22. Pietro
PIETRO
THE EDGE OF RUIN
A mara rarely asks for anything, so when she tells me she wants to visit her grandmother, I clear my schedule without a second thought.
The drive is quiet, but I feel her anticipation, and it’s spurred on by the way her fingers fidget in her lap as she stares out the window.
She asks that we stop at a popular candy store on the way.
We walk in and she grabs a small bag and fills it with butterscotch hard candies, thoughtfully rolling one between her fingers.
When she’s finished, we check out, and I pay before she can reach her wallet.
She’s dressed in a dark blue cowl-neck sweater dress that hugs her curves and makes her eyes stand out. With her long, thick hair and a full-length flared wool coat that flows effortlessly behind her, she looks like a model, though slightly overdressed for the store.
“She loves these,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I glance at her. “When was the last time you saw her?”
She sighs. “Too long.”
“Then let’s fix that.” I nod to Joseph as we enter the vehicle, and he begins to drive.
When we pull up to the small condo building, she’s the first one out of the car. We leave Joseph behind as I follow her up the stairs to the second floor, and the moment the door swings open, I understand why she was so eager.
I’m just in time to see Grandmother Rossi step forward. She’s a small woman with her gray hair pulled back neatly in a bun. Her wistful, wise blue eyes light up the second they land on Amara.
Amara engulfs her in a hearty hug, so hearty that I’m afraid she might break the elderly woman. But Grandma Rossi is tougher than she looks and takes it all in stride. The two women adore each other.
My sweet girl,” she breathes, pulling Amara into her small one-bedroom condo, holding her tightly.
Amara rests her forehead against her grandmother’s and laughs softly. “Hi, Nonna. I brought your favorites.” She lifts the bag of candies, shaking it playfully.
Grandmother Rossi grins. “You always remember. I shouldn’t eat sugar, but at my age, who cares?”
She turns, finally noticing me standing in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning me with an appraising look. “And who’s this?”
Amara hesitates as she glances at me.
I step forward, offering a hand. “Pietro.”
Nonna’s smile widens as she takes my hand, squeezing lightly. “Pietro, eh? That’s a good Italian name.”
“It is,” I agree.
“You have a bit of an accent. Sicilian?”
“Yes.” I decide it’s better to stick to one-word answers—her son-in-law is my enemy, after all. “Your granddaughter is…” I wrinkle my brow. “Someone special.” I finally relax, having found the word to finish the sentence.
“That she is.” She smiles and walks into the small but cozy living room. She’s surprisingly agile for her age.
We take off our coats, draping them over the backs of the dated dining room chairs before settling into our seats. Nonna talks animatedly about her friends, her stories bouncing between gossip and nostalgia, especially about how handsome her husband was back in the day.
But as she speaks, I notice Amara frowning slightly.
Keeping my voice low, I ask, “What’s wrong? ”
She shakes her head and rubs her hands together. “It’s chilly in here.”
“The heater isn’t working properly,” Grandma Rossi interjects. “I called and they were to come by yesterday, but no one has come.”
“That’s terrible,” I say. She’s an elderly woman who shouldn’t have to go without heat. I don’t hesitate—I pull out my phone and make a call. “I need someone at the address I’m texting in an hour to fix a heating issue. No delays.”
Mafia membership has its privileges—and I’m not afraid to use them.
Nonna raises a brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You have connections, do you?”
I smirk. She’s very spry and doesn’t miss a beat. “I like to get things done.”
She chuckles, nodding in approval. “Good man.”
As we sit, she looks between us, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. I get the feeling she thinks I might be one of her son-in-law’s men—but she doesn’t ask.
Instead, she turns to Amara and says, “You’re glowing.”
Amara laughs, shaking her head. “Nonna?—”
“Don’t ‘Nonna’ me,” she interrupts. “Are you eating enough? Sleeping well?”
Amara’s cheeks flushed. I reach out and take her hand in mine, squeezing gently.
“I’m fine,” she replies with a smile. She’s been smiling more often lately, and I like to think Amara is happy with me. I’ve grown accustomed to our routine, and I love spoiling her.
Nonna watches us, then nods in approval. “You take care of my granddaughter, Pietro.”
I meet her gaze, my voice firm. “Always.”
Grandma Rossi gives me a side-eye, and I know she understands—I’m not a man who makes promises lightly.
The restaurant is warm, bathed in the golden glow of low-hanging lights. The scent of garlic, basil, and simmering tomatoes lingers in the air—a reminder of home, of tradition, of the kind of life I was born into. But I’ve never missed home as much as I do today.
Amara sits across from me, her back straight and her arms crossed. She’s a picture of defiance wrapped in cashmere. I see the heat lurking, even though her eyes flash with irritation. She’s immersed in a battle she’s too proud to admit she’s already losing.
“What are you smirking at?” she snaps, tossing her napkin into her lap.
“You,” I answer, swirling the dark red wine in my glass before taking a slow sip. “You pretend to be immune to me. It’s adorable.”
She exhales sharply. “I’m not pretending.”
“Of course not.” I set my glass down, tilting my head. “That’s why you’ve spent the last five minutes staring at my hands. Do you like them, Princess? Do you imagine them wrapped around your throat… or spreading your thighs under this very table?”
She inhales, nostrils flaring, and I swear her chest rises with excitement. I run my fingers over her hand, stroking her soft, supple skin.
“You’re disgusting,” she says.
“And yet you’re still here,” I smirk. I lean forward, keeping my voice low and intimate. We’re so close, I smell the butterscotch candy on her breath. “You’re wet for me, Amara. Right now. I can tell.”
Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, her gaze darting around the restaurant. It’s packed, the hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space. No one is paying attention to us— not yet .
I extend my hand across the table with my palm up. “Give them to me.”
She blinks, feigning ignorance. “Give you what?”
“Your panties.” I let the order settle between us, watching her pupils dilate.
Her breath stutters, and she grips her fork a little tighter. “You’re insane.”
“Take them off.” I sit back, draping my arm over the back of my chair with casual confidence. “Right now.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are,” I smirk, tilting my head slightly. “Unless you want me to slide under this table and take them off for you.”
Her nails dig into her palm. “You wouldn’t.”
I shrug, watching her squirm. “Try me.”
A challenge burns in her eyes. But there’s something else too—something darker. Something hungry. And she knows I’m not bluffing when it comes to my threats.
Seconds pass. The waiter approaches with our food, but she’s already moving, shifting in her seat.
Her hands disappear under the table, and my cock throbs at the thought of her fingers hooking the delicate lace before sliding it down.
I know my woman—and I’m sure desire pools between her thighs as she does precisely what she swore she wouldn’t.
The waiter serves us, oblivious to our shenanigans, and just as he steps away, Amara reaches under the table and places the tiny scrap of fabric in my waiting palm.
I wrap my fingers around the delicate scrap of lace, bringing it to my nose with enthusiasm that borders on worship. Her scent clings to the fabric—intimate as it is intoxicating—a whisper of her arousal that familiar pang of desire in my gut and ignites something feral inside me.
Lust, dark and unrelenting, surges through me like a storm.
Self-control? Slipping.
It cracks beneath the weight of my need to fill her with my cock. And in this moment, with her essence still warm on my skin... I’m not sure if I want to be saved from it.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
Her shiver is so slight, so fleeting, but I see it. I grin, rubbing the lacy silk between my fingers, knowing she’s just handed me more than her panties .
She’s handed me her surrender.
And I plan to savor every second of it as I slip the damp fabric into my pocket.
They’re mine.