13. Antonio
Chapter thirteen
Antonio
" R un it by me one last time," I snap, forcing my hands to unclench by sheer will.
The scar on my face pulls tight with the tension, a constant reminder of everything that's been stolen from me. In the wake of Isabella's heart episode, her claims about someone lurking outside her door, and her move to the room connecting to mine, my mind's a fucking battlefield.
I've tasked Franco with digging around, checking if any of my men had the bright idea to spook Isabella or worse. So far, nothing's turned up. Which means either she's lying, or someone's covering their tracks well.
Trust, especially where Isabella's concerned, is like navigating a minefield with a blindfold. If I went with my instincts alone, I'd take her word. But when it comes to her, my gut's betraying me, tangled up in honeysuckle and the memory of her skin against mine.
I can't fucking trust it. Can't trust myself around her.
"We can't afford any slip-ups at this dinner," I grit out, trying to steer my focus back to business before I spiral into thoughts of her again. "The contract depends on this. Everything does."
"Understood, Boss," Franco answers, scrolling through our guest list once more on the tablet. "We've confirmed most of our guests, except the Greeks."
The Greeks. Fucking wild cards in a deck already stacked against us. We've worked out who they're sending, and it's basically a who's who of the Greek underworld. Their mob politics make our Italian drama look like a children's puppet show, with countless families all clawing for the same blood-soaked throne. They've got an obsession with nightclubs. So do we. Common ground, at least.
"The Gabris are sending Nikos—their golden boy—along with three cousins," Franco continues. "Dimitri confirmed."
"My priority is keeping this dinner blood-free," I state flatly, the memory of our wedding massacre still fresh and stinging. "The last thing we need is another international incident on our hands, especially not in our own fortress."
"We're on it. Been beefing up the parameters and vetting all serving staff three times over."
"All right." I nod at Franco's update, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension. "We also need eyes on what's happening stateside. Isabella's father's been too quiet, and that never bodes well."
My men's move against his operations was a hit, but there's been no real pushback, no signs of him reeling from the impact. This morning's intel says he's mingling in Chicago, pushing some construction gig, and even cozying up with the fucking Bratva over a nightclub. It looks more like a strategic alliance than a takeover.
This dinner on Saturday just got a whole lot heavier. And much more necessary. Because if that bastard manages to rebuild his alliance and show everyone we barely scratched his surface...
Oaths matter. The contract matters. The safety of everyone depending on me matters.
He hasn't accepted me as successor. Finding loopholes in the contract like the snake he is. But he's got to do more than his grandiloquent speeches if he wants to keep people attached to him.
I can't be the only one planning his demise.
"Got anything on the original police file for Isabella's mother?" I press. Franco's head shake doesn't sit right with me. "Finding the truth isn't just about clearing the air. It's about ensuring he doesn't walk this earth anymore."
I notice Franco scribbling away. "You jotting down 'kick him off the planet'?" I ask, half-amused despite the gravity of our situation.
He looks up, "That, and a reminder about rewarding our guys for their loyalty and hard work."
"Always," I confirm, understanding the underlying message. "I haven't forgotten. They're the backbone of everything we do." It's not just about revenge. It's about building something stronger from the ashes. Something that can withstand whatever her father throws at us next.
"Yet, there've been grumbles."
"I know, but this goes deeper now." My voice stays steady but edged with authority. "This vendetta of mine has to be more than just a personal crusade. We can't have our guys so tunnel-visioned on revenge they slip up." I've seen what happens when men let emotion cloud their judgment. I've been guilty of it myself. "Speaking of slip-ups, you brought up how some of them feel about Isabella."
"More like outright hatred," Franco corrects, a bit too casually for my liking.
My jaw tightens, and anger seeps through my tone. "I want eyes and ears open. Any whisper, any hint someone's gone rogue to frighten her, or worse, I expect you on the phone to me. No delays."
The Beast in me roars at the thought of anyone else harming what's mine to break. Isabella is my revenge, my pawn, my...
Fuck.
"Understood, Boss," Franco says, recognizing the dangerous edge in my voice.
I wave him off, plunging back into the grind until the clock hits way past midnight. The only interruption comes from Signora Martha, dropping by to say Elena's already in dreamland, thanks to Isabella's bedtime story, and Cerberus is standing guard.
It eats at me, wondering if I'm making a misstep letting my daughter grow so fond of Isabella. Letting Elena become attached to a woman who may be just as treacherous as her father. A woman who helped destroy the life I had before.
