Chapter 8 #2
“It was coercion,” Giuliana shouts, eyes narrowed as her hands slam on her hips. “My father was forced—”
“I don’t care!” The admission echoes in the room.
“I don’t care if he was forced or threatened or desperate.
All I care about is that Marco is dead and someone has to pay for it.
” I shove a finger in her face. “You’re that payment, Giuliana.
You’re the price your father owes for taking the only person who ever mattered to me. ”
Her face goes pale, but her eyes blaze with indignation. “So you’re not even pretending this is about justice anymore. You’re just a jackass who destroys innocent people to fill the emptiness inside you.”
“Enough.” The word comes out roughly, my throat raw from the yelling and screaming. “Don’t you presume to understand my grief or judge my methods.”
“Why not?” She moves closer to me again and the air is charged with electricity.
“You’ve judged me guilty for my father’s sins.
You’ve sentenced me to this nightmare without trial, without mercy, without caring that I never hurt anyone.
You’re no better than the men who killed Marco.
You’re just another criminal who thinks violence solves everything! ”
My control is rapidly slipping “Careful, cara,” I say mockingly. “You’re treading dangerously close to a line you don’t want to cross.”
“Or what?” She’s in my face now, all five-foot-four inches of her facing down six-foot-two of barely controlled rage. The smell of her perfume and shampoo makes my head spin. “You’ll hurt me? Destroy me? You’ve already done that! There’s nothing left for you to take!”
“You have no idea what I could take from you,” I respond, my voice low.
“Then do it!” She shoves against my chest, hard enough that I rock back on my heels. “Stop pretending this elaborate revenge is about justice and just admit you’re a monstrous piece of shit who—”
I grab her wrists before she can shove me again. Suddenly we’re frozen—her hands trapped in mine, both of us breathing hard, fury and something darker crackling in the air between us.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice rough. “I am a monster. But you already knew that.”
“I hate you,” she whispers, but her eyes drop to my mouth.
“I know.” My grip on her wrists tightens. “But that doesn’t change anything between us, does it?”
Her eyes flash. “There’s nothing between us—”
I kiss her to shut her up, to stop the words that are cutting too close to truths I’m not ready to face.
Or maybe I kiss her because I’ve been wanting to since I saw her in that goddamn blue dress nearly two weeks ago, looking like temptation.
Or maybe it’s because every other man in that ballroom looked at her and I need to remind both of us who she belongs to.
She makes a sound against my mouth—protest or surrender, I can’t tell—and then she’s kissing me back with the same fury she brought to our argument.
Her hands, freed from my grip, tangle in my hair and pull hard enough to hurt.
I back her against the nearest wall, my hands fisting in her t-shirt, and this isn’t gentle or romantic or anything resembling affection.
This is rage and possession and three years of grief finding an outlet.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I see my own confusion reflected in her eyes.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
None of this was supposed to happen.
“Luca,” she starts, but I silence her with another kiss, rougher this time.
I can’t think.
I can’t process what’s happening or what it means.
All I know is that I need to possess her, to claim her, to make her yield in ways that have nothing to do with my carefully calculated revenge plan and everything to do with this…this need burning in my chest.
I push her toward the bed, and when the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she falls.
I follow her down, but the bed is too comfortable, too much like something she might want.
I pull her up and press her against the wall instead, making her stand, making her feel the hard surface against her back.
“Still hate me?” I murmur against her throat, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips.
“Yes,” she breathes, but her body betrays her, arching into mine.
“Good.” My grip on her wrists tighten. “I want you to remember exactly who’s doing this to you.”
Her eyes flash with renewed fury and she yanks at my hair, hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”
I smirk at her. “That’s the idea, cara.”
She scowls at me before her lips crash back onto mine before I can do so much as blink.
She rolls her hips, making me groan into her mouth and I position my thigh between her legs—whether to stop her movements or to encourage them, I can’t tell.
She pulls back, her mouth wrenching from mine. “Is that all you’ve got?” Her voice is breathless. “I expected more from Chicago’s most dangerous crime lord.”
The challenge ignites something feral in my chest. I grab her jaw, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Careful what you ask for.”
Then I kiss her again, harder, swallowing whatever smartass remark she is about to make.
Pulling back, I slam her body against the wall, holding her there by her throat as my other hand tugs forcefully at the waistband of her ratty, pathetic pajama pants.
I nearly rip them apart in my haste to get them off her.
“Don’t rip my pajamas!” Giuliana snaps at me.
I glare at her. “You’re seriously going to scold me about your Goodwill-esque pajama pants when you destroyed a designer gown?”
She smirks at me, clearly delighted that I’m still pissed about that. “Don’t put me in clothes that you don’t—oh!” While she is yapping, I yank down her underwear and plunge two fingers inside of her, giving her almost no time to adjust. “Fuck!”
“You filthy little whore,” I mutter against her neck, thrusting in and out at a relentless pace. My thumb finds her already throbbing clit, stroking and pressing until she’s a mess in my arms. “Goddamn, you’re drenched. Is that all for me, Giuliana?”
She doesn’t reply and that angers me.
She needs to fucking obey me.
I pull my fingers out and slap her clit.
She cries out, but not from pain—no, it’s pleasure.
I slap her again, the lewd noises coming out of her mouth driving me wild.
