8. Savio
8
SAVIO
I take Nicci back to her room, eager to put distance between us in the aftermath of her first lesson in the playroom. I’d had other ideas—putting her over the spanking bench, tying her to the St. Andrew’s cross and flogging her before fucking her—all of which I intend to do in time. But something held me back from fucking her just yet. A feeling that I need to keep myself in check, to dole out these pleasures a little at a time. I had always intended to take my pleasure from her before indulging her desire to go after the first of the Crows, but something told me to go slowly. To give myself a taste, but not the full feast. Not yet.
It was the right call, too. I came apart too quickly in her mouth, the hot, tight clutch of it undoing me sooner than I wanted, stealing all of my hard-won self-control. I’d wound my hand in her hair, thinking of how her mouth was wrapped around my cock now, how I’d stolen something from my brother, how I was fucking her like she was mine to use, and I hadn’t been able to stop the orgasm that had unfurled at the base of my spine, white-hot pleasure blanking out everything else for a moment.
And then it was over, and I remembered that I’m the one in control. Not her.
Forbidding her any pleasure, even from her own hand, was my way of reminding us both of that. And I have no intention of giving her pleasure anytime soon. Mine should be what matters, my need, my release, even if I caught myself thinking of what it might feel like to slip my fingers between her thighs, wondering what her moans might sound like.
What it might feel like to force her to give herself over to me completely, even her own pleasure.
Did she ever do that for him? Was it ever real between them? That possessive jealousy burns through me, and I shove the thought away as I close the door behind her and lock it. I’m finished with her for tonight, and my thoughts should be too.
But it’s not as easy as that. And as I retreat to the shower, I find myself wondering for the first time if I’ve gotten myself into something deeper than what I can handle.
If I’ve inadvertently set a trap for myself.
—
The next day, I try not to think about it as I run through practice drills with Nicci. I focus instead on making sure she’s ready for what we have planned tonight, relentlessly running her through target practice, through her workout. She’s improved markedly over the last few weeks, and if she were anyone else, I’d tell her that I’m proud of her. That I’m impressed by how doggedly she’s devoted herself to her goal.
Instead, I stay quiet. Compliments would only bring us closer, and I need to keep that wall up. That reminder that she’s a possession. Something that belongs to me. A trophy.
I avoid her until the evening, when I bring her the outfit that I chose for her tonight. A long, slinky, teal silk gown, one that I know will look stunning on her.
She’s sitting on the bed when I walk in, legs hanging over the edge, pressed tightly together. I see her flinch when I step inside, that momentary urge to cover herself that I always see her fight. Her hands clutch the side of the bed, and her gaze slowly rises to meet mine.
“Is that what I’m wearing?” she asks neutrally, but I see the way her mouth tenses ever so slightly. She resents being told what to wear. Resents me . And a small part of me, one that I’ve buried and tried to silence, whispers that she has a right to. That I’ve taken every part of her agency, her decision-making, and stripped it from her.
But I’ve given her back something, too—or I will have, once this mission of assassinating the remaining Crows begins. And why shouldn’t I take what I want? After all, that’s what they tried to do. My father, my brother. Only they failed, in the end, where I’ll succeed.
Nicci rises up from her chair, gracefully, and takes the dress from my hand. “Thank you, sir,” she says smoothly, and I can picture her suddenly in a different place, a different setting. In a ballroom, maybe, at someone’s gala, dressed in teal silk with her hair piled on her head, holding out her hand to me as she speaks in that same silky, softly French-accented voice.
And then I snap back to reality. To her as she is now, naked, standing in front of me and reaching for the clothes I’m allowing her to wear, completely at my mercy.
“I’ll bring you jewelry and makeup in a moment,” I tell her. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
There are still a few bruises—the worst ones faded to a sickly green and yellow. Every time I see them, something clenches tight in my stomach, a possessive anger sweeping over me. And every time, I force it back down, because it shouldn’t matter to me now.