But Elena laughs with her. Dances with her. Looks at Isabella like she hung the fucking moon. I've never seen my daughter light up like that for anyone else. Not even me.
That's partly why Isabella's under closer watch now. Speaking of which, as I head back to my quarters and secure the door, curiosity piques. Is she asleep too? Hearing about that shard hidden under her mattress had me picturing all kinds of scenarios. Was she planning to slice my throat and watch my blood drip, drip, drip into these ancient stone floors?
Leaving that shard on her nightstand when we moved her was both a challenge and a warning. I know what you're hiding. Nothing escapes me.
Is she tossing and turning, cursing my name? Or is she awake, thinking of all the ways to get under my skin?
Thinking about her brings me back to our wedding night. The way she looked at me with trust and abandon as I entered her. I rub the back of my neck, reminding myself she's the enemy. Her father had my mother killed. Had my face carved with fire and blade. Isabella is part of that equation, no matter how my body betrays me around her.
And yet... when my fingers dug into her skin as I plunged into her, she moaned my name, and that sound has haunted me ever since. Seeing my cock slide in and out of her, knowing that I made it possible for her to not only take me like she was made for me, but also to fully lose herself to the moment? It made me feel like the king of the fucking underworld.
Lucifer has nothing on me. I'll rule Hell with those images and those memories.
I'm not her hero. I'll never be.
And yet, what I really need now is an ice-cold shower, because knowing she's right there, separated by just one door, has me harder than stone. It stirs a fire inside me that I can't extinguish no matter how many times I remind myself of what she did.
Paola cajoled me the other day. Her hand ventured south, but there was no fire. While my cock did stiffen, I wasn't in the mood for her. Or for anyone else but my damn wife, for that matter.
Does Isabella have any idea what it does to me, knowing she's just beyond that door? It's like being caught in a storm of pure craving, setting my blood on fire. Anger and desire, they're tangled up, a twisted knot inside me. Longing battles with rage, while fury's laced with a resentful need.
Even after my shower, brushing my teeth and slipping on my sweatpants, I still think about barging in and maybe showing her some of the data we've gathered on what happened to my mother.
It's not about spending more time surrounded by her honeysuckle scent. It's about getting to the truth.
I don't doubt her father was responsible for my mother's death. But he didn't murder her with his own hands, and if Isabella didn't intend to betray her, if she didn't rush to her father with the information or the letter, someone else did.
There are still holes in this story that don't add up. Pieces that don't fit, no matter how I try to force them together.
"Tonio!"
Isabella's voice cuts through the silence, not with fear, but with a moan that drips with pleasure. Is she dreaming, calling out to me, or is this some siren's song designed to lure me to my destruction? A battle rages within me, curiosity clashing with caution. Yet, my decision is swift, almost beyond my conscious control. I move toward the connecting door, every part of me on edge, primed for whatever lies beyond.
My grip tightens around the knob, a mix of resolve and recklessness driving me forward. This isn't about falling for her traps, I convince myself: it's about facing whatever manipulation she's playing at. The door yields with a groan under my force, and I step through without hesitation.
"Damn."
The word escapes me, a guttural sound made of pure frustration and something else as heat licks my spine, fills my veins, drums up my pulse at the sight in front of me.
Isabella with only a shirt on, her eyes closed, moaning my name again and again and again while her fingers work between her thighs.
Am I in Hell already? And if yes, where the fuck is my throne?
.It's not a throne I'm claiming. It's a fucking descent into madness.
When I thought I understood the rage burning in my veins before, I was dead wrong. Because now? Now it's molten lava scorching through every nerve ending, consuming whatever's left of my control. And all because of her.
Her voice. Her moans. My name on her lips like a prayer she can't help but whisper.
She's writhing on the bed, twisted in sheets that hide too much and reveal enough to torture me. I step forward before I can stop myself, drawn by something more powerful than hatred or revenge. My cock strains against my zipper, painfully hard, throbbing in rhythm with the organ I thought had turned to stone in my chest.
I won't touch her. I fucking can't . But I can't make myself leave either.
Her scent surrounds me – not just the honeysuckle that's haunted my dreams since our wedding night, but something deeper, richer. The musk of her desire calls to the Beast in me, wrapping around my throat like a silken noose. I push a chair closer, telling myself it's just to get a better view of my enemy's weakness.
For one heartbeat, she goes still. Then her hand slides beneath the sheets, finding what she needs. The frustrated groan that escapes her lips makes my cock impossibly harder, a drop of precum soaking through my boxers. A bead of sweat traces down her temple, and I want to catch it with my tongue. Want to taste every inch of her. Want to remind her body who it belongs to.
