16. Luciano
Chapter 16
Luciano
F our bedrooms, three bathrooms—it’s more space than I need—yet it’s never felt claustrophobic until Gianna moved in. Now, every room echoes from the unspoken war between us.
She’s been here for days, tiptoeing through my life with infuriating composure. Our routine has settled into something twisted: I demand she serves me—cooking, cleaning, and a thousand menial chores—and she complies with barely a flicker of emotion. It’s like she’s refusing to give me the reaction I crave. There’s no shouting, no tears, no pleas for mercy. Just obedience.
And I hate it. Because it means I’m the only one simmering with anger. I want her to lash out and snap so I can unleash the anger that chews through my insides. But she won’t give me that satisfaction. Her passivity feels more like quiet defiance every day. It’s a presence I can’t ignore, and it poisons every corner of my home.
A thud from the hallway drags me out of my thoughts. Gianna is in there, probably finishing the laundry or folding fresh towels. I push off the couch and head toward the noise. If I find a single speck of dust or a single towel folded incorrectly, I’ll have an excuse to punish her—to break the eerie calm settling between us. Part of me wants that confrontation, needs it if we ever plan to move past whatever this is between us.
But when I round the corner into the hallway, she’s simply hauling a basket of neatly folded clothes. She pauses upon seeing me, spine straightening, chin dipping just enough to acknowledge my presence without looking me in the eyes. Her hair is twisted into a loose bun, a few dark strands brushing her neck. An image flashes through my mind: her hair undone and tangled, her lips parted as I toyed with her body in the middle of the living room.
The memory sends heat pulsing through my veins. Rage or lust—these days, I can’t tell them apart, can’t separate the urge to shake her from the desire to pin her against the wall and fuck the obedience out of her.
“You’ve finished the laundry?”
“Yes,” Gianna answers quietly.
“And dinner?”
“It’s keeping warm on the stove.” Her fingers tighten on the laundry basket, knuckles going white against the plastic rim.
“Hmm.” A noncommittal sound. The truth is, I’m not hungry. At least, not for food. An uneasy restlessness gnaws at my gut. You wanted to torture her, but now you can’t stop thinking about her, can you, you pathetic bastard? If my brothers were here, they’d set me straight.
Dante would tell me that there are worse things I could be doing than forcing my soon-to-be wife to do my laundry. After all, he kidnapped and imprisoned the woman he married, and they built a beautiful life and family together. He’d laugh at my hesitation and remind me that sometimes, the most reluctant brides make the most devoted wives.
Niccolo would say any woman liberated from the clutches of Giovanni Lucatello should be grateful. His wife is Giovanni’s niece, and he is all too familiar with the criminal acts required of a man to save a woman from a fate worse than death.
Salvatore would remind me that I could always marry Gianna and take up a mistress on the side. Women in this lifestyle can be as important or as disposable as you make them. But then again, he’s never been a man in love. Maybe if he were, he’d understand why I could never do that to her. The mere thought of touching another woman makes my skin crawl, and I hate myself for it.
I force my lips into a sneer, returning my attention to Gianna. “Follow me.”
Her gaze flickers with reluctance, but she sets down the basket and trails after me. I lead her into the living room and drop onto the leather couch. The television is off; I haven’t bothered turning it on in days. Instead, I’ve occupied my mind by finding new ways to push Gianna’s buttons.
She stands a few feet away, hands at her sides, posture neutral. Everything about her screams self-control. I’ll fix that.
“Sit,” I say, patting my thigh. “Here.”
Gianna hesitates. Her eyes flick to the couch cushion, but I keep my hand on my leg, making it clear I expect her in my lap. The uncertainty that crosses her face is the closest thing to a real reaction I’ve seen in days. A muscle twitches in her jaw and her fingers curl slightly at her sides—tiny tells that betray the battle between her training and her pride. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.
Slowly, she steps closer, gingerly lowering herself onto my lap. Her body is stiff, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her weight is disconcertingly pleasant—a warmth that stokes an unwanted glimmer of desire. I loop an arm around her waist and yank her flush against me, my nose near the curve of her neck. She smells faintly of soap and something sweet.
