Chapter 8
RAFAELLE
‘First things first,’ I say, clicking my phone off and slipping it into my back pocket. ‘Get back into bed.’
She crosses her arms. ‘That your way of avoiding telling me who you were talking to?’
I arch a brow, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. ‘It wasn’t your name on the screen, was it, picciridda?’ My tone dips low, the leash on my control back in my fist. ‘So I suggest you don’t make it your business.’
She hesitates. That fire in her eyes still simmers, but I can see the tight coil of awareness in her body, how every inch of her is wound up, tense and alert. Her tongue wets her lower lip before she finally turns away from me, climbs back into the bed without another word.
Good girl.
I fasten the cuffs to the headboard again, just tight enough to remind her where she is. Who she belongs to, for now.
‘I’m giving you a timeframe and a truce,’ I say as I pull up a chair beside the bed. ‘For six races starting with Monaco next week. Ending in Silverstone. That’s about two months, give or take.’ My gaze rests on hers. ‘That’s how long you have to make yourself useful.’
She sits up straighter, cuffs pulling faintly as her wrists shift above her. Her expression is pure steel. Controlled. Regal. Like the bratty princess she was born to be. Like the killer she became instead.
I feel myself scale another rung of fascination. My cock, once again at half-mast, thickening. Eager for the green light to go go go.
‘Useful how?’ she asks.
‘You help me find Bonafacio. You make calls, drop hints, open old doors. You cooperate. And if you do that…’ I lean in, close enough that our breaths mingle.
To see her pupils dilate deliciously at our proximity.
Fuck, she smells incredible. ‘No one dies. Not you. Your sisters. Not Narciso. Not your father. Not even that distant aunt of yours who runs that overpriced vineyard on the Sicilian coast.’
‘And if I don’t?’ she asks, her voice low.
I smile. ‘Then I stop giving a fuck about collateral.’
But she doesn’t flinch.
She tilts her head, her eyes sharp. ‘Who signed off on this, Enforcer? The heir? Does Maddie know about this? That I’m here? Or are you going rogue again, chasing shadows and dragging me along for the fallout?’
Straight from my conversation with Cesare, that pisses me off.
I lean back slowly, the heat in my chest flaring as I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, keeping myself in check. ‘Watch your mouth, picciridda. Just because I haven’t gagged it doesn’t mean I won’t.’
She narrows her eyes, reading me. Calculating.
‘You really expect me to play your little sidekick for two months without knowing who the hell gave you the green light to abduct me? You think the Mancinellis are going to look the other way when they realise you’ve got one of them shackled to your bed? ’
I laugh, low and dirty. ‘Careful, Sofiya. You sound like you’re worried I’ll get in trouble. Haven’t you lot had your asses kicked enough for a lifetime? I know to a rounded-up dozen how many active soldiers you have these days. Shall I embarrass us both by stating the figure?’
Her fury intensifies but colour stains her cheeks. She is embarrassed by the state her grandfather left them in.
But that’s not all.
‘Or is this about something else? Is this your way of asking if you’ll be staying in my bed the whole time?’
She huffs, eyes sparking with rage and something hotter underneath. ‘That wasn’t a question.’
‘No?’ I rise from the chair, slow and deliberate, letting her see every inch of control I’m wielding.
‘Because the way you’re looking at me? It’s not like someone who wants to be cut loose.
It’s like someone who’s curious if next time…
she’ll still be cuffed. Is bondage your thing, tigra?
’ I lick my lips, slowly. To rile her, yes, but fuck, because I want to taste those lips more than I want my next kill.
And that’s saying something. It’s been too fucking long since my last one.
I vow to change that. Soon. I need something to take the edge off.
Her breath catches just a little. Barely noticeable, unless you’re trained to catch weakness mid-strike.
I lean closer, hands on the bed, towering over her as she glares up at me.
‘You’ve got eight weeks, bedda. Be smart. Be useful. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk out of this with your pride intact and your family breathing.’
Then I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear.
‘Or maybe you’ll still be in my bed. Legs open. Wrists free. And begging me to make you forget you ever doubted how fucking serious I am when it comes to pursuing my goals.’
She doesn’t answer. But she’s not looking away either.
Good.
Let the fire burn.
Sofiya
It’s sick that a part of me wants to test that edge. To see how far he’d really go. To feel that sharp blade of danger press a little closer. But my body betrays me with every shallow breath, every flutter in my chest.
I nod once. ‘Six races.’
It’s not surrender, I tell myself. It’s strategy.