This desire for my wife – my prisoner, my enemy – is torture beyond anything her father could devise. It's purely physical. It has to be. The alternative would destroy whatever plan I've meticulously crafted.
Yet I want to hear her cry my name again like she did on our wedding night, when I buried myself inside her and she looked at me like I was something more than the Beast everyone fears. I want to lose myself so completely in her that neither of us remembers where the hatred begins and the need ends.
My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth, but the thoughts remain, spawning a tidal wave of fury that crashes through my chest, my mind, the shriveled remains of what I once called a heart.
I've spent months plotting her downfall, rehearsing my revenge, and yet wanting her feels like walking through fire with my eyes wide open – fully aware of the inevitable burn, but incapable of turning away.
All those memories I've locked away, those dangerous moments when I let myself care – they're not breaking free, but they're seeping through the cracks in my armor, mixing with the molten rage in my veins.
She moans again, softer this time, less satisfied. Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and growl words meant to wound and arouse in equal measure: "That's my cock you want, isn't it, Bell'cenda? You want me inside that pretty little pussy."
Her eyes flutter open, clouded with dreams and need. Instead of shock at finding me here, she simply nods, still half-lost in whatever world she inhabits between sleeping and waking. Her fingers find mine, electricity arcing between us as she pulls me toward her.
A smile touches her lips even as her brow furrows. "I hate you, you know. This is just a dream."
"Or a nightmare," I reply, my voice stripped to gravel and hunger.
"Touch me," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, like she isn't sure if this is real or fantasy. "I need you to touch me. Make me feel alive like you know how. I need to feel alive."
Then her lips find mine, and whatever control I've been clinging to shatters. The kiss isn't gentle – it's war and surrender and need so raw it burns.
"You want me to kiss you?" The Beast in me wants to rip away the shirt covering her body, burn the sheets hiding her from my gaze. No matter what lies between us, she's mine. She's always been mine. My curse, my obsession, my downfall.
I let my mouth wander down her body, finding a perfect pink nipple that hardens beneath my tongue. Her back arches as I continue my path downward, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tangles in my hair, urging me toward the heat between her thighs.
A deep, primal satisfaction rumbles through me as my tongue finally – finally – tastes her, finding the nectar I've been craving despite everything. She shivers beneath me, or maybe I'm the one trembling. When I glance up, our eyes lock, and hers widen as reality crashes through her haze of pleasure.
My shoulders stiffen as I wait, balanced on a knife's edge.
If she pushes me away, I'll slam the door between us and throw away the key. Build walls higher than before. Make sure I never come this close to weakness again. I won't put her back in that forgotten wing, but I'll never let myself touch her, never let myself want her.
If she doesn't... this still can't be more than stolen moments. She's too dangerous to let close. She's my greatest vulnerability, the chink in armor I've spent years forging.
After an eternity compressed into heartbeats, she opens her legs wider, giving me better access, and I groan against her flesh – "Finally" – before feasting on her like a starving man. I circle her swollen clit with my tongue, working her with practiced precision until she's nothing but need and surrender, until I'm nothing but hunger and possession.
"Tonio! Yes, oh yes!"
My name – not Antonio, not Beast, but Tonio – torn from her throat as she comes undone feels like victory and damnation twisted together. I want to bury myself inside her, claim her completely, but even with how wet she is, I don't have the lubricant she needs. Despite everything, I won't hurt her. Not like this. Not when her fear at the hospital is still branded into my memory, not when I remember how brave she was through her pain.
Something tightens in my chest, another weakness I can't afford.
Instead, I claim her mouth again, letting her taste herself on my tongue. Her legs wrap around my waist as she grinds against me, the friction against my cock both heaven and torture.
She clutches the pillow with one hand – until with a swift movement, she reaches beneath it and presses something cold and sharp against my throat. The shard we found in her room digs into my skin, not quite drawing blood. The fury I felt earlier is nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins, though my cock remains traitorously hard against her heat.
"Will you finish what your father couldn't, Bella? Are you going to kill me?" I laugh, the sound bitter as poison. "Once a viper, always a viper. You betrayed my mother. Now you can betray me. Murder me too."
She doesn't speak, but her hand trembles against my throat, tears gathering in eyes that have haunted me for months. Something deep inside me twists at the sight, but I push it away, focusing on the cold press of metal rather than the warmth of her body beneath mine.
"Come on, Bella," I taunt, voice rough with challenge and something darker. "Aim for the jugular if you intend to end this."
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine as we both hold our breaths.