Chapter 5
The atmosphere in the meeting room was heavier than usual. The air felt dense, almost solid, thick with the scent of expensive whiskey, cigar smoke, and something metallic that only appeared when they gathered to decide who would live and who would die.
No jokes.
No provocative comments.
None of the brothers testing each other’s patience. Respect for the Don was absolute.
The long dark-wood table, scarred by decades of bloody decisions, was occupied only by the most important men of the Salvatore family.
Vincenzo studied the documents spread out in front of his father, but his mind wasn’t fully present.
Beside him, his two younger brothers remained still, their faces closed.
The patriarch rested his large hands on the table and stood.
“We found out who was behind those attacks on our shipments.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the ticking of the old clock on the wall could be heard.
“Who’s the crazy bastard attacking us?” asked the middle brother, his voice low and tense.
Their father slid several photographs across the table. They weren’t just faces. They were images of destruction: trucks burned out on the highway, bodies of loyal men covered by bloodstained sheets, looted warehouses.
“The rival organization,” the patriarch answered. “They’re expanding their territory and decided our business was the next target.”
Vincenzo examined each photo with cold eyes. Every image was a declaration of war.
“Even after the counterattacks?” the youngest asked, incredulous.
“Even then,” their father confirmed. “Their men don’t seem to fear death. They fight like suicides. Or like they’ve been ordered not to retreat, no matter the cost.”
The middle brother slammed his closed fist on the table, making the photographs tremble.
“Then let’s end this shit. Let’s make them bleed until they learn their place.”
The patriarch crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over his three sons.
“I want the three of you leading different teams. Simultaneous attacks. Three fronts. Their main warehouse at the port, the distribution route they use up north, and the meeting point we located in La Spezia. No warning. No mercy.”
He fixed his eyes on Vincenzo.
“This will take at least a week. Maybe more if they hit back hard.”
Vincenzo remained motionless. On the outside, he looked like the most controlled son, the most lethal. On the inside, something twisted.
A week.
Seven days.
Without seeing her.
Without hearing her voice.
Without being able to “accidentally” brush against her just to catch the scent of her perfume on her skin.
He felt a hot irritation rise through his chest. He shouldn’t care this much. She was just a woman. A beautiful woman, yes. A woman who made him imagine things he had no right to imagine while planning a war. But still… just a woman.
And yet the image of her refused to leave his head.
He remembered the way she smiled. The way her lips parted slightly when she was surprised. The body he had only seen clothed, but that he already imagined naked, arching under his hands, moaning softly while he held her by the hips and…
Vincenzo clenched his jaw hard. Focus, for fuck’s sake.
The meeting continued. Plans. Strategies.
Number of men. Weapons. Escape routes. Possible casualties.
Every word carried the weight of the blood that would be spilled.
But somewhere in the back of Vincenzo’s mind, a pair of brown eyes kept appearing.
And with them, the memory of the heat he felt just from being near her.
He hated it.
And at the same time, he didn’t want it to stop.
◆◆◆
The days passed slowly for Sara.
She tried to keep her routine. Photoshoots where she posed with sensual expressions she didn’t feel. Casting calls. Small events. Interviews. But everything felt empty. Mechanical.
Every night, the same question returned:
Where is he?
No calls.
No unexpected visits.
No “accidental” meetings at the café or on the street.
After the fifth day, she began to convince herself that she had imagined everything. That maybe Vincenzo Salvatore was the type of man who collected women like her—women he made feel special for a few days and then disappeared.
And that hurt more than it should.
On the seventh night, Sara went to bed with a tight chest. She lay on her side, staring at the dark window of her bedroom. The pillow felt too cold. The entire house felt too quiet.
She closed her eyes.
And dreamed of him.
In the dream, the bedroom door opened without a sound.
Vincenzo entered as if he belonged in that space.
He wore only dark-gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing his defined abdomen and the deep lines that disappeared beneath the fabric.
Broad chest, strong shoulders, old scars marking his golden skin.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. And his gaze… his gaze was pure fire.
He approached the bed in silence. Climbed onto the mattress with slow, controlled movements, like a large predator who knew exactly the effect he caused. His weight made the mattress sink. His scent—something warm, masculine, with a hint of wood and danger—invaded the room.
Sara felt no fear. She only felt her stomach tighten with an almost painful need.
Vincenzo leaned over her, resting one knee between her thighs. The heat of his body was overwhelming. He slid his fingers across her face with a tenderness that contrasted with everything he was. Then down her neck, tracing her collarbone, until he reached the neckline of her thin silk nightgown.
