Chapter 30
30
EMILIA
A drianna was already three glasses of wine in and halfway through a story about her latest disaster of a dinner party when I finally let myself relax.
“And then,” she said, gesturing wildly with her glass, “he tells me he wants to host the next one at his ‘private cigar lounge’—which, by the way, is just a glorified man cave with leather chairs and a humidor the size of a coffin. I told him, ‘Sweetheart, unless you’re serving filet mignon and not just whiskey and war stories, I’m not showing up in heels.’”
I snorted, nearly choking on my drink. “You said that to your husband?”
She grinned, stretching out on the couch like a cat in the sun. “Of course. He married me knowing I don’t do smoke-filled testosterone dens. If he wants me there, he can light a Diptyque candle and serve canapés.”
I laughed so hard I had to set my glass down before I dropped it. “You’re a menace.”
She gave me a satisfied shrug. “He knew what he was signing up for. Besides, he likes it when I give him hell.”
I took another sip of my wine—something white and expensive Dante had stocked in the penthouse fridge without asking. Not that I was complaining. I’d invited Adrianna over to distract myself, and so far, it was working. We were sprawled across the living room, surrounded by empty glasses, half a charcuterie board, and the remains of a bag of sour cream and onion chips we’d attacked like feral raccoons.
“So,” she said, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “You gonna tell me what’s actually going on, or are we just pretending this is a normal girls’ night?”
I hesitated.
Then I sighed and leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers.
“It’s Rocco,” I said finally.
Adrianna’s brows lifted. “Dante’s cousin?”
I nodded. “He’s the one who took the money.”
She blinked. “Wait—what?”
I told her everything. The photo in the hallway. The album. The memory of him in my father’s office, standing in the corner like he didn’t exist. The way he’d looked at me at the gala, like he knew I’d figured it out.
Adrianna didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm to something sharper.
When I was done, she exhaled slowly. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
I paused, then nodded. “I think so. It’s just a lot.”
She was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward and refilled both our glasses. “Well, if you’re going to be dragged into a mafia conspiracy, at least you’re doing it in a penthouse with good wine.”
I laughed, grateful for her ability to make even this feel manageable. “You’re not wrong.”
We drank in silence for a while, the weight of everything I’d said settling between us like smoke.
Then she nudged me with her foot. “So. Speaking of your terrifying, morally ambiguous husband…”
I raised a brow. “What about him?”
She grinned. “You gonna tell me what it’s like?”
I blinked. “What what’s like?”
She gave me a look. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”
I flushed, but the wine had loosened my tongue enough that I didn’t deny it.
“It’s…” I trailed off, searching for the right word. “Intense.”
Adrianna leaned in, eyes wide. “Go on.”
I took another sip of wine. “He’s… very in control. Like, he always knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. And he doesn’t ask. He just takes.”
Her eyes sparkled. “And you like that?”
I bit my lip, then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
She let out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re living the fantasy.”
I laughed. “You’re married to a mafia man too. Don’t act like you don’t know.”
She waved a hand. “Please. Mine’s a sweetheart. Yours looks like he’s two seconds from breaking someone’s kneecaps and then carrying you to bed.”
I grinned, warmth blooming in my chest. “Yeah. That’s pretty accurate.”
We spent the next hour gossiping, drinking, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Adrianna told me about her latest family drama—how her husband’s uncle had tried to smuggle a rare parrot through customs—and I told her about the time Dante tried to cook breakfast and nearly burned the penthouse down. For a little while, it felt like things were normal.
Eventually, her phone buzzed.
“My driver’s here,” she said, standing and wobbling slightly in her heels.
I walked her to the door, hugging her tightly. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime, babe. And if you need backup, you know I’ve got a shovel and a very understanding husband.”
I laughed. “I’ll put you both on speed dial.”
She winked and disappeared down the hallway, her laughter echoing behind her.
I closed the door and leaned against it, the silence of the penthouse settling around me like a blanket. The buzz of the wine still hummed in my veins, but beneath it was something heavier. Something I couldn’t shake.
I wandered into the kitchen, barefoot and slightly tipsy, and leaned against the counter. The overhead lights cast a soft glow over the marble, and I stared at the row of White Claws in the fridge like they might offer answers.
I debated grabbing another one.
And that’s when I heard the door open.
I turned, heart skipping a beat.
Dante.
He stepped inside, his tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his expression unreadable. He looked tired. Dangerous. Like he’d been somewhere dark and left a piece of himself behind.
He walked toward me, and without thinking, I reached into the fridge, grabbed a White Claw, and held it out to him.