Whoever touched her before never will again. She’s mine now, but I’m not foolish enough to pretend that she always has been. And beyond the uses I have for her, she means nothing to me. I shouldn’t care that someone grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises that take weeks to heal, maybe even struck her to leave marks like that.
I shouldn’t care .
I clear my throat, taking a step back. “I’ll be back in a moment,” I tell her, and retreat to collect the jewelry and makeup that I had a shopping assistant purchase for this evening.
An hour later, Nicci comes downstairs, transformed. I’ve seen her in that garish outfit that the club made her wear, I’ve seen her in workout clothing, and I've seen her naked. But this is a Nicci from a different time—from the time when my brother knew her, maybe. Glittering like a diamond, sleek, polished, a jewel meant for rarefied society.
The teal silk dress fits her perfectly, skimming over the slender, angular lines of her body, the thin straps so fragile that I know I could break one of them with a twitch of my finger. Long slits run up either side of the dress, ostensibly to show off her long, slender legs, but I know the true point of them—to make sure she can move when it comes down to it, maneuver in a fight.
A pair of diamond earrings twinkle at her ears, simple studs, nothing that can be grabbed or twisted in a fight. Similarly, I didn’t give her a necklace or bracelet to wear. Just the dress, earrings, and a pair of sleek heeled pumps, which Nicci assured me she can move in as easily as flat shoes.
“If I can dance in those ridiculous heels they gave me at the club, I can run and move in regular heels,” she’d said, almost dismissively, and for once I’d let her attitude go. She’d had a point—and beyond that, once again, I was impressed.
She impresses me more often than she should, more often than I want for her to. But then again, I remind myself as I watch her move towards me, sleek and graceful, art is impressive. Art can be admired. But it’s still owned.
Nicci looks at me, flicking the skirt of her dress sideways to show the thigh holster hidden under it. “Well, sir ?”
I don’t fail to notice the hint of sarcasm in her emphasis on sir , and not for the first time, I wonder if it’s really wise to arm this woman with a gun. But I slide the handgun into her thigh holster all the same, the knife on the other side, as Nicci lets her dress fall back into place and gives me the first genuine smile I think I’ve ever seen on her face.
“Let’s go hunt a Crow,” she says, and I can hear the venom on her tongue.
Our target is supposed to be at a party tonight—not one of the grand charity galas or dinner parties that the major families in the city throw. But a smaller gathering—One that’s still above his pay grade—but Lucas Giacometti is there tonight on behalf of his new boss, meeting a potential client.
I was careful in my research, making sure that nothing about Lucas’ business at this party connects back to the Yashkovs or the Gallos, nothing that could complicate my own plans. I wouldn’t have hesitated to put a stop to this entire plot if it might have. But there’s no connection that I could find, so the plan goes ahead.
Nicci is tense on the drive to the party, her hands folded in her lap, fingers knitted together. She doesn’t look at me, her gaze glued to the city lights passing by outside, and I have the sudden urge to reach for her, to drag her focus back to me. But I don’t—not because I care about how she’s feeling, I tell myself firmly. Because I don’t want to distract her, upset her, when I need her to focus on the task ahead. This is dangerous, and if she falters or fails, it could put me in danger.
I ignore the odd throb that I feel in my chest at the idea of her being hurt again, dismissing it as a possessive instinct over something that’s mine.
The car pulls up to the venue. The driver comes around to open the door for me, then for Nicci. I feel tension ripple through me—this is the first time I’ve been to an event here in the city since my return. But it’s unlikely that anyone will recognize me here, and even if they do, I’m fine with it. Let the rumors start swirling that Savio Valenti is back in Manhattan, that the disgraced capo’s son who disappeared has made his reappearance. Rumors like that create mystery, intrigue, and that’s fine with me.
Even if it gets back to other, more important ears, it’s alright. They’ll wonder what I’m going to do, how I’m going to make my entrance.
Walking into the venue, I notice something shift in Nicci. She’s alternated between shrinking and being furious with me, but here, I see something come over her. Her shoulders straighten, her chin tips up. She’s poised, and yet there’s a relaxation in her too, as if she’s in her element. As if she’s stepped back into a world that makes sense to her.
