34
Alessio
I walk upstairs, my shoes sticking to the marble from all the blood on the dining room floor.
I’ve seen worse, done worse, but there’s too much of that asshole’s hand splattered across the table to stomach dinner, so I scrapped it.
There’s no regret.
The fucker had it coming, he’s lucky he’s still alive.
But the mess.
.
.
fuck.
Blood everywhere, little bone pieces, fleshy debris, and that was just from one fucking hand.
I don’t have a weak stomach, but the bastard’s fingers were liquefied all over the place.
Liv’s dress wasn’t spared either.
It wasn’t exactly how I planned to introduce her to my crew.
I wanted her to fit in, not walk out covered in some guy’s shattered palm.
But she didn’t flinch, didn’t scream, and didn’t cry.
She obeyed me in front of my men, which had to be hard for her when I know she wanted to throw some sarcastic shit my way .
I already know she’s in her room.
The door’s slightly open, maybe she’s waiting for me to walk through it, or maybe she just forgot to close it all the way.
Either way, I take it as an invitation and step inside without knocking.
We’re engaged, but we keep separate bedrooms.
It’s an old-school tradition, at least until the wedding.
Something I never thought I’d even entertain after Bria.
I told myself this was to protect Liv, a necessary move.
But lately, it’s not just about keeping her safe from Antonio.
It’s the way she looks at me like I’m not already halfway to hell.
The way she mouths off like I won’t bend her over the nearest surface and fuck the attitude right out of her.
She gets under my skin and crawls into every part of me I swore I locked up.
And I love every goddamn second of it.
Somewhere between trying to keep her safe, digging for answers, and wanting her like a fucking addiction, the lines started to blur.
Her bedroom light is off, but the bathroom light spills into the room, and I can see steam seeping from the open crack of her bathroom door.
I push it open, stripping off my clothes on the way, my jacket hitting the floor first.
My shirt’s clinging to my back with sweat, but I yank it off and let it drop.
My shoes thud against the tile when I kick them aside, and then my pants and boxer-briefs slide down and pool at my feet.
I step out of them without slowing down, slide the glass shower door open, and step in.
Jesus Christ.
The water’s fucking brutally hot.
Scalding water hits me in the face.
I curse under my breath, she always showers like she’s trying to peel her damn skin off.
But I don’t complain, not when she’s standing in front of me like this, water sliding down her round ass, hair soaked and sticking to her back.
Her skin glistens as water droplets run over her shoulders, following every curve.
“Well!” she says, turning around just enough to give me a playful grin, one I can’t ignore.
“That’s one way to announce our engagement. At least it went off with a bang!”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Smartass.
Even after everything downstairs, she’s still throwing jokes like nothing happened.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I look at her, really look at her.
Her make-up’s already washed off, not that she needs any of that shit.
Gorgeous doesn’t even cover it, but I don’t tell her that.
I’m watching her, waiting to see if there’s a crack in her calm .
This won’t be the last time she sees something like tonight.
Honestly, that was mild compared to the shit I’ve been involved in.
She tilts her head.
Water runs down her face, trailing along her jaw.
“Did you kill him?”
“No,” I say simply.
She pauses for a second, then sighs and turns away, reaching for the shampoo in the shower niche.
“Good,” she says, twisting the cap.
“He owes me a new dress.”
That’s my girl.
A fearless fucking wildcat.
Not a shred of fear, not even a tremor in her voice.
And it makes me want her even more.
I reach out, take the shampoo from her, and pull her against me, her back is flush against my chest.
My fingers slide into her hair, working the soap through her strands and massaging her scalp.
The way she leans into me makes something primal snap in my chest.
“I’ll make sure he pays for it,” I whisper in her ear.
“And if he doesn’t, I’ll take his other fucking hand.”
She giggles softly, turning under the showerhead to rinse out the foam.
“You really don’t do subtle, do you?”
“Subtle doesn’t get shit done,” I fire back.
She turns in my arms.
“Next time, maybe aim away from me. Blood’s a bitch to get out. ”
A growl rumbles from my throat, sounding more possessive than I expect.
Suddenly, I bend just enough to hook my hands under her thighs, hoisting her up.
Her wet legs grip my waist, like she’s been waiting for me to lose whatever ounce of restraint I had left.
Her arms loop around my neck as I press her back against the tile.
Our mouths crash together, rough and hungry.
There’s nothing gentle about it.
My hands clamp down on her ass, pulling her against me as I line my cock up at her pussy and thrust in, not giving her a second to adjust.
Liv’s head falls back, a moan slipping from her lips, but I don’t slow down.
My fingers dig into her skin as I fuck her harder.
I need to remind her that she belongs to me.
And no one fucks with what’s mine.
With Satana’s opening tonight and the engagement dinner going to shit, I figured bringing Liv would be a decent way to end the week on a better note.
Let her get dressed up.
Maybe finish the night without her wearing someone else’s insides unless they’re mine .
The place looks fucking phenomenal .
Walking up to Satana is like stepping onto the Strip in Vegas.
The building glows and reflects every speck of light like a goddamn jewel.
Bright spotlights sweep over the entrance, illuminating the towering glass doors.
It’s got that sleek, upscale vibe.
Polished and expensive enough to make people second-guess walking in, if they don’t have the cash to play.