He pulled the fabric down with deliberate slowness.
Her breasts were exposed. Vincenzo let out a low sound, almost a growl, and covered one of them with his mouth.
He sucked hard on the nipple, his tongue circling it, while his hand massaged the other breast, squeezing, lightly pinching.
Sara arched her back, a rough moan escaping her throat.
“Vincenzo…” she whispered in the dream.
He lifted his face just enough to look into her eyes. His smile was subtle. Dangerous. Full of promises.
“You have no idea what I want to do to you,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough.
He kissed his way down her abdomen, nipping at the sensitive skin just above her hip bone.
He reached between her legs. With both hands, he parted her thighs without hurry, as if he wanted to memorize every detail.
He pulled her panties aside and ran his tongue over her—once, slowly, savoring.
Then he truly dove in: he sucked her clit hungrily.
Sara cried out, moaning louder.
He licked between her swollen folds, thrust his tongue inside her while his fingers gripped her thighs hard enough to leave marks.
Sara writhed, moaning loudly, her fingers buried in his hair. The pleasure was so intense it almost hurt.
When he climbed back up, he kissed her deeply, sharing her taste. While he kissed her, he pushed his own pants down. His thick, hard, hot cock brushed against her wet entrance.
He didn’t ask. He simply gripped her hip with one hand and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, opening her, filling her completely. Sara gasped against his mouth, her nails digging into his back.
“Fuck…” Vincenzo growled, his forehead resting against hers. “So wet for me…”
He started to move. Deep, rhythmic, possessive thrusts.
Every time he buried himself to the hilt, Sara let out a louder moan.
He held both of her wrists above her head with one hand while the other explored her body—squeezing her breasts, sliding down to her clit, rubbing it while he fucked her with increasing force.
The rhythm grew faster. Rougher. More desperate. As if he had waited for this for years. As if he wanted to mark her from the inside.
“Vincenzo… I’m going to…” she could barely speak.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice thick. “Now.”
Sara came hard, her entire body shaking, her inner walls clenching around him in spasms. Vincenzo followed seconds later, burying his face in her neck, letting out a guttural groan as he spilled deep inside her, pulsing, marking her.
They stayed tangled together, panting, sweaty. He kissed the corner of her mouth with unexpected tenderness.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against her skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
The dream began to dissolve.
Sara woke with a start.
The room was dark. Silent. Empty.
Her body still pulsed. Between her legs, she was soaked. Her face was wet with tears. She brought a hand to her face, confused, frightened by the intensity of what she had felt.
“What’s happening to me…?” she whispered, her voice fragile.
She barely knew him. Barely knew who he really was. But her body wanted him as if she had lost him years ago. The dream had been so real… so good… so right.
She cried in silence for long minutes, clutching the pillow, trying to understand why a man she barely knew could make her heart and body miss him so much.
◆◆◆
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. Sara tried to distract herself. She made coffee. Heated bread. Prepared juice. Anything to keep from thinking about the dream. To keep from remembering the feeling of him inside her. To keep from missing the weight of him on her body.
Then the doorbell rang.
She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She walked to the door and opened it.
A man in uniform held an enormous bouquet of red roses—so large it almost hid his face—and a phone in his other hand.
“Sara Romani?”
“Yes…”
“Delivery for you.”
She took the bouquet with difficulty. The scent of the roses flooded everything. They were intense red, almost the color of blood, perfect. When she finally managed to hold them against her chest, the delivery man said goodbye and left.
Sara closed the door.
Only then did she see the small white card tucked among the stems.
Her hands began to tremble before she even opened it.
The handwriting was firm. Masculine.
*Forgive my disappearance.
But I can’t stop thinking about you.
I would like to see you again.
If you accept my company, allow me to invite you on a date.
I will pick you up at 7 p.m.
— Vincenzo*
Sara stood in the middle of the living room, the bouquet pressed against her chest, her heart racing so hard it hurt. A shiver ran through her entire body, down her spine, and settled low in her belly.
After an entire week of trying to forget the man who consumed her in her dreams…
Vincenzo Salvatore had returned.
And somehow, that made her happier—and more frightened—than it should.
She raised one hand to her face, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. A small, almost shy smile appeared. Then another, wider.
She smelled the roses again, closing her eyes.
And for a second, she swore she could smell him mixed with the perfume of the flowers.