28. Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Six
Francesca
I trail my fingers along Dante's healing shoulder, the stitches dark against his olive skin.
His eyes remain closed, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep he's finally allowed himself after days of pain and planning.
Nearly a week has passed since we returned from Russia. A week of watching both Dante and my brother heal from their wounds… some visible, some hidden.
In this sanctuary of the villa, I've found myself bridging two worlds that once seemed irreconcilable.
The Castellano princess and the Ravelli queen.
"You're thinking too loudly," Dante murmurs, eyes still closed though his lips curve into that dangerous smile that still makes my heart skip.
"Just admiring my work," I reply, fingers tracing the edge of his bandage. "The doctor says you're healing remarkably well."
His hand captures mine, bringing it to his lips. "I have excellent motivation."
"And what motivation might that be?"
His fingers tangle in my hair, eyes finally opening to fix me with that gripping stare.
"Getting back to London. Taking what's mine." His deep, husky voice sends heat pooling between my thighs. "Finishing what we started before the Volkovs interrupted."
I press my lips to his uninjured shoulder, breathing him in.
"The empire does need its king," I agree, trailing kisses up the column of his throat.
His laugh rumbles beneath my lips. "I wasn't talking about the empire, princess."
His hand slides beneath the silk nightgown I've taken to wearing during our recovery period, finding me already wet and waiting. The way I respond to him without thought, without hesitation… it still astounds me.
His clever fingers circle my clit with just enough pressure to make my breath catch and my hips move against his hand.
"Mmmmm…. always so ready for me."
"Dante," I gasp, mind already clouding with desire. "The doctor said—"
His fingers slip inside me, two thick digits stretching me in a delicious burn. My hips rock against his hand instinctively, seeking more.
"That's it," he encourages, thumb finding my clit again as his fingers pump steadily inside me. "Take your pleasure. Show me how much you've missed this."
It's been days since we've touched like this—the pain of his wound and the presence of my brother in the adjacent room creating barriers to the intimacy we've both craved.
Now, with healing progressing and Antonio finally sleeping through the night without nightmares, the hunger between us resurfaces with savage intensity.
I ride his hand shamelessly, my breasts bouncing beneath the thin silk as I chase the peak that builds with each expert stroke. When my release hits, it's blinding in its force, muscles clenching around his invading fingers as pleasure radiates through every nerve ending.
" Fuck ," I gasp, collapsing against his chest, careful to avoid his injured side.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Christ, woman. I never tire of watching you come apart for me. Next time, I want to taste it."
Heat rushes to my cheeks at his crudeness, at the raw honesty that still makes me blush despite the months I've spent as his lover.
I push myself up, reaching for him, finding him hard beneath the sheets. "Let me—"
A sharp knock interrupts, and Dante growls his frustration. "What?"
Maria's voice calls through the door. "Breakfast is ready, and Antonio is asking for his sister."
"We'll be right there," I call back, already sliding from the bed despite Dante's attempt to pull me back.
He sighs dramatically. "Cockblocked by your brother again. Perhaps I should reconsider my protection offer."
I laugh, tossing his shirt at him. "You don't mean that."
His expression softens as he catches the garment. "Like fuck I don't."
I laugh and walk out of the bedroom, patting my frizzled hair down.
The villa's kitchen has become our unofficial headquarters during our recovery period.
Maps and intelligence reports share space with Maria's homemade bread and Romano's garden- fresh vegetables.
The ancient wooden table has witnessed both strategic planning sessions and moments of unexpected laughter.
Today, Antonio sits at the table, his injuries less pronounced after a week of care. The swelling around his eye has receded enough for him to see, though the bruising remains a yellowing reminder of his traumatic ordeal with the Volkovs.
"Good morning," I greet him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, a gesture from our childhood that now carries the weight of shared trauma and survival.
"Francesca," he acknowledges, then nods to Dante, who enters behind me, still looking grumpy at not getting his own release. "Ravelli."
"You look better," Dante observes, accepting the coffee Maria hands him with a nod of thanks. "Strong enough for London soon, I think."
"Tomorrow," Antonio confirms. "I'm ready to leave this—no offense meant, Maria—this convalescent home."
Maria chuckles, setting plates of perfectly golden frittata before each of us. "None taken, Mr. Castellano. Though you will miss my cooking, I promise you that."