He took it without a word, cracked it open, and chugged half of it in one go.
I stared.
“Hey,” I said, blinking. “That was half my White Claw.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s garbage. I’m telling the housekeeper to throw them away.”
I rolled my eyes, but before I could respond, my gaze dropped.
And I froze.
The water in the sink was running.
Pink.
He was washing his hands.
Blood.
I raised a brow. “Good day at work?”
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Productive.”
He stepped closer, and before I could react, he wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted me onto the counter. The marble was cold against the backs of my thighs, and I gasped as he stepped between my legs, forcing them apart.
He braced his hands on either side of me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“I had business to take care of,” he said.
“Bloody business,” I pointed out.
He loosened his tie, letting it hang around his neck. “The only kind I know.”
I swallowed, my pulse quickening.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“How should I do it?”
I blinked. “Do what?”
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “Kill Rocco.”
My breath caught.
“I—” I hesitated. “I don’t know. That doesn’t seem like a decision I should make.”
“It affects you just as much as it affects me,” he said. “Grand execution at Sunday dinner? Or something quieter? A warehouse. A bullet. No witnesses.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding. “I’m too drunk to have this conversation.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “Liquid lunch?”
“Liquid lunch and dinner.”
He sighed, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Then let’s talk about something else. What do you want to eat?”
I blinked. “What?”
He kissed the corner of my mouth. “Food. You need it. What do you want to order?”
I smirked. “I’ll have to think about it.”
He dropped to his knees.
“Well,” he said, sliding my panties down my thighs, “think quick.”
“Why?”
He grinned up at me, wicked and beautiful.
“Because I’m about to have an appetizer.”
I blinked down at him, the kitchen lights casting a golden halo over his dark hair as he knelt between my legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged there.
And maybe he did.
The marble counter was cold beneath me, a sharp contrast to the fire blooming low in my stomach. My thighs were already parting for him, my breath catching as his hands slid up my calves, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
He wasn’t in a hurry.
He was savoring this.
Savoring me.
“Dante,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator and the steady drip of the faucet still running pink in the sink.
He looked up at me, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with intent. “You said I could get on my knees,” he murmured, his hands sliding higher, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin behind my knees. “I’m just following orders.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling around the edge of the counter for balance. “I didn’t mean?—”
He smirked. “You didn’t mean for me to take it literally?” His hands reached the hem of my dress and pushed it higher, bunching the fabric around my hips. “Too late.”
I gasped as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties and tugged them down slowly, dragging the lace over my thighs, my knees, my calves. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He just watched, his gaze locked on the way the fabric peeled away from my skin, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
When they hit the floor, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee. Then another, higher. Then another.
My breath hitched.
“Dante,” I said again, but it came out more like a plea than a warning.
He didn’t respond.
He just buried his face between my thighs.
I cried out, my back arching as his mouth found me, hot and wet and perfect. His tongue moved with slow precision, licking a long, deliberate stripe up my center before circling my clit with maddening patience.
My hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he groaned against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core.
“Fuck,” I gasped, my thighs trembling as he sucked gently, then harder, his hands gripping my hips to hold me in place. “Oh my God?—”
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t even slow down.
He licked and sucked and teased like he was starving, like he’d been thinking about this all day—maybe he had—and now that he had me, he wasn’t going to waste a second.
I was already close, embarrassingly close, my body wound tight from the wine, the adrenaline, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth kneeling for.
“Dante,” I moaned, my voice breaking. “I’m—please?—”
He growled, low and possessive, and slipped two fingers inside me, curling them just right, just deep enough to make me see stars.
I shattered.
My orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over me in a rush of heat and light and sound. I cried out, my body shaking, my thighs clamping around his head as I came, hard and fast and completely undone.
He didn’t stop until I was gasping, twitching, my hands weakly pushing at his shoulders.
Only then did he pull back, his mouth glistening, his eyes heavy with satisfaction.
He stood slowly, towering over me, and leaned in to kiss me—deep and filthy and perfect. I tasted myself on his tongue and moaned into his mouth, my arms wrapping around his neck as he pressed his body against mine.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, both of us panting.
“You taste like sin,” he whispered.
I laughed, breathless and dazed. “You’re insane.”
He smirked. “Only for you.”
I was still trembling, still trying to catch my breath, when he reached down and picked me up off the counter like I weighed nothing.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice still shaky.
“Bed,” he said, his tone final. “I’m not done with you yet.”
And as he carried me down the hall, his arms wrapped around me like armor, I knew he meant it.
He was never done with me.
And God help me, I didn’t want him to be.