5. CHAPTER 4 - ANTONIO
CHAPTER 4 - ANTONIO
T he dimly lit room hums with a kind of energy that never truly dissipates. Yesterday’s attempt at distraction had left me irritated, unfulfilled, the rage still clawing at my insides. So tonight, I’m trying again, and this time, I’ve chosen someone who knows exactly what she’s stepping into.
Paola walks in with her head held high, exuding confidence that would unnerve anyone who doesn’t know her as well as I do. Her dark eyes meet mine, a spark of challenge in them, and she smiles—not sweet, not soft, but bold and knowing. She’s lived on my compound for years, tied to me by loyalty, loss, and something unspoken that she wears on her skin.
“Antonio,” she greets, voice smooth, teasing. I remain seated behind the desk, leaning back in my leather chair, not bothering to move. I push my chair away from the desk, creating space but not relinquishing control.
“Paola,” I reply, my voice low, flat. “Shut the door.”
She does, the click of the lock echoing in the room.
“Do they believe you?” I ask—making sure our plan is in place.
“The shipment they caught thanks to my information has helped,” she says as she reaches behind her, unzipping her dress. The fabric slides down her body, pooling at her feet, and she stands there, naked, unashamed. She continues, “I’ve given them what you said, too. Told them about my sister. They believe she’s alive and in one of their houses. They think they own me.”
“Good.”
My gaze traces over her tattoos, marks that tell a story she never has to speak aloud.
The first is a delicate script on her left rib, her sister’s name—a memory inked into her skin. The other two are bolder: one on her right hip, a jagged line resembling the scar on my face, and the other on the back of her neck, a symbol that matches one I’ve carried for years. Devotion made permanent. Obsession she doesn’t hide.
“You never get tired of showing off,” I say, my voice edged with something I can’t quite name. Admiration? Pity? Doesn’t matter. She steps closer, her bare feet silent on the marble floor, and there’s no hint of vulnerability in her stance. Just confidence. The kind that dares me to use her.
“I like to remind you,” she murmurs, her eyes never leaving mine.
Her gaze flickers to my scars—she knows better than to touch them. It's an unspoken rule she never crosses, even when she’s bold enough to push other boundaries. She kneels gracefully between my legs, her hands trailing over my thighs, deliberate, never careless. She reaches for the condom I toss onto the desk, tearing it open without hesitation, and rolls it onto me with hands that are practiced, sure.
She takes her time, starting with feather-light licks, tracing the length of me, her tongue flicking, teasing. It’s a game she plays, her eyes meeting mine with every calculated swirl, daring me to react. It’s a power play, and she knows it.
But I don’t let her have control for long. My hand grips her hair, and I force her to take me deeper, cutting off her teasing with a brutal rhythm. She adjusts, never flinching, her moans vibrating around me, making the pleasure coil tighter, more dangerous. I use her mouth without mercy, my hips snapping forward, each thrust wiping away everything but the raw, consuming need to dominate.
Sparks burst behind my eyes as I come, groaning low and harsh, holding her in place until the waves of release subside. When I let go, she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her lips swollen. She stands, discarding the condom, and meets my gaze with that same infuriating confidence, her chest rising and falling, but her composure unwavering.
“Get out,” I order, voice cold. Paola straightens her shoulders, bends to pick up her dress, and pulls it back on. She doesn’t slink away; she walks out with her head high, her tattoos—her devotion—still visible as she leaves, a silent reminder of what she’s willing to endure for me.
She doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t linger, and I like that. She’s useful. A pawn who knows her place. But soon, she’ll be more than that. She’ll be a tool, one I’ll wield to chip at Isabella’s defenses.
The man on the phone is still babbling, and I grip the receiver harder. “Either you deliver the goods,” I snap, “or you’ll be wishing for a grave.” I hang up, dragging my sweatpants back on, but the satisfaction is already fading.
Minutes later, I’m at the training grounds, the cold night air biting at my skin. Around me, the crowd gathers—men with hardened eyes and faces shaped by lives steeped in violence and loyalty. They respect me. And unlike the rest of our world, they respect me not because of fear, but because they know I stand with them. I’ve fought beside them, bled beside them, built this empire with them.
Everyone else shits their pants when they hear my name. Not them.
Franco’s voice booms over the murmurs, cutting through the tension. “Dare, Boss!” It’s more than a cheer. It’s a call to arms, a reminder that I’m not just their leader—I’m their weapon, their shield.
I step into the makeshift ring, the damp Italian soil grinding under my boots, the weight of purpose settling over me. This isn’t a game or a performance. It’s a ritual, a way of showing my men that I never take my position for granted. The opponent facing me is built like a tank, muscles straining against his shirt, his eyes burning with the desire to prove himself. He’s strong, but strength alone isn’t enough in our world.
The fight begins, and he lunges. I sidestep, my movements precise and calculated, landing a jab to his ribs. He grunts, pain flashing across his face, but he doesn’t falter. Good. I need men who don’t break easily.
Each punch I throw, every blow I dodge, is a lesson—a reminder of what I’m willing to endure and what I expect from them. This is about more than physical dominance; it’s about showing them the lengths I’ll go to for the family we’ve created.
The crowd’s energy crackles around me, their focus sharpening with every movement.
They don’t just see a leader; they see a man willing to fight alongside them.
My opponent swings again, and I duck, retaliating with a brutal uppercut that sends him sprawling into the dirt. I stand over him, breath coming in controlled pants, the cut on my cheek stinging as sweat drips into it. But pain is only noise. A distraction I’ve long since learned to ignore.
“Enough,” I command, extending a hand to the man on the ground. He takes it, pulling himself up with a grimace and a nod of respect. I don’t fight to humiliate. I fight to remind them that we’re in this together, bound by more than blood.
“Get him to the medic,” I tell one of my men, and they move quickly. No one who fights for me goes uncared for. It’s a rule, a small act that solidifies the loyalty we share.
Franco claps me on the shoulder, his admiration clear. “Good fight, Boss,” he says, his voice rough with approval.
I nod, the adrenaline still coursing through me. “We have work to do. The shipments for the orphanage leave tonight. Make sure everything is perfect. They’re counting on us.”
Franco’s eyes widen slightly, but his respect deepens. “You’ve always got your mind on the bigger picture,” he says, a hint of awe in his tone.
I allow myself a grim smile. “We have responsibilities, even in this world. We don’t forget that.”
As I make my way back to my car, my muscles ache, but my mind is clear. Paola is in place. And we have Luka who’s been creeping his way through the ranks. And more people in place than he thinks.
Watching him.
Watching her.
The thought of Isabella creeps in, unbidden. In two days, she’ll be here, thrust into this world she’s never truly understood. She’s not like Paola, who knows the rules and plays the game well. Isabella is softer, untested. She’ll have to learn, and she’ll have to learn fast.
Because in two days, Isabella Moretti will belong to me.
And the Beast never loses.