Chapter 20 - Emma
“Keep your stance wider, stellina. The gun doesn’t care how delicate you look.”
Alessandro's voice rumbles against my ear as he adjusts my position in the underground shooting range, his chest pressed against my back, solid and warm in the cool subterranean air.
The acrid smell of gunpowder from our previous rounds mingles with his cologne, that musky floral scent that makes my body respond even when my mind knows I should be focused on the weapon in my hands.
The weight of the Glock no longer frightens me after five weeks of marriage. Five weeks since I walked down that aisle as Frances Hewson, trembling and afraid. Now I hold death in my palm with steady confidence, and the transformation thrills me.
"Breathe," Alessandro murmurs, his breath hot against my neck as his hands cover mine on the grip. "Feel the weight. Let it become part of you."
His body molds against mine from behind, and I feel every inch of him.
The hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as they guide mine, and unmistakably, his cock hardening against my lower back.
The combination of danger and desire makes heat pool between my thighs.
Even here, surrounded by concrete walls that muffle sound, with deadly weapons and the faint echo of our last shots still ringing, my body responds to him like he's rewired my very DNA.
"Now," he says, his lips brushing my ear. "Three shots, center mass. Show me what my good girl has learned."
The praise sends a rush of wetness to my core.
I squeeze the trigger in rapid succession.
One, two, three. The gun kicks against my palm with each shot, a violent kiss that travels up my arm.
Each bullet tears through the paper target's center mass, clustered so tightly they create a single ragged hole where a heart would be.
"Christ," Alessandro breathes, his body going rigid behind me. His cock presses harder against me, fully erect now, and his hands tighten on my hips with bruising force. "You're perfect. A natural killer."
Pride surges through me at his approval, dark and intoxicating. "I had a good teacher," I say, deliberately grinding back against his erection, feeling the thick length of him through our clothes.
He spins me around so fast the gun clatters onto the counter.
My back hits the cold concrete wall, and his mouth crashes into mine with desperate hunger.
His tongue invades my mouth while his hands grab my ass, lifting me.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and I can feel his cock pressing against me through our clothes, right where I need him most.
"You're going to be the death of me," he growls against my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
His teeth scrape against my pulse point as his hand slides under my shirt.
His shirt, actually, stolen from his closet this morning.
His fingers find my breast, thumb brushing my nipple through the lace of my bra until it peaks painfully hard.
"Alex," I gasp, grinding against him, seeking friction. "Please."
"Please what?" His hand moves between us, cupping me through my jeans. The pressure makes me whimper. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I manage, my hands fumbling with his belt. "I need you inside me. Now."
He sets me down just long enough to yank my jeans and panties down my legs. The cool air hits my heated skin for only a moment before his fingers find me, sliding through my wetness with a groan.
"So wet already," he murmurs, circling my clit with his thumb while two fingers push inside me. "This pussy is always ready for me, isn't it?"
"Yes," I moan, my hips bucking against his hand. "Always. Only for you."
He works me expertly, fingers curling to hit that spot that makes me see stars while his thumb maintains perfect pressure on my clit. I'm already close, embarrassingly fast, when he suddenly stops.
"No," I whimper at the loss. "Don't stop."
"Turn around," he commands, his voice rough with need. "Hands on the wall."
I obey immediately, bracing my palms against the cold concrete. Behind me, I hear his zipper, then feel the hot length of his cock sliding through my folds, coating himself in my wetness.
"You're mine," he growls, positioning himself at my entrance. "Say it."
"Yours," I gasp as he pushes inside me in one deep thrust. The stretch is perfect, that edge between pleasure and pain that makes my whole body light up. "All yours."
He sets a punishing pace immediately, one hand gripping my hip while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. The position makes him hit even deeper, each thrust pushing little screams from my throat.
"That's it," he encourages, his grip tightening. "Let me hear you. Let anyone listening know who's fucking this perfect pussy."
The thought of being heard, of someone knowing what he's doing to me, makes me clench around him. He notices, of course, laughing darkly against my ear.
"You like that? Like the idea of being caught with my cock buried inside you?" His hand slides around to find my clit, rubbing tight circles that have my legs shaking. "Such a dirty girl. My perfect, filthy wife."
My orgasm builds fast under his skilled touch, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in my core. Just when I'm about to fall over the edge, something changes. The compound is too quiet. No footsteps in the hallway outside. No distant voices. The silence presses against us like a held breath.
Alessandro must feel it too because his rhythm falters slightly, though he doesn't stop. His phone buzzes insistently on the counter.
"Ignore it," I plead, pushing back against him, so close to release.
But he's already pulling out, leaving me empty and aching. The loss makes me whimper as he adjusts himself with a pained expression, his cock massive and erect, bobbing with every movement.
"Security alert," he says, checking the screen. "We need to go upstairs. But this isn't over, stellina. Not even close."
My body throbs with unfulfilled need as I pull my clothes back on with shaking hands. The denim feels rough against my oversensitive skin, and I can feel how wet I still am, how ready. Alessandro's eyes track my movements, dark with promise and frustration.
"Come," he says, taking my hand. "My study. Now."
The walk upstairs feels endless, my legs unsteady from our interrupted encounter. His grip on my hand is almost painful, betraying his own frustration.