A notion dressed as compliance, buying myself time.
Time to study him, to locate weaknesses in his armour and in his obsession.
Time to plan for what comes after the truce ends, when one of us will have to choose between blood and betrayal.
And if I play it right, he won’t see the knife until it’s already in his back.
‘Smart girl. You hungry?’
‘No.’ It’s a gut reaction. Truth is, I don’t remember when I last ate. Hunting down the Enforcer on the dark web and chasing him down to within a mile of my family’s compound will drain anyone’s appetite.
He rises anyway, walks over to the small kitchenette and returns with a plate.
It’s not fancy. It’s some bread, figs, cured meat, olives, and a wedge of cheese, a bottle of water and… two candy bars. My favourite.
Because, of course.
It’s arranged with a care I wouldn’t have expected from a killer. But he’s the Enforcer. Meticulous to the last.
‘You should eat,’ he says casually as he sets the tray on the nightstand. ‘You’ve had a rough few hours. Can’t have you passing out before the fun begins.’
‘You mean more threats?’
‘I mean,’ he says with a grin, his fingers brushing over a slice of prosciutto, ‘you’re going to need your strength. For plotting. Scheming. And maybe a few other things.’
His voice dips on that last part, laced with heat, but it’s what comes next that disarms me.
He glances at me, a flicker of something – not hunger this time – passing across his face. ‘You got the same thing your sister has? The low blood sugar thing?’
I blink.
That… I didn’t expect. Not that I’m surprised he knows.
‘I know Maddie’s hypoglycaemic,’ he adds when I don’t answer. ‘She gets faint if she doesn’t eat properly. Had a scare once, a few days before the wedding. Cesare lost his fucking shit.’
There’s a pause. One beat too long. He’s watching me, waiting.
I could lie. Could say no just to avoid the deceptive softness in his tone. That strange, unwelcome undercurrent of concern. It’s a ploy. Has to be. But the truth slips out anyway, because it’s just instinct. ‘Yeah. Mine’s milder than hers but it’s genetic.’
He gives a small nod. ‘Then eat.’ He reaches for the sandwich, tears a piece of bread and cheese and holds it out. I shake my head, stare pointedly at the candy.
He smirks. ‘Clever girl.’
Rafa unwraps it and I take it, more out of irritation than obedience.
He doesn’t press the point. And somehow, that unsettles me more. Because for a split second, he stopped being the devil dragging me into his twisted war and started looking like someone who noticed.
Someone who cared enough to ask.
I chew slowly, keeping my gaze anywhere but on him. The food looks good, annoyingly so, because I know given the same set of ingredients, nothing I do will come out like this. But I stick to the candy.
And my body, traitorous as ever, is grateful. My stomach unclenches. My head clears a little.
But I shove the rest of it down. That flicker of warmth? It means nothing. It’s just strategy. The same way you feed a hunting dog before unleashing it again.
He wants me strong so I can perform. For his mission. For his revenge.
That’s all I’ve ever been good for, isn’t it? Strategy. Precision. Calculated violence. I see threats before they move and I neutralise them without flinching. It’s why my father kept me close, why my grandfather trained me, a woman, harder than his own capos and lieutenants.
Is this why Rafaelle hasn’t killed me yet? Because I’m useful?
Just… a weapon with a pulse? No one spares a thought for just me.
Dammit, if I let myself think too long about what that means, about what it feels like to be needed only when there’s blood in the water and a kill order on the table, then the steel I’ve built around myself might start to crack.
He tears a piece of the candy and brings it to my lips. I hesitate, just long enough for his eyes to narrow in warning, before opening my mouth. The salty chocolate melts on my tongue, and I hate that it tastes like something I’d crave again.
Another bite follows, his fingers brushing my lower lip as he feeds me. I feel heat uncoiling low in my belly, unwanted and wicked, and I curse myself for the flicker of a moan I don’t manage to hold in.
He hears it. Of course he does.
Fucking hell. What is wrong with me tonight?
‘Careful, picciridda,’ he murmurs, dragging his thumb along the corner of my mouth. ‘You keep making sounds like that, I’ll start thinking you like being tied up in my bed.’
I narrow my eyes, but the air between us is thick and humming, and I can’t lie, to myself or him. My thighs clench. My nipples ache. My mouth is wet for more than the treat he’s feeding me.
He knows.
He fucking knows.
And when he tears off the last piece and leans in again, his breath brushing my jaw, I don’t resist.
‘Open,’ he commands gruffly.
I open for him like a fool.