Leaning in, I let my breath ghost over her ear. “Comfortable?”
Gianna doesn’t reply, but her shoulders tighten, and her spine straightens. Her heartbeat thrums so loudly that I can feel it through her skin. Triumph flares in my chest, spreading like warm honey— finally , a sign that she’s not made of stone.
“You know,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against the soft skin there, “this is how you should act as my fiancée, hmm? Eager to please. Compliant. After all, you sure seemed eager enough in that motel room.” I savor the way her pulse jumps beneath her skin.
Her back arches just a fraction at the reminder of that night. She bites her lip, staring straight ahead. I smirk, letting my free hand drift up her thigh. The flimsy dress rides higher under my palm, baring more of her leg. She’s so tense she might shatter.
“You still think you can ignore me?” I whisper, pressing my mouth to the shell of her ear and letting my breath fan across her skin. “Pretend you aren’t attracted to me?” My tone drips with dark amusement as I trace the curve of her jaw with my nose. “We both know better. Your body betrays you every time I touch you, every time I’m near you.”
I feel her breath hitch. Yes, that’s what I want—some reaction, even if it’s just the flutter of her pulse. But before she can respond, I shove her away. Gianna tumbles off my lap, catching herself on the couch cushion to avoid hitting the floor. The confusion on her face is delicious, and it sends a thrill through me.
“Get out of my sight,” I snap, twisting my body to face the television. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.”
She lingers, breath quickened, eyes momentarily stormy. Maybe she wants to say something, to confront me, to tell me she wants me. But then her expression shutters closed. Gianna stands, smoothes her dress, and exits without a word.
I curse under my breath and slump into the couch. My cock is half-hard from having her in my lap, and I hate that I am as attracted to her as she is to me. She’s supposed to be the one suffering, damn it. Instead, I’m the one teetering on the edge, unable to exorcise the memory of her parted lips and muffled moans, desperate to repeat it.
The hours bleed into evening, each minute dragging like sandpaper across my nerves. I pick at the dinner she’s prepared, barely tasting the seasoned pork chops, ignoring the salad that probably tastes perfect. The food turns to ash in my mouth while my mind circles back to that moment on the couch and then, in turn, to our night in the motel. My appetite is focused elsewhere. By the time I retreat to our bedroom and strip off my shirt, I’m simmering with unsatisfied need disguised as fury, though I’m not sure anymore which emotion is the mask and which is real.
Gianna follows me with silent footsteps, carrying fresh linens to replace the ones she just laundered. She doesn’t look at me, but I watch the careful way she tucks the corners of the fitted sheet, smoothing out wrinkles like it’s a ritual that steadies her. Her movements are precise and measured, as though she’s channeling all her fears into household tasks.
I lean against the doorframe. There’s a dull ache in my temples, a sign that I’m half-drunk already. Perfect . Maybe I’ll finally sleep without dreaming of her writhing under me.
She finishes the last pillowcase, smoothing it with the palm of her hand. I sense hesitation in the way her fingers twitch, as if she wants to say something but is wrestling with the words. And then, quietly, she asks, “Does it still hurt?”
The question is so unexpected that I don’t even have time to think through my reply. “What?”
Gianna lifts her chin enough for me to see the concern in her eyes. “Your scar,” she clarifies. “The one on your chest from my father. Does it still hurt?”
A twinge stabs through my gut, sharp and unwelcome. I never talk about the brand, never let anyone’s pity or curiosity about it phase me. Rage flickers beneath my skin like a lit fuse, but so does a strange pull. Why does she care? What game is she playing? “You’re awfully bold all of a sudden.”
She sets the pillow aside and fixes her gaze on the ruined patch of flesh on my chest. “You don’t talk about it.”
“No shit,” I mumble. “Why would I?” It was the darkest night of my life. One minute, I was enjoying myself at a bar in Aggieville; the next, I was a burnt piece of flesh begging my fingers to hit the right buttons so I could call my brother. The pain was excruciating, unlike anything I’d ever felt before or since. I was weak that night, careless, and Giovanni caught me off guard—a mistake I’ve replayed in my head a thousand times. When I woke up in the hospital, I vowed to never be that vulnerable again.