“Remember the plan,” I say quietly. “We’ll go get drinks, and I’ll stay at the bar. You look for Lucas. Seduce him into taking you back to his apartment. I’ll follow as soon as I see the two of you leave.”
Nicci nods, following me to the bar. We each order a drink—an Old Fashioned for me and a gin and tonic for her—and she takes her glass, slender fingers wrapping around it as she moves into the crowd, looking for Lucas.
I feel the leash that I have on her lengthen, going taut, and I resist the urge to yank it back. I lean against the bar, sipping my drink, focusing on the burn of the whiskey down my throat as I watch her pinpoint her target— our target—and head toward him with the swiftness of a great white shark cutting through water.
Fascination ripples over me again. The Nicci I found at the Gilded Lily, the woman I brought back to my penthouse, had been stripped of her confidence. Beaten down, hollowed out. But there’s a flush to her cheeks now as she approaches Lucas that has nothing to do with her makeup, a brightness to her eyes, a liveliness that shows me a glimpse of who she used to be. And I feel the first flicker of jealousy worm its way through me, the urge to yank her leash intensifying, to bring her back to me.
It only worsens as I watch her speak to him, as I see his eyes light up with recognition. She might not have known who he was, specifically, but it’s clear that he knows her. That he’s watched her before, wanted her. I can see all the hallmarks of a man who’s lusted over a woman in his every move—from the way his hand moves towards her hip, her back, the way he leans in, the sudden tension in his body.
And Nicci is a master of seduction. It’s clear that her talents were wasted at a shithole like the Lily. I watch her angle herself towards him, her rose-tinted lips parting in a laugh, her body language and expressions clearly saying that she wants him, too. That she’s always wanted him, but had to wait for the right moment. That she wants to be his.
All the while, that jealousy burns hotter in my gut. Every time he touches her, I want to cross the room and break every one of his fingers. Every time she tips her head back and laughs at something he says, I want to drag her back to me, to cover her body in my fingerprints, to make sure she’s marked irrevocably as mine. It surges through me, fierce and demanding, and I draw in a deep, shuddering breath as I toss back the last of my drink.
Focus. I grit my teeth. Would you be jealous of a man for looking at art you hung in your home? Nicci is nothing more than that—a possession. If nothing else, it reflects well on me that someone else wants her this much.
But still, that burning need to punish him for touching her slides through me, making my hand tighten around my glass.
It’s a good thing that I learned a long time ago to master my emotions. I force myself to watch as Lucas places his hand on her lower back, steering her toward an exit. Nicci glances back at me, our eyes meeting, and then all of her attention is back on him.
Jealousy surges through me again, but I ignore it. I set the drink down, toss a twenty onto the bar as a tip, and stride out of the venue.
As planned. Stick to the plan. Precise. Orderly. I’ve made it this far by not deviating, by not allowing my emotions to get the better of me, by following my plans to the letter. I’m not going to change that now, simply because, for some reason, the sight of that Crow’s hand on Nicci made me want to cut him apart in the middle of the party.
I give my driver the address, my fingers tapping on my thigh anxiously as he drives, the minutes ticking by in my head with each mile. By now, they’re almost back at his place. By now, he’s unlocking his front door. By now, his hands are on her, his lips?—
As soon as the car stops, I’m out before the driver can come around to open the door for me. I stride up to the front of the house, a rental in one of the shittier neighborhoods. Lucas isn’t doing all that well for himself these days—it’s clear. The lights are on, and I move quickly, quietly, up to the back door, picking the lock before slipping in without a sound.
I hear a moan, and that jealousy feels like poison in my veins. It’s Nicci’s moan, soft and wanting, and I suddenly want to change the plan. I want to carve him up myself, for making it so that I know the sound of her moan for the first time because of him , and not because of anything I did.
It’s not real, of course. But I still want to make him bleed for it.
