Chapter 15
Valentina Luciano
I shrink into the chair when he steps forward. He slips his arms under my knees and behind my back and lifts me into the air. Torn between covering myself and not falling, I hook one arm around his neck and keep the other barred across my chest.
He ignores my antics and holds me tight against his chest. My heart pounds against my sternum as he stalks into the hall, leaving the safe open and the journal on the end table. I shiver as the cool air wafts against my exposed skin, and my sore pussy throbs at his casual display of strength.
He carries me through the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. I swallow and blink in disbelief. Masculine clothes fill the right half of the space. Suits, sweats, casual wear, shoes of all sorts, and different accessories. It all looks normal.
The things filling the left side of the closet are not suitable for wearing outside of the bedroom. Strappy, glossy, lacy, skimpy—none of them offer full coverage.
Dirty thoughts fill my mind, and dark desire heats my blood. I yearn to experience the sense of power I felt when I wore the gifts he sent me. The blue panties were the first ones he saw me wearing in the flesh. How intense would it be to have his eyes directly on me instead of through a camera?
I avert my eyes, but by the wicked gleam in his stare, I fail to hide my interest.
He adjusts his hold on me, shifting his arms to free one hand, and moves the sliding door to reveal the back half of the closet. I swallow in disappointment and relief as he tugs a tank top off the hanger and grabs a pair of shorts from the drawer.
After closing the drawer with his knee, he settles on the built-in bench beside his shoe tower with me in his lap.
Fear, uncertainty, and annoyance war within me. He hasn’t said a single word since I finished my spiel. I want to believe the modest clothes are an olive branch, but I wouldn’t put it past him to use them to lower my guard before he lures me into some diabolical trap.
He sets the clothes on the bench beside him, wraps his long fingers around my waist, and slides my ass more firmly onto his thigh.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks as the movement smears my arousal on his pants.
I slip my arm out from around his nape and add it to my breast-covering attempt. My hard nipples press into my arms.
Grey sweatpants on muscular, tattooed mafia men should be banned. It’s not fair.
He cups my hip with the arm braced behind my back and lifts the tank top. I reach for it, but he extends his long arm, and I’m not willing to wiggle my ass on his lap to retrieve it, so I cover my breasts again.
He grabs my waist—again—and pivots me so my knees bracket his and my back presses against his front.
I stiffen as chilly air wafts over my sex, but he slips the tank top over my head and holds one arm hole open for me.
I obey his silent command and thread my arm through the material.
He repeats the motion for my other arm and tugs the hem over my breasts and down to my hips.
I gasp as his knuckles brush against my bare flesh and make the mistake of looking down to grab his wrists. The sight of his scarred hands so close to my pussy wreaks havoc on my libido, and the monster tenting his sweatpants fills me with yearning.
I’ll die if he puts that thing inside me again. It doesn’t matter how horny I am, I won’t survive if he fucks me right now. My sore insides give a weak squeeze.
I grimace. The throbbing deep inside my abdomen feels too much like period cramps. Dread dampens my arousal as I realize I still haven’t had a proper period since before I left San Francisco.
Nausea grips me, but I push it away with the knowledge my father won’t be there. This will be my first menses without my father hovering over me, and since it’s been several months since my last really, really bad one, I should prepare for the worst.
Mario releases my shirt and grabs the shorts. I long to close my legs, but his are much longer than mine. Plus, doing so would close my thighs around his cock, and I doubt he’d ignore that even with his sweatpants in the way.
He lifts me over his cock by my hips, sets me further down his legs, and leans forward before tugging me back to lean on his shoulder. With a flick of his wrists, he opens the shorts and holds them for me. I slip my feet inside and swallow as the stubble on his jaw scratches the side of my face.
He nudges me off his lap. I stand. He shimmies the shorts up my legs, over my hips, and onto my waist before lifting me off my feet again. I squeak. Annoyance spears through me.
“I’m not a doll. At least warn me before you toss me around,” I snap.
His chuckle sends shivers down my spine.
“You’re right; you’re not a doll. You’re mia paperotta . You imprinted on me from the first time you set eyes on me, and now I can’t stand having you out of my arms. Seems only fair, sì ?”
I sigh. His deep voice gives him an unfair advantage.
“That’s not fair. You can’t say something like that without addressing the previous topic,” I say.
