Chapter 11 Lia #2
“You only get busy when you’re scared to see me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“No,” he agrees, close now, eyes locked to mine. “But you’re scared of what I make you feel.”
I don’t move or say anything because I don’t trust myself not to annoy him with my words.
His fingers brush mine, just a light touch, but it sends a jolt through me.
“If I came down with something, would you take care of me too?”
A small smile plays at the side of my lips. “Pretty sure you’ve got expensive doctors for that.”
“What if I don’t want any of the doctors? What if it’s just you I want?”
He knows me too well. I see it in the way his eyes flicker to mine, studying me. I wonder if he thinks his touch has an effect on me or if he can see past that. If he can see the exhaustion in my eyes, the anger I have toward his family.
He leans in a little, just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Would you hold me like you did the night I told you about your father? Would you lie to me sweetly until I believed the world was simple again?”
“Marco…”
“Have I made you speechless, Stellina?”
His hand slides over my waist, and I don’t push him away. I’m too tired to resist him. I don’t want to resist him.
But when he leans in, his mouth hovering over mine, I blurt out the words troubling me.
“You Romanos,” I say. “You’re not just mafioso. You’re something else. Aren’t you?”
Everything about him stills.
The lazy, flirty gleam in his eyes extinguishes like a flame smothered by a storm. His grip on my waist tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me he could. That he wants me to feel it. For the first time, I see something dark and dangerous flash in his gaze.
Then, slowly, his other hand rises to my chin, thumb pressing beneath it, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to look at him.
“What did you just say?” he asks, low.
The air around us feels heavier. Denser. Like the night itself is holding its breath.
“There’s something else your family’s hiding,” I whisper. “Something older. Something your folks didn’t want coming out into the light. What is it?”
His eyes glint but not with anger. With something colder. Something like reverence.
He leans in until his lips graze my cheek. His breath is warm. His voice isn’t.
“That knowledge,” he murmurs, “isn’t for you.”
His hand slips higher on my waist, fingers splaying possessively over my ribs.
“It’s not for girls who poke their noses where they don’t belong, playing detective,” he breathes. “It’s for those who belong. Who can handle what that knowledge comes with. Those who can bleed for it. Who kneel for it.”
My pulse spikes.
He turns my chin slightly, lips grazing the shell of my ear now, barely touching me but stealing every breath I have.
“You want to know the truth?” he growls. “Then say goodbye to everything you were before tonight. Because if I give you even a taste of the things I hide in my closet, you’re mine in ways you don’t come back from. Mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to ruin.”
His mouth drags back to mine, slow, threatening, hot.
“You must think you’re clever. But you have no idea what you’re digging into, Lia.”
My heart hammers. I should be terrified. I am. But there’s heat twisting low in my belly, curling around the fear like it likes it there.
“I think your family murdered mine,” I breathe, “to keep your empire intact.”
There’s a flicker in his expression, something that almost looks like pain. Rage. Guilt?
And then he shuts it all down behind a slow, venomous smile.
“You don’t want the truth, Stellina,” he says. “You want a villain to hate because hating is easier than accepting what your father really was.”
My breath catches. “That’s not—”
“You don’t know what’s true anymore,” he says, brushing his thumb across my lips.
“Did your family kill him?” My voice cracks. “Did they slaughter my father like an animal to protect their precious secret?”
His jaw clenches. His eyes—those maddening, piercing eyes—look right through me.
“He knew the cost,” he says finally. “He chose his fate.”
“No one chooses to die.”
“No.” Marco brushes a loose strand of hair from my face. “But he chose to break the rules. And in our world, that’s the same thing.”
My chest is heaving. My skin is burning. “I should hate you.”
“Then hate me.” He grabs my face, not roughly, but with intention. “Hate me and let me feel it. You came out here like a storm, ready to confront me. But look at you…”
He presses closer, chest against mine, heat and danger radiating off him.
“You’re trembling. And you’re still letting me touch you.”
I want to pull away, I should pull away. But somehow, I don’t. The warmth of his body draws me in against my will, as if my mind and body are at war. This is the only way to forget him. To forget Francesco.
The tension snaps like a live wire between us. Then he kisses me, and I shatter.
It’s hard. Deep. Like a punishment.
My fists pound against his chest, but then they curl into his shirt as I drag him closer. I hate them all—I hate him—but my lips part for him like they’ve forgotten how to fight back.
His mouth moves over mine roughly, desperately. A collision of lust and punishment. His kiss devours like he’s trying to erase my questions, my rebellion, me.
And for a terrifying second, I let him. I kiss him back like I’m trying to forget the blood, the ring, the oath in my father’s journal.
But even as Marco pulls me deeper into the kiss, my thoughts flash back—Francesco. His kiss, the way his mouth haunted mine, the way he burned into me with the same dangerous intensity. I try to push it away, try to bury it, but I can’t.
So I don’t stop Marco when he slides his hands down my hips, his mouth sucking on my lower lip as he digs his fingers into my flesh. I slide my hands to his back, keeping him close to me. One part of me wants to stop him.
The other clings to him like maybe this—maybe letting him consume me—is the only way to forget Francesco.
The cold breeze brushes against my skin as he lifts the skirt of my uniform. His hands wander beneath it, caressing, searching…
I pull back with a gasp when his hands almost reach my heat.
“Marco,” I gasp, pushing at his chest. “Don’t.”
I’m struggling to catch my breath, confusion swirling through my head and making me dizzy. The kiss—it was supposed to help. To erase the memory of Francesco, to give me control back. But it’s only made it worse.
His eyes glint as he smiles, but his hands drop from my body.
“Next time,” he whispers, “you’ll beg me not to stop.”
He says it like he’s so sure there’ll be a next time. He steps back, his control restored like a mask slipping back into place.
“You should get some rest. Sleep tight, Stellina.”
With that flirty wink of his, he turns around and walks away.
I remain there for a few more seconds, still shaking and disgusted with myself. Not just for what he did, but for how much of me allowed it to happen.
Then I feel it.
That prickling heat at the back of my neck.
I don’t need to look up to know.
Francesco.
I raise my eyes to the balcony. My heart rate accelerates with several thoughts swirling through my head. I’m expecting to meet his heated, angry gaze, but he’s gone.
But I know he was there. Watching. Judging. Maybe even listening.
I blow out a frustrated breath as I head back into the house.
I need to leave this place before they drive me crazy. Before they both do.