Chapter Thirty-six
Lorenzo
I love you.
That’s what she said. Three simple words that hit me like a goddamn bullet to the chest, and I haven’t been able to breathe right since.
She whispered them, eyes wide and open like she meant them.
Like they weren’t just something people say after sex when their defenses are down and their guard is off.
But still… how could she have meant them?
Maybe it was the high. Maybe it was just the aftermath of being fucked so good she lost track of her thoughts. Maybe she didn’t mean it at all. Maybe she did. And if she did…
Fuck.
I haven’t slept right in days, because those three words keep playing on a loop in my head. Over and over, like some fucked-up mantra I didn’t ask for but can’t silence.
Does she love me?
Do I love her?
I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like. But I know this, I can’t fucking breathe without her.
I want her under my skin. I want her in my bed, in my arms, in my fucking bloodstream. I want to know where she is every second of the day. I want to be the one who makes her laugh, the one who ruins her for every other man. I want her to crave me, just like I crave her.
Is that love? Or is it something darker?
I don’t know. But I know I’d burn the world to keep her. I know I’d kill anyone who touches her. I know the way her voice calms whatever chaos is in me. And I know I’ve tried like hell to ignore what I feel, and failed.
Every time she cries my name, every time she looks at me like I’m something good… it unravels me.
Because I know I’m not good. I never have been.
She doesn’t know me, not really. She hasn’t seen the worst of me. She doesn’t know the lengths I’ve gone to for control, for silence inside my own head. She doesn’t know what it means to be loved by someone like me.
She thinks she does. But she doesn’t.
And still... she said it. Like she meant it.
And now I’m sitting in this goddamn car at the airport, waiting to take her on a trip she thinks is just a getaway.
Florence, a city she’s always wanted to see.
I told her I’d handle everything. I told her not to pack.
But she insisted. Because she’s stubborn.
Because she doesn’t let me run everything, yet.
And I guess she’s still mad. Because I didn’t say it back.
I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t feel it.
But because what I feel? It’s not simple.
It’s not clean. It’s a goddamn obsession.
A hunger. A need that borders on violent.
I want her too much. And that… freaks the shit out of me.
Because I don’t know if I can love her the way she deserves. Or if I’ll just end up destroying her.
She’s twenty minutes late.
The engine of my Lambo hums softly under my fingers, but my blood’s running hotter than the metal I’m gripping.
My phone buzzes, Dante again. Third time.
He’s been hounding me for an explanation ever since the Luciano incident.
What does he expect me to say? That I’m sorry?
That I didn’t mean to align myself with the Bratva?
There’s no apology coming. Not for telling the truth.
I ignore his call.
I’m sitting on the edge of something, rage, anticipation, exhaustion, and she’s still not here. And yet, I wait.
My mother was ecstatic when she heard I’d be flying in.
She sounded like the version of her I almost forgot existed, before the medication cocktails, before the hospitalizations.
But this visit isn’t just for a sentimental reunion.
Andres got into Lucy's files. My father, the man I was taught to idolize, was arrested eight years ago for beating Thomas Beaumont to death.
I’ve replayed those words over and over. “Not a violent man,” I always believed. But maybe I’ve inherited more from him than just a name and a family I don’t claim. Maybe that rage, burning slow, violent, unrelenting, is mine too.
I tried asking my mother for the truth. I got excuses. Vague distractions. “I need to go.” “I have company.” “We’ll talk later.” Classic tactics of avoidance.
So now, I’m dragging Serena into it. Not because I need a distraction, because I want her to see it. Florence. The place I grew up.
Her driver finally pulls up to the jet. She steps out, wind tugging at her hair, face calm but unreadable.
She looks like a storm dressed in silk. Mine.
One of my guards trails behind her. He knows better than to slack off.
Ever since people started realizing we’re together, I’ve made sure she’s protected.
There are too many people who’d love to hurt me through her.
Her mother being one of them.
I’ve seen many monsters in my life, men who'd kill without blinking. But that woman? She made my blood run colder than most. Hitting Serena… bruising her body like that. And the worst part? Serena defended her.
“She's mentally unstable,” she told me. “She didn’t mean to.”
Bullshit.
So, I returned the message. Set fire to her mother’s car. I watched from across the street as the flames climbed, licking at the paint, twisting metal. And her mother? Screaming, crying like it was the end of the world. It wasn’t. I was just getting started.