Gianna presses her lips together, her grip on the pillowcase tightening until her knuckles whiten. Then she blurts out, “It looks painful.”
Before I can stop her, she drops the pillow and crosses the distance between us in three quick steps. My chest tightens, heart hammering against my ribs. I should shove her away, put distance between us. Just a few minutes ago, I wanted her on top of me. Now, I want her to be as far away from me as possible. But instead, I freeze, every muscle locked in place as her hand lifts. Her fingertips brush the edge of the scar tissue, tracing the raised border where smooth flesh meets rough.
A quiet shudder ripples through me, but her touch is the opposite of pain—it’s gentle, so gentle I almost don’t feel it at first. My breath leaves in a hiss between clenched teeth. No one has touched me here besides the doctor.
“Don’t,” I growl, but it’s too late.
She skims her fingertips over the ruined flesh, tracing the jagged edges I’ve spent years trying to forget. Each stroke maps the twisted landscape I’ve hidden away beneath my clothes. I expect disgust to flicker across her face, but all I see is sorrow in her dark eyes, and my brain refuses her pity. The understanding in her expression burns worse than the original wound ever did.
I wrench away, stumbling back. “Don’t ever touch me like that again,” I snarl at her.
Gianna lowers her hand, expression morphing into confusion. “I’m sorry.”
God, I need to get control back—now. She stands there staring at me with uncertainty. My lungs burn as I inhale, feeling the brand on my chest throb with phantom heat. I hate that she saw me vulnerable, even for a second.
A reckless idea sparks in my mind, flooding through me like poison. If I can’t erase the memory of her touch, I can overwrite it with something else. Something darker, more carnal. Make her choke on my dick until she hates me. Until I hate her. Until we both forget this moment of weakness ever happened. Because right now, all I can do is remember the softness in her eyes, the gentle way she reached for me, and it makes me want to tear something apart.
“Kneel.” The same command as the other night, but this time, my tone is colder. Harder. Gianna drops to the floor with infuriating obedience, her knees hitting the ground with a soft thud.
I step closer to her, feeling every nerve ending in my body flare with anger and desire. The scar on my chest tingles, phantom pain, or phantom comfort, I can’t decide which. “Open your mouth.” My voice is harsh, cracking at the edges.
For a second, I think she might refuse. Her jaw sets, her cheeks coloring with a hue of embarrassment. But slowly, her lips part, and a shiver dances across my skin.
My cock is already throbbing, straining against the confines of my pants. My fingers fumble with my belt, the leather hissing as I yank it loose. The button on my jeans pops open, the zipper rasps, and I’m freeing my dick before I can second-guess my decision. It springs out, and the tip glistens with a bead of precum. I grip the base, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke, and Gianna’s eyes flick down. Her lips are still parted, just like she was ordered, and I can see the faintest tremble in her bottom lip.
I step in closer, so close my cock brushes against her chin, and she flinches. The warmth of her skin sends a jolt straight to my balls. “Open wider,” I growl, barely holding onto control. Gianna hesitates, but I don’t give her a choice. My free hand grabs her jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks, and I force her mouth open wider. Her breath is hot against my dick, and I can’t wait anymore.
I press the head of my cock against her lips, smearing slick precum across her mouth. She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to my dick, making it twitch in my hand. I drag the tip along her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, teasing her. “That’s it,” I mutter, dark and low. “Get a good taste of what you’re supposed to be taking care of.”
Her tongue flicks out, tentative, barely brushing against me, and I groan. Fuck, she gets the picture now. I push forward just enough to slide the tip past her lips, and her mouth is so warm and wet that I almost lose it right there. But I don’t. I hold back, pulling out just enough to smack my cock against her cheek, leaving a sticky trail on her skin. “A good wife,” I say, my voice dripping with venomous desire, “knows how to please her husband. And you’re gonna learn how to please me, Gianna.”
