Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alessia
The formal dining room has been transformed. Crystal glitters in candlelight, silver gleams against white linen, and white roses spill from low arrangements. Someone has gone to considerable trouble.
As I approach the table, Isabella catches my arm gently and leans in close enough so that only I can hear. "You sit at his right, of course," she says, "in the seat of honor."
I take the seat she indicated. The last time I sat beside my husband at a formal meal, Lorenzo backhanded me for speaking out of turn, but that was a different life and a different table, and I'm not going to let that memory ruin tonight.
The first course arrives—some kind of delicate fish in a cream sauce. I push it around my plate, aware of everyone watching.
"You should try it," Matteo murmurs beside me. "The chef's outdone himself tonight."
I take a bite, and it's good—buttery and perfectly cooked.
By the second course, the wine has loosened everyone's tongues. Rafael leans back in his chair, glass dangling from his fingers, grin already forming.
"Dante," he says, loud enough to carry. "Tell them about Prague."
Dante's fork pauses mid-air. "We don't need to—"
"Oh, we absolutely need to." Rafael's grin widens. "Alessia should know what she's married into."
"What happened in Prague?" I ask, grateful for the distraction.
The way Dante sets down his fork with precise care tells me he's buying time to decide how much to reveal. "A simple negotiation. Nothing worth repeating."
"He tried to charm her," Rafael cuts in, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"The arms dealer. Full Dante treatment—compliments, smooth talk, that thing he does with his cufflinks where he adjusts them just so.
" He demonstrates, flicking an imaginary cuff with exaggerated flair.
"The woman looked at him like he was something she scraped off her shoe. "
Enzo's mouth curves into a genuine smile, and he shakes his head at the memory. "She called him 'pretty boy' in Czech. Told him to send a real man next time."
Isabella covers her mouth but her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and Luca's trying not to smile but failing. Even Matteo's expression softens into something approaching amusement.
Dante's jaw tightens, but there's color high on his cheekbones. "I still secured the deal."
"After Enzo stepped in and spoke her language," Rafael adds, raising his glass. "To Dante's wounded pride. May it someday recover."
"To Dante's pride," the table echoes, and even Dante manages a rueful smile.
The story shifts something in the atmosphere, and the stiffness I've been feeling since the ceremony eases a bit.
These men—dangerous, violent, loyal to a fault—they tease each other like brothers.
And sitting here listening to them, I realize they're including me in this, treating me like I belong at this table instead of being an outsider who needs to be tolerated.
"Your turn, Enzo," Isabella says, eyes sparkling.
"Tell her about the time you got stuck in the air duct. "
Enzo's expression goes carefully blank. "That's classified."
"You got stuck in an air duct?" I can't help the smile.
"He was twenty pounds heavier then," Rafael supplies helpfully. "And the intel was wrong about the duct size. He was wedged in there for two hours before we could extract him."
"I wasn't stuck," Enzo says with dignity. "I was strategically pausing."
"You were stuck." Matteo's voice carries dry amusement. "And cursing in three languages while Rafael laughed instead of helping."
"I was providing moral support," Rafael protests.
The table erupts in laughter, and I join in because the image of stoic Enzo wedged in an air duct cursing in multiple languages is genuinely funny. My ribs ache from laughing, and it feels good to let go of some of the tension I've been holding.
Matteo's hand finds mine under the table. Laces our fingers together. The ring presses between our palms—permanent, binding, mine now.
When dessert is cleared—some elaborate tiramisu that melts on the tongue—and the men start to drift toward cigars and whiskey, Matteo stands, pulling me with him.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"To bed." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "I've been patient all night. But you're my wife now, and I'm done sharing you with an audience."
My face burns. Isabella makes a sound that might be a laugh. Rafael wolf-whistles until Enzo smacks the back of his head. Matteo doesn't wait for their teasing to end. Just leads me out of the dining room, through the hallway, up the stairs to our room.
When the door closes behind us, the sounds of the party fade. It's just us—husband and wife—standing in lamplight, rings on our fingers, the weight of what we just did settling around us.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
Instead of answering, I kiss him. And this time, there's nothing gentle about it.
He kisses me back with hunger that's been restrained all night. His hands slide up my sides, finding the zipper at my back. The sound fills the quiet room as he lowers it slowly, knuckles dragging against my spine. The silk—his mother's silk—pools at my feet.
I step out of it carefully, and he picks it up, drapes it over the chair with more care than I expected. When he turns back, his eyes rake over me in nothing but white lace and the ring on my finger.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
I cross over to him. His hands settle on my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart hammering through the layers of his suit, feel the heat of him even through fabric and lace.
My fingers find his tie—the one he finally put on for the ceremony—and I loosen it, pull it free. His jacket comes next. He shrugs out of it, and I work on his shirt buttons, feeling his breathing change as I expose more skin.
When I push the shirt off his shoulders, my hands trace the scars I'm learning by heart. The old knife wound on his ribs. The bullet graze across his shoulder. The newer mark—still pink—from the ambush at the Meridian.
"I want to try something," I hear myself say.
His hands still on my hips. "What?"
My throat feels tight. I've been thinking about this since the pool.
"The blindfold." The words come out quieter than I intend. "I want you to use it."
He goes very still. "You said no before."
"I know." I meet his eyes, see the question in them. "But I'm saying yes now. I want to trust you with that."
Understanding dawns in his expression. Something fierce and tender that makes my ribs ache.
"Are you sure?" His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "Because once I start, I'm not stopping unless you tell me to."