“Answer me,” I growl, rolling her clit between my fingers as I pull away from her throat to face her.
She cries out when I pinch her clit, her chest heaving.
I continue to hold her by her throat, pinning her to the wall. She’s completely at my mercy.
This is exactly how it should be.
My dick is pressing uncomfortably against my pants, and I pull away from her to fumble for my belt until it clicks open.
I yank my pants down, not even bothering to take them off completely.
My cock stands at attention and Giuliana’s eyes widen at the sight of it.
Her cheeks pinken and I smirk before turning her around so her front is pressed against the wall.
Without another word, I slam into her with one powerful thrust. Giuliana cries out, planting her palms flat against the wall.
I give her a few moments to adjust, my hands reaching around to cup her breasts as she breathes heavily.
She moans in response.
I take that as my green light and I pull out almost completely, only to repeat my previous trick.
My balls hit her skin as I bury myself to the hilt, the grip on her hips rough and bruising in the most delicious way possible.
I don’t hold back and she better not expect me to.
Her walls tighten around me as I slide in and out of her.
With a loud grunt, I pull out again, an arm snaking around her waist and spinning her around once more.
I hoist her up and she wraps her legs around my hips, heels digging into my back.
Her eyes lock with mine and I see pure hatred burning in them.
No matter. I’m sure it’s reflected in mine as well.
This is nothing but biology and physical need.
Nothing more.
“Fuck—” she moans when I fill her again, the new angle making her throw her head back, her mouth agape with pleasure. “F-fuck—”
My thumb is on her clit again, stroking and circling. “Say my name when you come all over my cock,” I rasp.
“No,” she snaps, bringing her head back to glare at me.
She doesn’t run the show here.
I do and what I say goes.
I want her to say my name.
I want her to fucking beg for me to finish fucking her.
I want her to be embarrassed afterward that she begged for my cock.
I stop moving and touching her. “What’s. My. Name.”
“Fucker,” she spits out.
Clever.
I slam my hips back into hers and reach up to wrap my hand around her throat, squeezing the tender flesh of her neck. “What’s my name, Giuliana?”
She tries to shake her head but my grip is relentless as I move at a punishing pace, my hips rutting into hers. “Say my name.”
“Luca,” my name is nothing more than a whisper and yet it’s enough to unleash me. “Fuck, Luca—”
My movements grow desperate, erratic. “Fuck,” I grunt, my breath coming in pants. “You fucking filthy girl. You like being clenched around my cock like that, don’t you?”
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying. I’m babbling, saying whatever the fuck springs into my brain.
Giuliana seems to like it as her breathing becomes sharper and shallower and she’s thrashing against the wall, her cunt spasming around my cock.
When I thrust into her one last time, she hits the wall with the back of her head, but it doesn’t matter.
She cries out and moans and makes all sorts of whimpering, pathetic noises as she comes.
I grunt again, the muscles of my abdomen flexing as I spill into her, riding my high for as long as possible.
We’re both still against the wall, breathing hard.
The silence that follows is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what just happened.
I step back first, releasing her and pulling out of her, wincing at the sensitivity.
Giuliana slides down slightly, steadying herself on shaky legs. She won’t look at me.
Reality crashes down with devastating force.
What the fuck did I just do?
I bend down and pull up my boxers and pants, fumbling with my belt.
The click of the buckle is the only noise made outside of our labored breathing.
She’s still not looking at me.
Good. Because I have no idea what to say to explain what happened.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Losing control, giving in to rage and lust, blurring the lines between revenge and something far more complicated—none of it was supposed to happen.
I was supposed to remain focused on making Antonio Conti suffer through Giuliana’s pain.
Instead, I’ve just fucking complicated everything in ways I’m not equipped to handle.
I finish dressing and move toward the door. As my hand touches the handle, Giuliana’s voice cuts through the room.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
I pause but don’t turn around. “No. It doesn’t.”
“I still hate you,” comes her voice.
I can’t help but laugh. “Good.” The word comes out rougher than I intended. “You should.”
I leave without looking back, the lock snicking into place.
The walk back to my office passes in a blur.
I pour another drink and sink into my chair, staring at Marco’s photograph without really seeing it.
It’s just physical attraction, I tell myself again.
Lust, nothing more.
A complication that can be managed, controlled, filed away under “biological urges” and forgotten by morning.
But even as I try to convince myself, I know it’s a lie.
Giuliana didn’t break tonight.
She didn’t surrender or submit or show me the defeat I’ve been working toward.
She matched me, challenged me, met my fury with her own and refused to be conquered even in this.
And the fact that her defiance only made me want her more. That’s the real problem.
Somewhere between planning her destruction and executing it, she’s become a dangerous distraction.
I should be focused solely on business and the alliance and the endgame that’s supposed to balance Marco’s death.
I look at Marco’s photograph again, at his easy smile and kind eyes, and feel something crack inside me.
“Forgive me,” I whisper to the image. “I’m losing the plot, and I don’t know how to find my way back.”
The photograph offers no answers or absolution. Just Marco’s frozen smile, forever captured in a moment before everything went to hell.
I drain the whiskey, but it does nothing to erase the memory of Giuliana’s skin against mine, her fury matching my own, the way she kissed me back despite claiming to hate me.
I’ve just crossed a line I can’t uncross. And whatever happens next, nothing between Giuliana and me will ever be simple again.