center of the room.
And there, in all his shirtless glory, is Luca.
Oh, hello there.
I hang back in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.
He's sparring with a guy twice my size, moving like the guy's got no bones.
Each punch snaps from shoulder to knuckle with a control that pulls the eye like a magnet.
His muscles ripple like beasts of their own, his back the kind that could bring cities to the ground with sheer force.
He is violence made beautiful, and terrifying to watch.
Sweat traces the geography of his chest like holy water on church marble—sacred and profane at once.
The serpent tattoo wraps his ribs, seeming to move with each breath, alive and hungry.
I squeeze my thighs together like that'll make me decent.
It does not.
I cross my arms and pretend I'm immune while he pivots, slams his opponent to the mat with a move so fast I can barely follow it.
The guy taps out, and Luca helps him up with a nod.
His gaze flashes up once, quick, like a spark sees dry tinder. That's when he sees me.
Our eyes lock for a heartbeat. My heart staggers and trips.
It's like yesterday in his office all over again—that instant, electric connection that defies logic or reason.
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the clothes he provided, lingering on the places his hands had explored just hours ago.
His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile that tells me he sees too much.
I arch a brow at him.
I'm fine. Totally fine.
Someone laughs behind me. I don't turn, but I can feel the look sliding over me slow and sticky.
"Boss's new pet wants to see the big boys fight, huh?" the man says. "Bet she purrs real good."
The gym goes dead silent. Every face turns toward me, then to Luca, like they're watching a bomb about to detonate.
And detonate he does.
Luca moves so fast it's almost inhuman.
One second he's across the room, the next he's in the guy's face, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the wall so hard the whole room seems to shake.
"What did you say?" Luca's voice is deathly quiet. Scarier than if he'd shouted.
The guy's eyes bulge like a stepped-on stress ball.
I watch the exact moment he realizes his mistake—when Luca's grip shifts from warning to promise. "I—I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to disrespect what's mine?" Luca cuts with each word. "You didn't mean to talk about her like she's a thing?"
"Boss, I—"
The first punch breaks his nose. I hear it snap, wet and wrong.
Blood spatters the concrete like modern art nobody asked for.
The second punch drops him.
The third through seventh are just Luca making a point.
I can't bring myself to look away.
There's a switch inside him, and I get the gut feeling I'm watching it flip—off to on, restraint to ruin.
His punches are brutal and efficient.
There's no wasted rage, no sloppy windmilling. He chooses targets—ribs, jaw, the soft under hinge—and he lands them like he promised himself he would.
My heart is loud enough to count—one, two, three—like I'm timing him. Like I'm complicit.
Fear threads through the heat in me like silver wire. I'm not na?ve; I knew who he was.
But knowing a thing and witnessing it are two different things.
This is the man who put his mouth on my neck like I was made for it.
This is also the man who breaks other men like they're puzzles and he's bored.
Both truths live in his body at once.
Both are terrifying.
The guy on the floor chokes, coughs red onto gray concrete.
Luca plants a hand on his chest and stands, leaving the man gasping like a fish that misread its environment.
He lifts his head and finds me.
God help me.
There's a part of me that fights to hold back the flinch.
My spine remembers some distant grandmother who looked storms in the eye and said, You'll pass.
I hold his gaze and discover a nerve I didn't know I owned.
He walks toward me, each step heavy enough that the floor seems to listen.
His knuckles are split, raw, blooming with little red claws.
I stand there frozen, just waiting for him to arrive. Honestly, no one moves.
"Luca," I say, as he draws closer, and all I see is the storm brewing in his eyes.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the sweat and blood.
"No one talks about what's mine," he says, cupping my chin and forcing me to look at his intense gaze. "No one disrespects you. Ever."