"I'm sure."
He studies my face for another long moment, searching for doubt. When he finds none, he presses his lips to my forehead. "Wait here."
He crosses to the dresser, pulls open a drawer, returns with black silk. It's soft when he holds it up—expensive fabric that won't scratch or leave marks.
"Turn around."
I obey. My pulse kicks as I hear him move behind me, feel his warmth at my back. The silk settles over my eyes, and then darkness. Complete and absolute. His fingers tie it carefully at the back of my head—not too tight, but secure enough I can't shake it loose.
"Can you see anything?"
"No."
"Good." His lips brush my ear, breath hot against my skin. "Now tell me if anything becomes too much."
His hands slide down my arms, raising goosebumps. Without sight, every touch amplifies. I feel the calluses on his palms, the warmth of his fingers, the deliberate way he traces patterns on my skin.
He unhooks my bra, slides it off my shoulders. Cool air hits my breasts, makes my nipples tighten. Then his mouth is there—hot and wet, sucking one peak while his hand palms the other. I gasp, arch into him, and he makes a sound low in his throat.
"Bed," he murmurs against my skin.
He guides me backward. I feel the mattress hit the back of my knees, and I sit. His hands press gently on my shoulders, and I lie back against sheets that smell like him.
I hear his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric as he strips. Then the mattress dips, and he's there, body covering mine, skin against skin. The weight of him grounds me even as darkness disorients.
His mouth finds mine. Kisses me deep while his hands map my body—breasts, waist, hips. When his fingers hook into my panties and drag them down, I lift my hips to help. And then I'm completely bare beneath him, blindfolded and vulnerable and more turned on than I've ever been.
"You're shaking," he murmurs against my throat.
"I'm nervous."
"Don't be." His teeth graze my collarbone. "I'm going to take care of you."
He takes his time kissing down my body—throat, collarbone, between my breasts. His tongue circles one nipple, then the other, until I'm squirming beneath him. Lower—across my ribs, my stomach, following the path of an old bruise that's long since faded.
When he reaches my thighs, he spreads them wide. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but before I can overthink it, his mouth is on me.
The sensation makes me cry out. Without sight, every stroke of his tongue feels magnified, overwhelming. He licks slowly, thoroughly, like he's savoring me. When he sucks my clit into his mouth, my hips buck off the bed.
"Matteo—"
"Shh." His hands pin my hips down, hold me in place while he devours me. "Let me hear you."
He works me with steady precision, alternating between long licks and focused suction that makes my thighs tremble. When he slides two fingers inside, crooking them just right, I feel myself climbing fast toward the edge.
"That's it," he growls against me. "Come for me, Alessia."
His fingers thrust deeper, tongue flicking rapidly, and I shatter. Pleasure crashes through me in waves that make my back arch, make sounds tear from my throat that I barely recognize. He doesn't stop, just keeps working me through it until I'm writhing, oversensitive, begging.
Only then does he pull back. I hear him moving, feel him kneel between my spread thighs. His hands grip my hips, and then he's entering me in one slow, deep thrust that makes us both groan.
"Damn," he breathes. "You feel incredible."
He starts to move—long, deep strokes that make me feel every inch of him. Without sight, all I can do is feel—the stretch, the fullness, the way he grinds deep before pulling almost all the way out. My hands find his shoulders, nails digging in.
"Turn over," he says, voice rough with need.
"Okay."
He pulls out carefully, helps me turn onto my stomach. His hands guide my hips up, positioning me on my knees. I feel the cool air on my exposed skin, hear my own breathing too loud in the darkness.
"You're safe," he murmurs, one hand sliding up my spine. "I've got you."
Then he's entering me from behind, and the angle is different—deeper, more intense. I bury my face in the pillow, overwhelmed by sensation and vulnerability and trust.
He moves slowly at first, letting me adjust. One hand grips my hip, the other slides around to find my clit. When he starts thrusting harder, the dual sensation makes me cry out into the pillow.
The darkness heightens everything. I can't see him but I feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, his breath hot on my back, his fingers working between my legs. The vulnerability of the position combined with the blindness pushes me toward an edge I didn't know existed.
"Touch yourself," he commands, and I do, my hand joining his between my legs.
The pressure builds impossibly fast. His thrusts grow harder, deeper, and I feel him everywhere—stretching me, filling me, owning me completely while I can't see anything but darkness.
"That's it," he growls. "Let go."
My fingers work frantically, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. When I come, it's with a scream muffled by the pillow, my entire body convulsing as pleasure whites out everything else.
He follows seconds later with a groan that vibrates through his chest into my back. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth, and something opens wide in my ribs with the intimacy of it.
He collapses forward carefully, his weight pressing me into the mattress without crushing me. We're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked, still connected. His lips press against my shoulder blade, gentle despite the force of what just happened.
"Are you okay?" His voice is rough.
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. "More than okay."
He pulls out slowly, and I feel the loss of him. His hands guide me onto my back, and I expect him to remove the blindfold. Instead, he settles beside me, pulls me against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat thundering, feel his chest rising and falling.
"Keep it on a little longer," he murmurs against my hair. "Just feel this."
So, I do. Let myself exist in darkness and sensation—his warmth, his scent, the rhythm of his breathing evening out. My fingers trace patterns on his chest, following scars by touch alone. His hand strokes up and down my spine in lazy patterns that make me drowsy.
This is trust. This is surrender. Lying blindfolded in his arms, vulnerable and sated and safe.
Until there’s a sharp knock on the door.