Chapter 10 Matteo
Matteo
Steel shutters grind. Heavy titanium plates slam down over the floor-to-ceiling glass, the deafening mechanical roar drowning out the distant wail of city sirens.
Thick steel locking mechanisms engage with the reinforced floor tracks, echoing through the massive penthouse with a brutal, final boom.
Red emergency lights strobe across the marble surfaces of the kitchen, casting violent shadows over the spilled white flour.
The entire penthouse seals. A perfect, impenetrable vault suspended five stories above the Chicago streets.
My burner phone vibrates violently against my thigh.
Clara stands frozen by the kitchen island. Her chest heaves. The oversized shirt she wears slips off one pale, soft shoulder.
I draw my Glock. My heavy thumb clicks the safety off. The sharp metallic snap cuts through the silence. No one touches her. No one breathes her air.
I answer the phone. "Talk."
"Lobby breach," Dominic's voice barks through the speaker.
Semiautomatic gunfire erupts in the background, followed by the distinct, heavy thud of Costa soldiers returning fire.
"Secondary Bellanti squad. They tried the loading dock first. Blew the service doors.
We have them pinned at the elevator banks. "
My jaw locks. The muscles in my thick neck pull tight. I reach out and grip Clara's hip with my free hand, pulling her soft curves flush against my side.
"Leave none alive," I growl.
"Already done," Dominic replies. A wet, sickening crunch sounds through the line. "Turi sealed the exterior doors remotely. They walked into a slaughterhouse. Keep your lockdown engaged. Nobody rides that private elevator tonight."
The line goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the flour-dusted marble counter.
The threat is contained. The Bellanti trash is bleeding out on the Italian tile of the lobby below us. The family protects the fortress. Dominic has the ground level. Turi controls the grid. The Costa syndicate is a lethal machine, and they are executing my enemies exactly as trained.
I stare at the heavy reinforced steel doors of my private elevator. Unmoving. Silent.
Clara is safe.
She presses against my ribs. Her small hands grip the dark fabric of my black shirt.
Her scent rises above the sharp metallic tang of adrenaline. Clean skin. Sweet soap. The hot, heavy spike of pure arousal.
The twenty-year roar of rain and sirens vanishes from my skull. The endless, suffocating loop of Carlo's blood soaking into the pavement, the sterile chemical stench of the county morgue, the deafening silence of a twenty-four-year-old man burying his father. Gone.
Utter silence.
The only sound in my entire world is her breathing.
Clara.
My woman.
I holster my weapon.
She asked me to handle her father. She swept the ashes of her million-dollar debt into the trash. She stood in my secure, windowless war room and handed me the tactical advantage to slaughter my enemies.
She chose this.
She chose me.
My massive hands grip her thick hips. Soft. Plump. Perfect.
"They are dead," I tell her. My voice is a gravel rasp. Raw. Feral. "The men downstairs. Dominic is cleaning it up. You are safe."
She nods. Her wide eyes lock onto mine. No fear. Only fire.
"I know," she whispers. Her hands slide up my broad chest. Her fingers tangle in the thick gold chain resting over my shirt. "I told you. I am staying."
The feral possessiveness snaps its leash.
I cannot hold back anymore. The brutal tease from the other night tore me apart.
The dry, desperate friction against this very counter almost broke my sanity.
The agonizing restraint I forced upon myself out of respect for her trauma is gone.
The trauma is handled. The enemies are dying. The debt is burned.
I need to bury myself in her.
I need to ruin her for anyone else.
I lift her. She gasps loudly as her bare thighs clear the edge of the heavy kitchen island. I set her down directly into the spilled flour from my midnight baking. White dust clouds around her wide hips, settling onto her pale skin.
I step between her spread legs.
My brutally heavy frame crowds into her space. I dwarf her completely. My chest is broad, thick with coarse hair beneath the dark fabric, my arms heavy with dark tattoos. I am brutal. I am violent. I am a monster built for war.
She is soft. Curved. Delicate heat and stubborn defiance.
"You belong to me," I growl. My rough hands trace the slope of her thick thighs. The flour coats my large, calloused palms. I rub the fine white powder into her smooth skin, branding her with my touch.
"I belong to you," she echoes. Her voice shakes. A sassy, defiant smirk plays on her full lips, masking the tremble of her body. "You think you can claim me and I will submit? Prove it, Costa."
My blood boils. A ferocious, territorial roar builds deep in my heavy chest.
I grip the hem of her shirt. I drag the fabric violently up her torso.
"Arms up."