"She's right about that," I say, taking my seat beside Dante. "No one cooks like you, Maria."
Dante's hand finds my thigh beneath the table. "We return to London tomorrow, then. Time to implement phase two."
Phase two. The systematic dismantling of Volkov trade routes using Dominguez's ports and our newly secured Mediterranean connections.
The final preparations before moving against Luca's throne.
Antonio nods, his focus sharpening. "I've been thinking about father's shipping networks. With the right adjustments, we could redirect at least sixty percent of the eastern corridor through subsidiary companies. Keep the Volkovs from detecting our hand until it's too late."
Dante's eyebrows rise slightly, impressed despite himself. "You've been strategizing while recovering." He looks at me. "How come he's allowed to do that and I'm not?"
"Not much else to do when sleep is... difficult," Antonio replies, saving me from the daggers Dante's shooting me.
"Show me your thoughts," Dante requests, pulling maps toward them as breakfast becomes a working meal.
As they dive into shipping routes and strategic choke points, I watch them with a sense of surreal wonder.
My brother and my husband—for that's what Dante has become in every way that matters—working together as if they've been allies for years rather than forced companions for days.
Maria slides in beside me, her weathered hand patting mine gently. "Elena would have liked you," she says quietly. "She would have seen herself in your strength."
I turn to her, touched by the comparison. "I wish I could have known her."
"She believed in balancing the darkness with light," Maria continues, her gaze moving to Dante, who gestures animatedly as he explains a strategic position to Antonio. "In finding beauty amid ugliness. Like you do for him."
I follow her gaze, studying the man who captured and claimed me, who has now become the center of my world. The monster who shows me only tenderness. The king who treats me as his equal.
"He does the same for me," I admit softly. "Beneath all that darkness, there's a light only I get to see."
Maria nods, satisfied. "As it should be."
***
The phone call comes late afternoon as we lounge in the garden, enjoying rare moments of peace before tomorrow's return to London.
Marco appears on the terrace, his expression grim. "Mr. Ravelli. It's Vladimir."
Dante takes the phone, moving a short distance away for privacy. From my position on the lounge chair, I watch his expression harden, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side.
What now?
When he returns, his face is carefully controlled, but I know him well enough now to recognize the tension in his jaw, the darkness gathering in his eyes.
"What is it?" I ask, already rising from my seat.
His gaze shifts to Antonio, then back to me. He swallows, a big enough gulp to send a shiver right through my body.
"There's been an incident."
Antonio sits up straighter, instantly alert. "What kind of incident?"
"Vladimir just received confirmation from his sources in Milan," Dante says carefully. "Antonio Castellano Sr. was found dead in his office this morning."
The world tilts violently beneath my feet.
"Father?" My voice sounds distant, foreign to my own ears. "No, that's not... he was in Vienna. He had security—"
"The Volkovs sent a hit squad," Dante continues, his hand finding mine, anchoring me as reality threatens to shatter around me. "I'm sorry, princess."
Tears sting my eyes and I feel the world sway in a dizzy haze around me. Dante's arms wrap around me, the only thing steading me as I look to my brother—the only family I have left on planet earth.
Antonio rises, his face draining of color. "How?"
"Single shot to the head. Seems it was… professional." Dante's grip on my hand tightens. "But they left... a message."
My blood runs cold at his hesitation. "What message?"
Dante shakes his head. He swallows again, the words not falling from his mouth.
"WHAT MESSAGE?!"
"A note. Addressed to both of you." Dante's voice remains controlled, but I hear the fury simmering beneath. "It said, 'Blood for blood, Castellano for Volkov. The debt is settled.'"
Grief hits me like a bomb, driving the air from my lungs.
Not grief for the father who sold me like cattle, who traded me for territory and protection.
But grief for the man who taught me to be strong, who shaped me into the woman who could survive in this world of blood and darkness.
Antonio's hand finds my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin as he steadies himself, holding the emotion better than me.
"They killed him because of us," he whispers. "Because we escaped. Because you saved me."
"No," Dante's voice cuts through the haze of shock. "They killed him because they are cowards who couldn't reach their true targets. This is on them, not you. Not us."
I look up at him, finding fury rather than consolation in his eyes.