Chapter 9 Lia #2
He’s so close now I can feel his breath fan across my lips. “I think about you constantly. More than I should. More than I ever have with anyone.”
He chuckles softly to himself.
“It’s almost hilarious because this has never happened to me before.
Not like this. And it’s fucking me up. You’re in my head when I eat, when I sit in meetings, nodding along like I give a damn.
When I try to sleep, all I see is you. All I can think about is how you looked the night they dragged you into this house.
So scared and pissed off, but still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And I hated it. Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to look away. ”
“Marco, please—”
But he barrels forward, like he has to get it out or he’ll combust.
“That’s why I left for two years, trying to forget you. Thought distance would kill whatever this is. Thought I’d forget your name, your face, the sound of your voice. But it didn’t help. It just made it worse.”
His voice drops to a rasp. “You’re in my blood, Lia.
A fever I can’t sweat out. A drug I didn’t mean to take, but now I can’t go a day without craving.
That’s why I look for you. Why I always find you.
Why I need to talk to you, touch you, even if it’s just for a second.
Because no matter how hard I try…”—his eyes burn into mine—“I’m incapable of staying away. ”
The air tilts sideways. My pulse roars in my ears.
I should shove him away. Or even scream. But I just stand there.
Because I don’t know what I want anymore.
He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers linger as his thumb flicks along my jaw, gently.
And then he says it: “Despite it all, though… one thing is clear.”
I should stay silent. But I ask anyway.
“What’s that?”
He looks at me like he’s already known the answer forever.
“I want you.”
His mouth hovers inches from mine. And for one reckless second, I start to think I want him too.
But when I close my eyes—it’s not Marco I see.
“Tell me you don’t feel it too.”
I swallow hard, feeling slightly dizzy.
First Francesco, now Marco. I don’t think I can handle whatever this is. It’s too much. Too dangerous.
I pull away like I’ve been burned.
“I can’t,” I whisper, ashamed of how weak I sound.
Marco’s eyes flicker. “Why not?”
This moment feels all too familiar.
Francesco. He’s the only one on my mind as Marco steps even closer, pressing me against the wall. My body burns with heat. There’s a tiny pull deep within me, one that wants to reach up and press my lips to his, but I remain frozen.
With Francesco, it’s different. The desire is always there like a wildfire, and he’s like the fuel. I don’t think when he’s around me. I don’t even know what exactly I’m doing. I just follow what my body wants, which is to press against his.
But with Marco, I’m hesitant.
I feel something, but I’m not willing to see what it is.
“I asked you a question, Lia.” He leans down to press his forehead against mine. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I’ve never—” I stop myself. “Because I’m not ready.”
His thumb strokes over my jaw. I resist a shudder. “You’ve never…?”
“I’ve never been with a man,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks heat up.
He’s silent for a beat. Then: “You’ve never been with anyone?”
I nod, unable to meet his gaze.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His eyes search my face, and then something shifts in him—some mix of awe and possessiveness that makes my skin crawl. He looks at me like I’m not a person but a gift he doesn’t deserve yet still plans to keep.
“Then let me be your first.”
His lips hover so close to mine, I feel his breath on my skin.
Francesco’s face crashes into my mind again like a wave I can’t stop. All I can think about is him kissing me, touching me.
I jerk back.
“I can’t,” I repeat, more forcefully now.
Marco steps back, jaw flexing. He looks like he has more to say, but he bites it down and nods slowly.
“I understand,” he says, too calmly. But his eyes are anything but calm.
When he walks out, I finally manage to catch my breath.
I don’t see Marco for the rest of the day. I don’t know how to feel about that, so I don’t think about it.
Later in the evening, I’m carrying a bottle of red wine down to Dante’s office. They drink expensive wine like it’s water over here. The Romanos have always dealt in fine wine, and they are fortified, dating back centuries.
I knock once. I don’t get an answer, so I gently ease the door open. I was asked to drop it off for him in case he’s in his study.
As I step into the room, I hear muffled voices from an inner room. It sounds like two people are speaking.
I stop moving. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I press closer, just out of sight.
“…Adriano’s betrayal…”
I halt in my steps, recognizing the voice as Dante’s.
Who is he talking to? And why are they talking about my father? I inch closer to the door on the left of the room where the voices are coming from.
“…she’s been seen with Marco again,” the other voice is saying. “I see them almost every day. You think that’s a coincidence? It’s reckless.”
