Chapter 20 – Alessandra
Private Suite, South Wharf Penthouse
The door gives way beneath my shoulder, and I stumble inside barefoot, one heel dangling from my fingers, the other still strapped to my foot. A half-finished glass of red wine sways dangerously in my other hand.
The room smells of sweat, cigar smoke, and the faint tang of leather.
Marcello Vitale stands in the center, shirtless, his pale skin gleaming in the dim light.
A coiled whip hangs loose in his right hand, the handle still warm from use.
Three men kneel on the carpet in front of him, heads bowed, backs tense as if bracing for the next strike.
When he sees me, he exhales then snaps the whip once, not to strike but to punctuate his annoyance.
“Get out of my sight,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel.
The kneeling men scatter like startled birds, nearly tripping over one another in their rush for the door. The sound of it slamming shut behind them leaves the room in a thick, watchful silence.
I let my body collapse onto his wide bed, silk sheets sighing beneath me. I hold out the wine glass toward him like a peace offering. “Drink. It’ll sweeten your mood.”
His icy gaze drifts over me before he turns away, hanging the whip on a hook by the wall. “Who let you in?”
I smirk, swirling the wine lazily. “Sucked the right dick.” I take a slow sip, the grin tugging at my mouth widening at his visible wince. “Don’t look so scandalized.”
He moves toward the sideboard, uncorking a fresh bottle of something dark and expensive. “He rejected you again?”
My jaw tightens. “Shut up, Marcello.”
He shrugs, the line of his shoulders casual, but there’s a glint in his pale eyes when he finally looks back at me.
For a moment, I say nothing, just breathe in the thick smoke curling from the cigar he lights and rests between his lips. The ember glows as he draws in a slow lungful, then exhales toward the ceiling.
I sit up, cradling my wine. “What about this stupid plan of yours to take the Bellarosas down?”
His mouth curves—not into a smile exactly, but something close. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t mess with me, Marcello. I know you met with his maid.”
“So you’re stalking the maid now.” He smiles cruelly.
I am unfazed by his mockery. He leans back against the desk, cigar in hand, eyes half-lidded as if picturing the fall of an empire.
Marcello’s mouth curves in that slow, infuriating way of his as he leans in until I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, “are you jealous the maid is fucking your crush?”
I hold his gaze, unblinking. “Fiancé,” I correct, the word slicing between us.
He laughs—right in my face. A low, rich sound that makes my grip tighten. My fingers loop around his wrist, nails pressing faint crescents into his skin.
“And you?” I counter. “Are you jealous that I want him, not you?”
He tilts his head, his hand sliding to my waist. “Why the hell would I be jealous?” His tone drips with mockery.
I push him away, hard enough to make him take a step back. “I want her gone after this,” I say, my voice like steel. “And you deliver Cristofano to me—alive and broken.”
His pale blue eyes glint. He leans in, lips brushing my neck. “I will…for a small price.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I snap, stepping out of reach. “We’re related.”
He smiles, shark-like. “I’m an illegitimate child, darling. No blood between us.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “I can show you what a real man can do. I only care about the Black Book. I’ll snap Cristofano’s limbs and hand him to you—curved, crushed in spirit and in body. At your mercy.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “And the maid?”
He exhales a puff of air as if blowing her existence away.
I stand slowly, set my glass aside…then upend the rest of the wine straight over his face. Red rivulets streak down his jaw and chest. His grin only widens.
Before he can speak, I grab his collar, pull him in, and run my tongue slowly across his lips, tasting wine and smoke. “Then you deserve a treat.”
His eyes darken, and as my blouse loosens under his fingers, that wicked smile of his never falters.
His fingers tear open my blouse, pushing it off my shoulders before I can even catch my balance. The bed hits the back of my knees, and I fall into it; the sheets are cool against my skin.
There’s red wine staining the corner of his mouth, a dark smear along his cheek. He leans over me, eyes sharp.
“You should think of Cristofano when I fuck you.”
“Go kill yourself,” I snap.
He grins, teeth flashing like he’s been waiting for that. He’s already shirtless, muscles flexing as he kicks off his pants in one motion.
In the next second, he’s between my legs, pushing into me in a single thrust.
The force knocks the air from my lungs. My back arches off the mattress, breasts bouncing against his chest as his cock drives all the way inside me.