She obeys. I strip the shirt over her head and throw it across the kitchen. It lands near the enormous stainless steel refrigerator.
Heavy, gorgeous tits spill freely into my large hands.
I weigh her full breasts in my palms. Squeezing the soft, plump flesh. My rough, calloused thumbs drag mercilessly over her tight, peaking nipples.
She arches her spine into my touch. A loud, desperate moan slips past her lips.
I lower my head. My thick, coarse beard scrapes roughly against her delicate collarbone. I open my mouth over her left nipple. I suck hard. Pulling the sensitive peak deep into my mouth. I scrape my teeth over the hard, aching flesh, making her moan as the friction burns through her.
She cries out. Her fingernails dig fiercely into my broad shoulders.
I feast. I consume her. I suckle the other breast, laving the tight peak with a flat, wet tongue. She tastes like sweet salt and pure surrender. My scent—dark rum and heated skin—surrounds us, mixing with her sweet, musky arousal.
My hands move to the waistband of her soft sweatpants. I grip the fleece material. I pull them down in one violent, unbroken motion. Her thin cotton panties go with them.
I kick the discarded clothing away.
She is completely naked on the cold marble. Flour coats her bare ass. White dust streaks her thick, gorgeous thighs.
I step back. Just a single step.
I need to look at her.
My dark eyes drag greedily over her soft, rounded belly. The beautiful flare of her wide hips. The thick thighs spread open for my view.
Between her legs, she is glistening. Wetness slicks her pink pussy. She drips for me. A clear bead of slick arousal trails down to the marble counter, mixing with the spilled white flour.
The sight shatters my last shred of restraint. A feral growl rips from my throat.
I unbuckle my belt. The heavy leather slaps against my dark slacks. I unbutton the pants. Shove them down my thick, muscular thighs. My boxers follow instantly.
My cock springs free.
Heavy. Brutally thick. Iron-hard and aching with primal need. A thick bead of precum weeps from the blunt head, shining in the red emergency light of the locked-down bunker.
She stares at my massive erection. Her lips part. Her breath hitches violently.
I step forward. I brace my thick, heavy thighs against hers, trapping her securely on the edge of the kitchen island.
I grab her knees and push them wider. Exposing her to my mouth.
I lean down. The thick gold medallion resting against my chest swings forward. The cold metal hits her soft, warm belly.
I grip her hips firmly, tilting her pelvis up toward my face.
I bury my mouth directly between her thighs.
My tongue lashes out. A long, broad, devastating stroke straight up her dripping slit.
She screams my name. Her hands tangle aggressively in my dark hair. She pulls at the coarse silver strands at my temples.
I do not relent. I plunge my tongue deep inside her slick walls. Tasting her deep, musky sweetness. She is soaked. Flooded. The taste of her wetness is an absolute drug.
I find her clit, swollen and hard for me. I suck the highly sensitive flesh directly into my mouth. I apply intense suction, rolling my tongue rapidly and relentlessly over the center of her heat.
She thrashes on the counter. Her hips buck wildly off the marble. I grip her thick thighs with bruising force, anchoring her exactly where I want her.
"Matteo," she begs. "Please. It is too much."
"Never," I grunt against her dripping wetness. "Take it."
I slide two thick fingers inside her pussy.
She is impossibly tight. Her inner walls clench viciously around my knuckles. Milking the digits with a desperate, crushing pressure.
I thrust my fingers in and out. Mimicking the brutal rhythm I am about to give her with my cock. Stretching her tight passage. Preparing her tight body for my massive girth.
Slick coats my entire hand. The loud, wet sound of flesh slapping together echoes clearly in the enormous, heavily fortified kitchen.
I pump my fingers faster. Driving them to the hilt. My thumb pins her clit violently against her pubic bone, rubbing relentlessly.
She unravels completely.
A high-pitched scream shatters the silence of the bunker. Her body goes rigidly stiff. Her tight walls spasm violently around my probing fingers, milking my knuckles in intense, rhythmic, pulsing waves.
I drink her climax. I swallow every single drop of her sweet, ruined arousal.
She collapses heavily against the marble island, gasping desperately for air. Her bare chest heaves. Her eyes are glazed, out of focus.
I stand tall.
I grab a handful of spilled flour from the counter. I crush the white powder fiercely in my massive fist, letting the excess spill over my dark knuckles. I wipe my large palm forcefully down my bare thigh. A stark white streak against my dark, heavily tattooed skin.
The heavy, primal stench of sex dominates the air.
I grip my heavy, throbbing cock. I align the broad, weeping head directly with her slick pussy.