I could’ve burned her house too. But I didn’t. That house belongs to Serena too. And there are lines I won’t cross. Not when it comes to her.
But let her mother try something again, and I’ll erase her completely.
Serena steps out of the car like she owns the fucking runway, two oversized suitcases and a small designer bag in hand, for a weekend in Florence. I raise a brow, smirking as the guards move in to handle her luggage.
“You know we’re not moving there, right?” I say dryly, already walking toward her.
She gives me that smile, the one that melts every ounce of rational thought in me, and slides her arms around my neck. “A girl never has enough stuff on holiday.”
I grab her by the waist, anchoring her to me. My mouth meets hers in a slow, claiming kiss. Soft. Intentional. Possessive. Her body melts into mine like she belongs nowhere else. Which she doesn’t.
I pull back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Why do you need all those clothes when you’ll be naked most of the time?”
She gasps, blushing, pushing at my chest half-heartedly. “Lorenzo!”
I kiss her again, harder this time, just to shut her up. Her lips are addictive. Her skin still smells like vanilla and trouble. “I missed you,” she whispers like a secret.
And it hits me harder than it should. I saw her this morning. She left my bed only hours ago. Still… I missed her too. My chest tightens and it pisses me off.
“Did you?” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her lower lip. She nods, wide-eyed and honest, and I swear, I nearly throw her over my shoulder and take her right here.
My eyes rake over her. The short dress clings to her curves like sin itself. Her tits peek just enough to taunt me. Mascara perfectly smudged around her long lashes. Baby pink gloss on her lips. And the glow, she’s always wearing that damn shimmer. Like she wants to shine for me.
Heels, of course. She lives in them. And every time she wears them, I’m tempted to fuck her with nothing else on but those heels.
I nod at my guards to give us space and guide her up the steps into the jet. She walks ahead of me, swaying like she knows exactly what she’s doing. I adjust my pants and exhale through my nose.
This girl is a fucking menace.
She settles into the leather seat like she’s royalty. I glance at her ridiculous pile of luggage already being loaded into the cargo.
We’re going to Florence for two days.
She brought three books. Ten outfits. Four swimsuits. Five heels. Two flats. A makeup bag the size of a suitcase. Skincare like she’s running a spa. Sunblock, two bottles. Because apparently one isn’t enough for her delicate skin.
She looks at me, smug, like she expects praise for packing light.
I take the seat across from her, legs spread, hands clasped in front of me, watching her with that slow, dark hunger I never bother hiding. “You really brought three books?”
She shrugs. “What if I finish one early?”
I stare at her.
“You’re not going to be reading, principessa. Not on this trip.”
Her breath catches and she knows exactly what I mean. Her cheeks flush, lips part slightly. She shifts in her seat like she suddenly can’t get comfortable.
Good.
That’s how I want her all weekend, flustered, aching, mine.
Eight hours in the air and I’ve fucked her three times.
Now she’s curled against me, wearing only my T-shirt, bare legs tangled in the soft leather of the jet’s seat. My cum is drying along the inside of her thighs, marking her the way I like, my mess on her skin, mine to see, mine to touch. She looks sinful and soft at the same time.
The flight attendant appears, discreet and polite, announcing we’ll be landing in thirty minutes. A reminder to buckle in, then he leaves us alone.
I glance at Serena. She’s gone under deep, so deep she doesn’t stir when I speak her name. Her breathing is slow, her lips parted, blonde hair fanned across the pillow like silk. I push a loose handful of it behind her ear and let my fingers trace down the side of her face. Warm. Smooth. Mine.
“We’re landing,” I murmur against her skin. My voice pulls a soft moan from her throat. Her eyes open slow, those big brown eyes that pin you in place, like they see more than they should.
“Get dressed. We’re landing soon.” I press a kiss to her forehead. Not for show. Just because I want to.
She shifts, reaching for the little scrap of fabric she wore earlier. Her hands smooth her dress over her hips, fingers working through her hair before she dabs at her makeup with practiced precision.
“My panties,” she says, glancing under the seat. “I can’t find them.”
I let the corner of my mouth curl. “They’re fine.”
What I don’t say is that they’re in my pocket. I’m not giving them back. Not yet.