He’s thick, stretching me so wide that my thighs tremble with the effort to take him.
My pussy grips him tight, fluttering around every inch, so wet that each brutal push makes a sucking sound.
Before I can even find my breath, he pulls back. His cock drags along my walls, the thick head almost slipping free before he slams forward again. The sudden depth makes me cry out, the sound breaking from my throat as the bedframe shudders beneath us.
Every thrust is different, every one a new kind of torment.
One drives so deep it punches a gasp out of me, stealing the air from my lungs.
The next grazes that swollen spot inside me, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure through my stomach, down my thighs, curling my toes tight against the sheets.
Another grinds into me with a blunt ache that makes my pussy gush around him, wetness spilling down between my ass cheeks, soaking the sheets below.
I choke on a moan, biting it back, swallowing it down even as my body betrays me. My breasts rise and fall wildly, nipples stiff and grazing his chest with every thrust, sparks shooting down to my clit.
“You’re not done yet?” I pant, words shaky, breaking apart as his cock splits me again and again.
He snarls, seizing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back until my throat is exposed and our eyes lock. The sting sends a jolt through me, my scalp burning, my pussy clenching tighter around his cock at the same time.
“Guess,” he growls, punctuating the word with a savage thrust that buries him balls-deep inside me.
My lips curve into a smirk, even as my voice trembles, even as my cunt throbs around him. “You like how it feels, huh?”
He answers by slamming into me harder—so deep, so brutal, that a sharp, helpless gasp rips free from my throat. My walls spasm around him, gripping his cock tight, milking him without my permission.
“I could ask you the same,” he snarls, his breath hot and damp against my cheek.
Then his pace changes. His hips snap against mine in quick, punishing strokes, his cock pounding through my slick, swollen heat. The wet slap of our bodies colliding fills the room. My breasts bounce wildly, nipples dragging over his chest, oversensitive and aching.
I fist the sheets in both hands, knuckles white, trying to anchor myself against the relentless rhythm.
But my body betrays me—my voice fractures into ragged cries, half-moan, half-plea, breaking free with every brutal plunge of his cock.
My pussy gushes around him, wetness spilling, coating him, the bed, everything.
His groans deepen, ragged and raw, and I can feel his cock swell inside me, pulsing. His rhythm stutters, then sharpens—one, two, three brutal, bone-deep thrusts that slam my hips into the mattress.
He lets out a groan, shuddering hard as he spills inside me. I feel it—hot, thick spurts filling me up, flooding my pussy until it’s dripping out around him. His cock twitches with each wave of release, and I whimper at the sensation, my walls clamping around him, sucking at every pulse.
He stays buried deep, cock still throbbing inside me as his body collapses over mine. His weight pins me down, his chest slick against my breasts, his breath breaking against my cheek in ragged bursts. Sweat drips between us, our skin sliding together, the smell of sex heavy in the air.
Finally, he rolls onto his back, dragging his cock out of me with a wet, obscene sound.
Cum leaks out instantly, sliding down my swollen slit, pooling against my thighs, and soaking the sheets beneath.
His chest rises and falls in sharp, gasping bursts, eyes closed, jaw tight, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks.
And I’m left trembling too, my pussy raw and aching, clenching around emptiness, still throbbing with the memory of every punishing thrust.
****
The sheets are still rumpled when I button my blouse.
My pulse hasn’t yet settled, but I force my breathing to match the cool indifference I wear like perfume.
Behind me, Marcello reclines against the headboard, chest rising and falling, a lazy predator post-hunt.
Smoke from the cigar he lit earlier curls in the air between us, thick and heavy.
“So,” I say, smoothing the fabric at my waist. My voice is sweetened steel. “We have a deal. I get Cristofano.”
He turns his head toward me slowly, his pale blue eyes shining in the dim light like shards of ice. “Of course you do.”
I pause mid-button. “How long?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “After the Blue Moon.”
I stand, but before I can take a step, his hand snakes out, catching my wrist in a grip that’s deceptively casual. “The price you’ve paid…” his gaze drops, a mocking flicker in his eyes, “…isn’t enough for Cristofano.”
The air between us tightens. I twist my wrist free and glare down at him. “Fuck off.”
His smirk deepens. “You know you liked it. And that bastard hasn’t touched you, has he?”
I turn away, intent on the door. “I’m done.”
“Wait.”