“I dressed you. That’s my answer,” he quips.
I growl and poke his shoulder.
“That’s a copout and you know it, Mario. I poured my heart out, and your response is to haul me around like a sack of potatoes?”
He stops in the closet doorway and engulfs my hand with his much larger one. I stiffen.
He closes his teeth around the finger I poked him with. Lightning shoots up my arm and arrows straight to my core even as fear kickstarts my heart.
I gasp as he runs his tongue along my trapped digit and whimper when he closes his lips around my knuckle and sucks. He pulls his head back until my finger pops out of his mouth. I stare at his lips.
“Is that enough of an answer?” he asks.
I nod before my brain catches up.
“No, it’s not. Words. Communication. Didn’t we mention this already today? It seems like you believe me, but I don’t know for sure if you do or not.”
He grunts, nips my fingertip, jostles me around as he adjusts his pants, and prowls into the bedroom.
I cling to him with my heart in my throat and uncertain tears in my eyes as he stalks around the foot of the bed. Exasperation builds in me until he leans down, opens the bedside table drawer, and pulls out a familiar knife.
He walks back around to my side of the bed again, sets me down with my legs dangling over the edge, and closes my fist around the hilt of the knife my father tried to kill him with.
Without a word, he conveys a million different things.
My breath hitches as sobs build in my chest.
“Why are you trusting me now?” I manage through the frog in my throat.
The swell of emotions aggravates my bruised vocal cords, but nothing hurts more than the thought of my father betraying the man I’ve loved in so many ways over the years.
“Maybe your comment about miscommunication has merit,” he murmurs as he kneels between my legs.
“This was my father’s knife, right? The one he used to give you those scars?” I ask.
He nods and spans his thick fingers over my thighs. I never expected to see my strong, ruthless husband on his knees for anyone, but he adapts and turns the position intimate when he teases the bottom hem of my shorts with his thumbs.
I clear my throat and wince at the discomfort before asking, “Did you want me to stab my father with his own knife at our wedding?”
He hums and slips his thumbs under the fabric of my shorts. I try to push one of his hands away, but he weaves his fingers through mine and lifts my knuckles to his lips.
“It was an exciting possibility but—”
“I should have. I’m sorry I didn’t. It would’ve been so… tragically satisfying,” I interrupt. “Shouldn’t that have been your epic revenge?”
Mario nips the back of my hand and shakes his head before speaking with his lips brushing against my skin.
“He would’ve died too soon. I’m nowhere near done with him yet.”
My heart lurches in my chest, but not out of concern for Pietro Denaro. I’m afraid my next words will destroy the newfound peace between Mario and me.
I take a chance and drop the knife on the bed beside me before touching his cheek, begging for his full attention and hoping for his understanding.
“I am, though. I’m done. I never want to see him again. I’m sorry if—”
“Hush, paperotta . You don’t have to. You’re mine now. Only mine,” he vows.
The first sob escapes from my chest.
I’m free. Mario believes me. He trusts me.
Maybe one day he will love me.
As I break down into uncontrollable sobs, Mario wraps his arms around me, pulls me closer, and rests his head on my chest.
It’s unlike any hug I’ve ever received. More than comfort, he offers intimacy without expectations, adoration without limits, and support without judgment.
When the worst of my tears cease, he guides me to lie down and slips the blade under my pillow before rising and disappearing into the bathroom.
I sigh. Exhaustion returns with a vengeance.
Mario brings a cool damp washcloth and wipes my face with more gentleness than should be possible from such a brutal man.
Without words, he gathers my hair off the pillow, braids it loosely over my shoulder, and ties it with a band he must have retrieved from the bathroom.
I capture his wrist before he walks away.
“If I have another nightmare, don’t touch me, okay? Either get up and walk around or talk to me or something. Please?”
He drops the washcloth onto the bedside table, crawls over me, and pulls me little spoon style against him in response.
“Fall asleep in my arms, paperotta . When you wake up, you’ll still be in my arms. Capisci ?”
I nod, but before I drop into a dark, restful sleep, he asks, “What happens in your nightmares, Valentina?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know. I can never remember,” I mumble.
Between one breath and the next, the world fades away. Even with the knife under my pillow and my braid in easy reach, I cling to the arm draped over me from behind.