I push back in, this time deeper, feeling her throat tighten as she tries to adjust to my length. Her tongue flattens under me, her lips wrapping around my shaft, and fuck, it’s like she was made for this. My hand tightens in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to make her gasp, and I thrust in harder, deeper, until I feel the back of her throat. Gianna gags, tears welling in her eyes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
“That’s it,” I growl, my hips moving now, fucking her mouth with a rhythm that’s as brutal as it is desperate. “Take it. Swallow it. Be a good wife.” Her moans vibrate around me, muffled and broken, and the sound is filthy enough to make me see stars. I nearly choke on my breath as I feel my balls tighten, ready to explode.
“Wrap your hands around it,” I snarl. My cock is slick with her spit, glistening under the dim light as it disappears between her swollen lips. Gianna’s mascara is smeared down her cheeks in messy streaks; her eyes are wrecked with tears that pool in the corners before spilling over. She looks like a goddamn masterpiece of submission, and I can’t get enough of it.
Her hands tremble as they obey, delicate fingers wrapping around the base of my shaft, squeezing just enough to make me groan. “That’s it, beautiful,” I mutter, my voice thick with lust. “Use everything—your mouth, your hands, that tight little throat of yours. Get me off.”
I twist my fingers in her hair, yanking harder, forcing her head to tilt back as I slam my cock deeper into her mouth. I feel her throat convulse around me. She gags, her body jerking, but I don’t let up. Her hands start to move, stroking me in time with my thrusts, her lips and tongue working overtime to please me. The sound of her moans, muffled and broken, vibrates against my dick in a way that’s obscene.
“Good girl,” I growl, my hips pistoning in and out of her mouth in a savage rhythm. “Take it all. You’re my wife—this is what you’re made for.” Her tears mix with the spit that’s dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor beneath her like some kind of depraved art piece.
“Fuck, Gianna,” I hiss, voice ragged with need, fingers tightening in her hair until she whimpers. “You’re gonna make me cum so hard. Swallow it like the good little wife I know you’ll be.” I’m a man possessed, a man so destroyed that he must destroy others, consumed by a darkness that feeds on her submission and tears.
Her hands work faster now, her fingers sliding up and down my length as her tongue swirls around the head of my cock. She’s a natural. Her body was made to serve me, to take every inch of me without complaint. The sight of her, broken and beautiful, is enough to push me over the edge.
“That’s it,” I grunt, my hips jerking erratically as I feel the first wave of release crash over me. “Take it. Take every fucking drop.” My cum floods her mouth, thick and hot, and she swallows without hesitation. Her throat works around me to milk every last drop.
When I finally pull out, she’s a mess—spit and tears and cum smeared across her face like a goddamn trophy. I grab her chin, forcing her to look up at me, and smirk. “You did good, wife,” I say, my voice dripping with satisfaction.
Her lips are swollen, and I hate that the sight of her post-orgasm doesn’t fill me with the same triumphant glee it did in the middle of the act. It fills me with a hollow ache where victory should be.
I half-expect to see hatred in her eyes. But instead, I see the same undisturbed calm. Gianna stares at me as if she’s done what she had to do, no more, no less. That unreadable expression cracks something in me.
“Get out,” I rasp, chest heaving. I got my release, but it wasn’t what I wanted.
She rises slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and leaves without a word. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.
I slump onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands, my body still thrumming with aftershocks. I should feel powerful. I should feel like I won. But I don’t because I realize I lost something too—my control, my dignity, whatever shred of distance I was pretending to keep between us. The was punishment as much for me as it was for her.
My fingers dig into my scalp as shame and frustration war inside me. I wanted to break her composure. Instead, I’m the one left raw and exposed, my emotions scattered like shards of broken glass across the floor. The worst part is knowing that tomorrow, we’ll both pretend this never happened.
I wanted to erase the ache of her fingers against my scar, of the impossible softness in her touch. I wanted to wipe it out and degrade her until that caring touch vanished from my memory. But I failed.
Tomorrow , I tell myself, I’ll do better tomorrow .