The valet line stretches down the block: Bentleys, Ferraris, a few vintage cars for guys trying too hard.
The entrance is lined with trimmed hedges and glowing planters, the kind of shit that screams money .
Crazy to think how far this place has come.
When I took over, the place was a dump and smelled like stale smoke and failure.
The carpets were a hideous red-orange, stained beyond saving.
Half the slot machines were busted, and there was a whorehouse running in the back.
Now, every inch screams high class .
The floors are polished natural stone, black and white with gold inlays that catch the overhead lights.
Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling.
Dealers in tailored uniforms man the high-stakes tables, cards flicking and chips clinking, a sound that’s pure money.
The back room used to be a place for cheap thrills and quick fucks, a goddamn brothel.
I tore it down and built the Grotto , a private, members-only fight club.
Velvet booths line the walls for the high rollers, and the bar has top-shelf liquor stocked to the ceiling, better than any overpriced joint in the city.
Dead center is the cage with solid iron bars, reinforced floor, and enough room for two men to beat the shit out of each other.
No weapons.
No rules.
Just fists, blood, and who’s man enough to walk out.
You come here to drink, bet, and watch men bleed.
Just raw violence and money changing hands.
This is where the real action is.
Yeah, fights still break out outside the cage.
Booze and big egos will do that.
But at least now, the only blood on the floor belongs to men dumb enough to earn it.
Then there’s Liv.
Fuck.
She walks beside me, and I swear every guy in the room notices, like I don’t already see it.
That black floor-length gown hugs her in all the right places.
The sleeves skim her arms and are as soft as cashmere.
But it’s the back that kills me.
It’s completely open, exposing smooth skin down to the curve of her ass.
I was ready to rip it off her before we left, skip the whole opening, but she shot me a look and started ranting about Tom Ford.
I was two seconds from hunting down whoever that was until she burst out laughing, calling me an idiot.
Turns out he’s a designer, not some guy.
I don’t know about damn dress designers.
I just know she looks damn good .
Her hair is pinned up, red curls falling loose around her face, highlighting her green eyes and that mouth that drives me insane.
I match Liv in a black-on-black Armani suit.
It fits like it was made for me, because it was.
It’s custom, but nothing flashy, just sharp enough to make it clear I don’t play around.
My hand rests on the small of her back as we walk through the casino.
Her skin’s warm under my palm, soft against the tailored edge of my suit jacket.
People part as we pass, curiosity, envy, and recognition in their eyes.
Let them look.
Tonight’s supposed to be about business shit, networking, shaking hands, keeping the investors happy.
But with Liv beside me, radiant and fucking breathtaking, my mind drifts to how fast I can get her out of that dress.
We pause near the VIP tables, where an investor talks my ear off.
He’s some old prick whose handshake feels as limp as his portfolio and reeks of cheap cologne.
I don’t think twice when Liv’s hand slips out of mine.
I can still hear her chatting with the guy’s trophy wife, a girl young enough to call me sir .
My men are stationed everywhere, security cranked up, Kota and Nathan keeping eyes on Liv.
She’s fine .
Until she isn’t .
My vision narrows at some asshole who’s got his arms around Liv, like they’re old friends.
Fingers twitch toward the gun tucked under my jacket.
One second is all I need.
This fucker looks about mid to late twenties, wearing a suit that looks like it’s for someone bigger and taller.
I’m moving before my brain catches up, leaving the investor mid-sentence.
The guy spots me, panic flashing across his face as he throws his hands up like that’ll stop me.
“Hey, I’m her family, man. I mean no harm.”
Family?
Bullshit.
I see no resemblance.
Liv’s nothing like this prick with black hair and dull brown eyes.
He’s still standing too close, breathing her air, and that alone has me itching to cave his face in.
Liv stiffens beside me.
It’s not relief, not warmth, just confusion written all over her face.
The bastard notices and keeps running his mouth to Liv.
“It’s me, Ezra, Tito’s son. I’m glad you’re okay. Nobody knew what happened after you were taken. We thought you were dead.”
Ezra.
Tito’s spawn.
Tito has more bastards than I can count.
Half of them are from women he never knew or would claim, none of them worth a damn .
Ezra keeps talking, each word making me want to snap his neck.
“Leah Morano’s daughter, right? Or Leah Johnson... if you’re still going by that name?”
Leah Johnson.
The name sparks something, but I can’t place it.
I pull out my phone, my thumbs flying across the screen, to Kota.
Me: Have Seb run both names.
Leah Morano and Leah Johnson.
Liv goes pale like all the blood’s been sucked right out of her.
Her fingers in mine turn cold.
There’s fear, panic, and something feels off, like she’s more stunned than anything else.
“You done catching up, Dolcezza ?”
I don’t look away from Ezra.
Not once.
My eyes stay locked on his, daring him to try something stupid.
To breathe wrong.
To give me any excuse.
Liv swallows hard, forces a weak smile, and nods.
But I see the tremble in her fingers, the panic she’s trying to bury.
I turn, wrap my arm around her waist, and keep walking, my rage simmering beneath the surface.
Ezra’s completely oblivious to the fact that I’m one second away from crushing his skull into the floor.
Instead, I shift my focus back to Liv.
Her face is still locked in that expression, frozen between fear and something I can’t read.
Good.
She should be scared.
Because when I get to the bottom of this, there’s no telling what the fuck I’ll do.