I move through the house, silent, my gun in my hand. The lights are on in the living room, and I pause at the doorway, pressing myself flush against the wall as I hear Nicci let out another soft moan, followed by Lucas’ sound of pleasure. By now, I think, he’s enthralled.
Enough that he won’t notice when I slip into the room, through the shadows.
They’re on the couch. Nicci is on his lap, straddling him, her dress artfully arranged to hide her weapons, his hands pinned in hers to make sure they don’t rove too far. Her hips rock against his lap, and my gaze flicks to the space between them, a sudden need to make sure that he’s not actually inside of her driving me. If he was…
He’d die much more slowly than we planned.
We . The word thuds in my head like a heartbeat as I approach, as I see Nicci clock my presence out of the corner of her eye. Deep down, we’re enemies, she and I—the prey and the predator, the captive and the captor—but tonight, we’re moving in sync. Working together. And it feels better than it should.
She leans forward, capturing Lucas’ mouth with her own. She presses into him, arching, pinning his wrists against the couch cushions, and for one bright, white-hot moment, my vision blurs and my heartbeat pounds in my ears as I resist the urge to shoot him here and now. To put a bullet through his brain before he can enjoy another moment of feeling her so close to him.
Instead, I follow the plan. I slink along the wall, behind the couch—and I press the end of the silencer against the back of his skull.
“End of the road, Giacometti,” I murmur, as I feel him stiffen. Nicci raises her head, her lipstick smeared, and inexplicably, my cock throbs, swelling against my thigh at the sight of her ruined makeup. Her lips part in a smile, and with one swift movement, she reaches for her knife.
“Don’t move,” I tell him, the instant that I see her go for it. “You try to fight her off, I pull the trigger. You’ll die either way. I’m too quick for you to do much before a bullet goes in you.”
I wonder if he’ll try to throw her off, try to run, try to fight anyway. That was the reason for all the drills, all the workouts, to make sure that Nicci was physically fit to handle herself in that situation. But instead, he freezes. He believes me. Knows he’s outmatched, and the instinct for survival manifests in his utter stillness, buying himself precious seconds before he dies.
Nicci slides the knife out from her thigh holster, pressing it against his throat. In that moment, I wish I was in front of Lucas, so I could see his eyes go wide, see his fear. I can smell it, the rank sweat beading on him as Nicci almost trembles with eagerness, her expression venomous as she pushes the point into the soft flesh.
“You wanted me,” she whispers. “You and your friends made bets about who would get to have me. Worked harder for Barca so that you could earn the right to violate me, if I ever made him angry enough to give me away. And now you’re all going to pay for it.”
I keep the gun pressed to his head, in case she doesn’t manage to slit his throat properly. But I hear the gurgle, see the blood spray across her arms and chest, some of it splattering onto her face, and I can feel the sense of victory thudding through her own veins, making her heart race as he goes still.
She lowers her hand, her eyes bright and feral. After a long moment, she pushes herself off of his lap, her dress falling back into place, parts of the silk soaked through. I’m already fishing my burner phone out of my pocket, about to call the cleaners to take care of this and make sure it’s untraceable.
Nicci stands there, staring at the body as if she wants to memorize it, as I make the call. She only snaps back to reality when I hang up, saying her name sharply.
“Let’s go. The cleaners are on their way.”
She nods, wordless. Something burns in my gut again—the image of her writhing on Lucas’ lap burned in my memory—and I stride quickly around the couch, crossing the space between us as I grab her chin between my gloved fingers.
“I want to hear yes, sir ,” I growl, my gaze locked onto hers, and to my surprise, she doesn’t shrink. She doesn’t tremble. She matches my gaze, and I watch her tongue flick out, licking a drop of blood off of the edge of her lip as the corners curve up into a small, pleased smile.
“Yes, sir,” she murmurs sweetly, and I grit my teeth, the urge to rip the dress off of her and remind her who she belongs to surging up in my chest, pressing behind my ribs.
Instead, I let her go, striding briskly toward the back door with the expectation that she’ll follow.