Chapter 5
Catalina
My thighs tremble. The aggressive hum of the space heater vibrates against the stone floor, pushing a narrow cone of artificial warmth into the freezing air of the speakeasy tunnel.
My underwear is wrecked, every shift of denim a reminder of what he just did to me.
The ghost of Fabio's rough hands still burns against my skin through the barrier of my clothes.
The echo of my own broken moan bounces around the curved, dripping ceiling.
Look at him. He stands across the room by the iron door, his frame rigid, his jaw locked tight enough to crack a tooth.
His broad chest heaves beneath his shirt.
He just wrung an orgasm out of me through layers of denim, and now he's playing stoic sentry by the door.
He's put the whole room between us, white-knuckling whatever instinct is screaming at him to come back over here.
Men are ridiculous. Costa men, specifically, are a special breed of absurd.
He's playing sentry like the threat is on the other side of that door. Like I'm fragile, some defecting Bellanti princess who needs a minute to recover from him. Like I'm scared of him.
I'm scared of plenty of things. My uncle.
The strike teams hunting me through Chicago right now.
Ending up like Aunt Maria, gone before sunrise because she dared to want a life outside the family.
But I'm not scared of the tattooed wall of muscle currently glaring at the rusted iron door like it personally offended him.
His scent drifts across the small space, the one I'd recognize anywhere now. It settles in my lungs and refuses to leave. For my entire life, I ran on cold calculation. Count the exits. Map the blind spots. Never show a weakness. Never give anyone an opening.
That hardness kept me breathing in a house run by killers.
But standing here, in a decommissioned prohibition tunnel beneath the Chicago River, the armor suddenly feels heavy.
It feels useless. Fabio Costa doesn't look like a man who wants to use my weaknesses against me.
He wants to stand in front of them and slaughter anything that tries to exploit them.
My knees shake as I push myself up from the wooden crate. The scuff of my boots against the gritty stone floor cuts through the silence.
Fabio's head snaps toward me. His eyes track my movement with lethal precision. A muscle ticks along his sharp jawline. He's a coiled spring, a predator trying to convince himself to stay on his side of the line.
"Sit down, Catalina," he grinds out, his voice a jagged rumble of pure restraint. "You need to catch your breath."
"I don't take orders from men who run away the second things get interesting," I shoot back. My voice is steady, laced with the sharp edge that has been my only defense mechanism for years.
His eyes flare with a sudden fire. He shifts his weight, boots planted firm on the stone. "I'm giving you space."
"I didn't ask for space." I take another step forward, leaving the warm orbit of the space heater. The damp chill of the tunnel bites through my clothes, but the heat rolling off his body is a much stronger argument.
"Catalina." It's a warning. A low growl vibrating with everything he's trying not to do.
He grips the iron handle of the door behind him, his knuckles stark white under the dim overhead bulb.
"Stop walking. I'm barely holding onto my control right now.
You smell like dark honey and sex, and I can't think straight. Stay over there."
"No." I close the distance.
I stop one inch from his chest. He fills my whole field of view. He's violence personified. He's the enemy. He's also the only safe place I've ever known.
I lift my hand.
Fabio tenses. His shoulders hike up. His jaw clenches so hard a vein bulges at his temple.
Every line of him is braced for rejection.
He carries himself like a man who has only ever been handed violence and loss.
Every line of his body says he's expecting a slap, a shove, a scream about taking liberties with an enemy asset. He's braced for the impact.
I flatten my palm directly over his hammering heart.
He responds like a man undone by a gentle hand. The rigid tension drains out of his frame in one shuddering exhale. His broad shoulders drop. A harsh, broken sound rips from his throat.
"I'm done running," I tell him, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I'm done calculating the odds. I'm done treating you like a threat."
His large hand comes up, wrapping around my wrist. His skin is hot, heavily calloused from years of brutality, but his grip is terrifyingly gentle. "I'm a threat, Catalina. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. I'm going to take every part of you until there's nothing left but me."
"Good." I tilt my chin up, meeting his obsessive stare. "Because I don't want anyone else. I want you."