His study smells of leather and aged whiskey, afternoon light streaming through bulletproof windows. I've been in here before, but never like this. Still trembling with need, my pussy clenching around nothing, wanting him so badly I can barely think straight.
"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the leather chair across from his desk.
But I remain standing, my eyes drawn to the wall of watches behind him. Dozens of them, each one pristine, each one with a story I'm only now beginning to understand.
"Tell me about them," I say, needing distraction from the ache between my thighs.
His eyes darken with something beyond desire. "You want to know about my trophies?"
"Yes." I move closer to the display, noting how his gaze follows me like a predator tracking prey. "Tell me about the first one."
He rises from his chair, moving behind me, not touching but close enough that I feel his heat. "Bottom left. The Rolex Submariner."
I study the watch, its face gleaming in the afternoon light. "Who was he?"
"Antonio LaPaz. Low-level enforcer who thought he could skim from family shipments." His breath ghosts across my neck. "I was nineteen. Marco wanted to test me, see if his pretty brother had the stomach for real work."
"Did you?" My voice comes out breathy as his hand settles on my hip.
"I put three bullets in his chest while he begged for his mother." His lips brush my ear. "Then I took his watch while he was still breathing. Worn it to every execution since."
The casual violence sends a thrill through me. My pussy clenches with fresh need. When did I become someone who gets wet from murder confessions?
"Which one will you add next?" I ask, turning to face him. "When someone threatens us?"
He stares at me for a long moment, then crosses to his desk, pulling out his phone. "That's my dark little stellina. Already planning violence."
The praise makes heat flood through me, but then his expression changes as he reads something on his screen. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking with barely controlled rage.
"What is it?" I ask, moving closer.
"Stay there," he orders, but I'm already at his side, looking at the message.
It's from an unknown number: "Check your mail. We need to discuss Frances. Or should I say Emma?"
My blood turns to ice. The name hits me hard, making my knees weak. Alessandro catches me, pressing me back against his desk, his body caging mine.
"How?" I whisper. "How do they know?"
"Doesn't matter." His voice is deadly calm, but I feel the tension thrumming through him. "I'll fix it."
A knock at the door interrupts us. "Package for you, Mr. Rosetti," Maria calls through the door, her familiar voice steady but concerned. "Courier said it was urgent. Left it with security."
Alessandro retrieves the package, a manila envelope with no return address. His movements are controlled, but I see the slight tremor in his hands as he opens it. Photos spill out onto the mahogany surface, and my world tilts.
There I am. Emma Pitt, servant girl, scrubbing the Hewson's floors.
Another photo of me in my servant's uniform, head down, trying to be invisible.
And worst of all, a photo of me from Tommy's sentencing day, standing outside the courthouse, tears streaming down my face as they led him away in shackles.
"Oh God," I breathe, my hand flying to my mouth.
Alessandro studies each photo with cold precision before sliding them into his safe. When he turns back to me, his expression is carved from stone.
"Stellina," he says, crossing to where I stand frozen. "We have a problem. Someone knows exactly who you really are."
The words hit me hard, but before I can even process them, Alessandro's fist slams into the mahogany desk with enough force to crack the wood.
The violence of it makes me jump, but then he's pulling me against him roughly, and I feel he's still hard from our interrupted encounter in the shooting range, his cock pressing insistently against my stomach.
"No one," he growls, his hand tangling in my hair to pull my head back, forcing me to meet his dangerous gaze, "takes you from me. Not the Hewsons, not my family, not God himself."
His mouth crashes into mine with bruising force, teeth and tongue claiming me even as danger circles us.
I taste blood, mine or his, I don't know, and the metallic tang only makes me kiss him harder.
My body, still primed from earlier, responds instantly, melting against him despite the terror coursing through my veins.
When he pulls back, his eyes are pure murder and pure want combined, green fire that promises violence and pleasure in equal measure.
"We're going to find whoever sent these, stellina.
But first," his hand slides down to cup me through my jeans, finding me still wet, still aching from our unfinished business, "I'm going to finish what we started downstairs.
Because if the world's ending, you're going to be screaming my name when it does. "
His fingers press harder against me through the denim, and I can't help the moan that escapes. The danger, his possessive fury, the promise of violence all combines into something dark and irresistible that makes my pussy clench with need.
"Alex," I gasp against his mouth. "What if they tell everyone? What if…"
"Let them," he snarls, backing me against the desk until I'm sitting on its surface, photos from the blackmailer scattered beneath me.
"Let the whole fucking world know that Emma Pitt belongs to Alessandro Rosetti.
That I chose you, claimed you, and will destroy anyone who tries to take you from me. "
His hands are already working at my jeans, and I lift my hips to help him, beyond caring about danger or consequences. All that matters is his hands on me, his cock inside me, this proof that whatever comes next, we face it together.
"Mine," he growls as he spreads my legs. "No matter what name you wear, what truth they expose, you're mine, Emma. And I protect what's mine."
The sound of my real name on his lips while his fingers find my clit makes me cry out, pleasure and fear and belonging all tangled together in a perfect storm of sensation. He thrusts inside me, and I throw back my head and scream.