Chapter 13 Giuliana #4
No, he’s not going to try and turn this around. “It’s exactly what you said!” My voice rises despite my best efforts to stay calm. “You’re blaming me for his behavior, like I somehow invited it by existing in the wrong hallway at the wrong time!”
A muscle in Luca’s jaw jumps. “I’m saying you made yourself vulnerable when I explicitly warned you not to. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Tears of frustration burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “Because what I’m hearing is that you’re more angry at me for being in danger than you are at Rico for being the danger.”
He opens his mouth then closes it again, conflict flashing across his features. For a moment, I think he might apologize, might acknowledge that his anger is misdirected.
Instead, he turns away, staring out the tinted window. “We’ll discuss this later. When you’re calmer.”
My jaw nearly drops. The audacity of this man to treat me like I’m some hysterical female from the nineteenth century. “I’m perfectly calm—!”
“No, you’re not. You’re shaking, you’re emotional, and you’re not thinking clearly.” His voice is flat and dismissive, and I want to scream. “We’ll talk about appropriate consequences for disobeying my direct instructions once we’re home.”
Consequences. The word settles in my stomach like lead.
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence. I press myself against the far door, creating as much distance as I can in the confined space, and try to process everything that happened tonight.
Salvatore Romano’s voice echoing Marco’s death sentence. Rico’s hands on me, his assumptions about my availability. Luca’s fury followed immediately by blame.
And underneath it all, the terrible knowledge that keeps growing heavier: I know who really killed Marco. The proof is buried in my phone, and every day I don’t tell Luca is another day I’m complicit in his misdirected revenge.
But telling him could mean my death. Could mean becoming too valuable or too dangerous to keep alive. Could mean—
Luca’s hand shoots out, gripping my thigh hard enough to make me gasp. “Come here.”
I whip my head around, startled. “What—”
“I said come here.” His voice is rough and dangerous in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything. “Now, Giuliana.”
I should refuse. I need to maintain my anger and distance. But something in his tone—command mixed with barely restrained need—makes me obey without thinking.
He pulls me onto his lap in one smooth motion, my dress riding up as I straddle him. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and when his mouth crashes onto mine, it’s not gentle or apologetic.
It’s claiming.
“Mine,” he growls against my lips, one hand fisting in my hair and yanking my head back to expose my throat. “You’re mine, Giuliana. Not Rico’s, not anyone else’s. Mine.”
His teeth graze the sensitive skin of my neck, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes. This is wrong. He just blamed me for being assaulted, and now he’s—
But my body doesn’t care about wrong. My body only knows that Luca’s hands feel safe even when they’re rough, that his possession feels like protection, and that being claimed by him is the only thing standing between me and men like Rico Romano.
“Say it,” he demands, his hand sliding up under my dress to grip my bare thigh. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m—” The words stick in my throat, pride warring with the desperate need for this comfort, this security. “I’m yours.”
“Damn right you are.” His free hand is already working at his belt, and the sound of the buckle makes my breath catch. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”
He doesn’t bother removing my underwear, just shoves it aside with impatient fingers. When he pushes inside in one brutal thrust, I cry out—not from pain, but from the overwhelming sensation of being filled, claimed, and possessed.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. In the dim light from passing streetlights, his expression is fierce, possessive, almost feral. “I want to see your face when I remind you exactly who you belong to.”
He sets a punishing rhythm, one hand gripping my hip to control my movements, the other still fisted in my hair. There’s nothing tender about this—it’s raw and desperate and primal.
And god help me, I need it.
I cling to his shoulders, my nails digging through the expensive fabric of his shirt, probably leaving marks. Every thrust drives home the same message: mine, mine, mine.
“You scared me tonight,” he admits roughly, his voice breaking slightly on the words. “Seeing Rico’s hands on you, seeing him that close—”
His grip tightens almost painfully, his rhythm becoming more erratic.
“I wanted to kill him. I wanted to paint that hallway with his blood for daring to touch what’s mine.”
The possessiveness should terrify me and remind me that I’m property to him, an acquisition like Rico said. But instead, it makes me feel safe in a way nothing else has since this nightmare began.
Because in Luca’s world, being his means being protected. Being claimed means being untouchable to men like Rico. Being possessed means having someone who’ll commit murder on my behalf.
It’s twisted and wrong and probably a sign of Stockholm Syndrome, but I can’t bring myself to care when the alternative is being devoured by wolves.
“Luca,” I gasp, already close to the edge. “I need—”
“I know what you need.” His hand slides between us, finding my clit and touching it in a way that makes me see stars. “You need to be mine. You need to feel owned, protected, claimed. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I sob out, beyond pride now. “Yes, please—”
“Then come for me,” he orders, his voice harsh. “Come on my cock and remember who you belong to.”
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, and I bury my face against his neck to muffle my cries. He follows moments later, his grip on my hips bruising as he buries himself deep and spills inside me with a groan that sounds almost pained.
We stay like that for several long moments—me draped across his lap, him still inside me, both of us breathing hard. The car continues moving through Chicago’s streets, carrying us back to the cage that’s starting to feel like the only safe place in the world.
“You’re mine,” Luca murmurs against my hair, his voice softer now but no less certain. “In this world, that’s the only thing keeping you safe. Do you understand?”
I nod against his shoulder, too wrung out to argue. Because he’s right. In his world, being owned is the same as being protected. And I need that protection more than I need my pride.
The realization should horrify me. Instead, it just makes me hold onto him tighter.
Stockholm Syndrome, the rational part of my brain whispers. You’re confusing captivity with safety, possession with protection.
But the rational part is getting quieter every day, drowned out by the louder voice that says at least Luca’s cage is better than being prey.
He helps me off his lap eventually, fixes my dress with surprising gentleness while I try to make myself presentable. My hair is disheveled, my lips swollen, and I probably look thoroughly debauched.
I can’t bring myself to care.