The last frayed thread of his control snaps.
Fabio drops my wrist and buries both hands in my hair. His mouth crashes down on mine. There's no hesitation, no restraint. He kisses me like a man who's been starving. His tongue pushes past my lips, sweeping through my mouth like he already owns it. My knees buckle.
I sag against him, overwhelmed by his size and strength.
His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off the stone floor.
My boots dangle in the air. I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring myself to him as he backs me into the solid iron door.
The cold metal bites through the back of my shirt.
I barely feel it under the blistering heat of his chest flush against my breasts.
"Mine," he growls against my mouth, biting my lower lip. "You're fucking mine. Say it."
"Yours," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his short-cropped hair. "I'm yours, Fabio."
He groans against my mouth, the sound of a man who just won something.
He marches away from the door, carrying me effortlessly across the small room.
He drops me down onto the narrow cot in the corner.
The rough military blanket scratches against my jeans.
Before I can sit up, he's crowding over me, ripping his shirt off and dropping it on the stone.
The dim light catches the roaring lion inked on his left bicep as he reaches for the hem of my shirt.
"Hands up," he commands.
I obey, raising my arms. He pulls my shirt off in one smooth motion, throwing it aside. My bra follows a second later. The cold air of the tunnel hits my bare skin, making my nipples pebble into tight, aching points.
Fabio's eyes track the movement. He stops. He stares at my chest, then down to my stomach, then to the flare of my hips hidden beneath my denim. Feral worship floods his face. He looks at my curves like a starving man staring at a feast he was told he was never allowed to touch.
"You're perfect," he growls, dropping to his knees on the stone floor between my spread thighs. "Every inch of you is a miracle."
"I'm a Bellanti," I remind him softly, my defensive humor surfacing for a brief, fleeting second. "We're supposed to be monsters."
"Fuck the Bellantis," he snarls, his hands dropping to the button of my jeans. "You're a Costa now. You wear my mark."
He pops the button and jerks the zipper down. His calloused hands grip the denim and pull, dragging my jeans and sticky underwear down my legs in one aggressive yank. He tosses them over his shoulder.
I lie back against the rough blanket, exposed to the harsh, damp air and the burning intensity of his gaze.
For as long as I can remember, I hid my body, hid my thoughts, hid my existence inside oversized sweaters and quiet obedience.
Now, I'm bare, spread open on a cot in a forgotten Prohibition tunnel, offering myself to the man my family calls the devil. I've never felt more powerful.
Fabio slides his large hands up my bare calves, over my knees, and stops to grip my thighs. His thumbs press into the soft, yielding flesh. He drags his hands over the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, slow and possessive. He's memorizing me.
"Spread for me," he murmurs, his voice rough with raw lust.
I open my thighs wider, offering him unrestricted access. A wet, shameless slick coats my pussy, dripping down into the crease of my thighs. The grinding from earlier left me sensitized, aching, and desperately empty. I need him. I need his weight on me, the steadiness of him.
Fabio leans forward, dipping his head between my knees. His hot breath fans over my soaking wetness. I arch my back, my fingers gripping the coarse fabric of the blanket.
"Fabio," I gasp, my hips bucking off the mattress.
"I'm going to taste every secret you have," he vows darkly.
His mouth opens over me. His tongue lashes out, broad and hot, swiping a long, slick path right up the center of my pussy. The jolt of white electricity arcs straight up my spine. My jaw drops. A loud, un-Bellanti moan rips out of my throat, bouncing off the stone walls.
He grips my hips, holding me firmly in place as his tongue goes to work. He's relentless. He finds my swollen clit and sucks it directly into his mouth, applying a brutal, unrelenting suction that makes my vision swim with white-hot sparks.
"Fuck," I sob, my head tossing side to side on the cot. "Please."
He answers by driving two fingers deep inside my slick opening. The stretch is sudden and intense. My body clenches hard around him, gripping the thick intrusion of his fingers. He works his fingers in and out, the wet sound of it louder than the space heater's hum.