A dark feeling envelopes my chest. Olga.
Her voice is much louder than Dante’s. I grit my teeth, but I remain standing, trying to hear the rest of the conversation.
“She’s under control,” Dante replies. “For now.”
I don’t hear everything he’s saying, but I capture a few words.
“She’s a liability. Just like her father.”
There’s a pause. Then the sound of glass clinking.
“She doesn’t even know what he was hiding,” Olga continues, voice sharper now. “Adriano was preparing to expose everything. The offshore accounts. The wire transfers. The Romano archives we keep buried beneath that damn cellar.”
My lungs go still.
“She was his daughter,” Olga muses. “She may know more than she realizes.”
Dante’s voice drops to something darker—deadlier.
“If she steps out of line, they’ll be the ones to do something about it, and we all might suffer.”
My heart lodges in my throat.
“She’s already being watched,” Olga adds. “But if she keeps frolicking with Marco, it’ll get harder to justify keeping her alive.”
My fingers dig into the tray, knuckles white.
“… a reason La Mano Nera hasn’t,” Dante mutters. “And I intend to find out what it is.”
La Mano Nera? What is that?
Someone moves toward the door. So I bolt, slipping around the corner and flattening against the wall, my heart hammering so loudly I’m sure they can hear it.
Then I back away slowly, careful not to make a sound.
I didn’t get enough details on their conversation, but I know enough. They’re still watching me. They think I’m a threat.
My blood pumps harder through my veins. Now I’m more determined to find out what my father had been investigating and why they killed him. And I can find something in their account archives in the cellar.
I press a hand to my stomach, feeling the nausea rising.
Escape isn’t my only option anymore.
I need to know more. Before they finally do what they have planned.
I’m still trembling by the time I stagger to the servants’ quarters. Racing toward my room at the hallway’s shadowed end, I falter when I spot a door ajar. I hear something crashing to the ground, and a frown takes over my face as I walk over.
Another sound comes out as I reach the door. It sounds like… a moan.
Drawn like a moth to flame, I lean toward the gap and peer into it.
I stifle a gasp.
Elio is shirtless. His sculpted frame gleams with sweat, every sinew coiled with primal power. A maid is splayed before him, bent over the desk, her skirt rucked up to bare the pale curves of her hips.
His large hand fists her hair, wrenching her head back as he thrusts into her with a savage and unrelenting rhythm.
I’ve never seen someone in the throes of passion like this. It’s exhilarating, untamed—a plunge into depraved pleasure. For a fleeting, shameful moment, I can’t help but imagine myself in her place, the object of that vicious intensity, with a man’s hands branding my skin, his force unraveling me.
The desk shudders under their weight, as books and papers flutter to the floor, and her breathless cries mingle with his deep, animalistic grunts.
Her nails claw the wood, her body arched perfectly to meet each ferocious drive. The air is thick with the musky scent of their desire.
Suddenly, his head jerks up. And his eyes, dark and molten, lock onto mine.
Heat surges through me, like a wildfire scorching my face and my core. My legs wobble as I bolt, my heart thundering with the image branded into my soul—of his relentless hunger, and her wanton surrender.
I don’t stop until I’m back in my room with the door locked behind me.
I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Shame, shock, heat. All of it. I collapse on the bed, still panting.
I can’t stop thinking about it. The way he slammed into her, the sounds she made.
There’s a throbbing ache in my pussy. I try to ignore it, but it only gets worse by the second. Without even realizing what I’m doing, my hand slips under my skirt.
I push my panties to the side and caress my clit with my thumb. I’m soaked.
A whimper escapes from between my parted lips as I slip one finger inside me. Sweat breaks out over my body as I close my eyes, trying to picture a man touching me. But he’s the only one I can think about.
Francesco.
His mouth. His eyes. That vein in his neck that pulses when he’s angry. I hear his voice in my head. That gravel-low growl, thick with want.
I imagine his fingers sliding into me, slowly at first, then roughly, pushing deep inside my walls, making me cry out in pleasure. A moan slips past my lips as I throw my head back. I imagine his tongue licking the inside of my thighs like he’s hungry, starving, for me.
I touch myself to the memory of his kiss, the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my skin.
Wet sounds fill the small room as I thrust my hips forward, pumping my fingers faster and harder, desperate to get a release.
It doesn’t take long before I buck against the sheets. And when I ride out my orgasm, breathless and trembling, it’s his name that escapes my lips, like it always seems to be.