Epilogue 1
Matteo
The Leone Room is empty except for me, the echo of my footsteps bouncing off the walls as I make final adjustments to the table on stage.
Sunlight streams through the cracks in the blackout curtains, catching dust motes in golden streaks that cut across the darkness like knife wounds. It’s been a week since Raven flooded the bathroom. And since that night, she hasn’t mentioned hearing the damn drips.
She’ll be here soon, fresh from lunch with Piper and her meeting with Holston. Just the thought of her returning to work makes something possessive twist in my gut.
These past couple of weeks have been… I don’t have the right word for it. We’ve been inseparable, my Little Thief and I. Watching her sleep, making her breakfast, fucking her against every surface of our penthouse. Healing, both of us, in our own twisted ways.
The official story about North Coast Effects has only just died down. The tragic firework warehouse accident intrigued everyone, especially since it allegedly claimed the lives of the Kearney brothers.
Remus himself carefully crafted the police report, detailing how Adam and Finn Kearney died when volatile chemicals ignited during a routine inventory check. No suspects. Case closed.
The Russo family’s power bought not just silence, but a narrative that kept us all safe. Funny how easily truth can be rewritten when you know which palms to grease, which throats to squeeze.
I run my hand over the smooth surface of the table, feeling the cool wood beneath my fingertips. We’re finally back at the Leone Room after the attack that took Vito and Kayla. The reopening is still a week away, but I needed this space today. For her. For us.
Today, I’m giving her exactly what she asked for—before everything went to shit. The oil is ready. The candles are prepared. The ice is freezing. Everything is set for what I have planned for her—a fantasy confessed on Freaky Friday.
My phone buzzes. A text from Raven.
Little Thief: I’m five minutes away. This better be worth skipping dessert for. *Devil emoji*
I smile, tucking my phone back into my pocket. My Little Thief has no idea what’s waiting for her.
Even with the bloodstains scrubbed clean and the bullet holes patched, I can still see Kayla’s and Vito’s bodies. But I can also see Raven here; dancing, laughing, and coming all over my cock.
The front door opens, letting in a shaft of bright summer light that cuts through the dimness. And there she is—silhouetted for a moment before stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her.
“Honey, I’m home,” she calls out, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Where are you hiding, Firestarter?”
My eye adjusts as I watch her scan the room, finally spotting me on stage. She’s wearing a white crop top that stops just below her ribs, showcasing the smooth expanse of her stomach, and a matching wrap skirt that’s knotted at her hip, threatening to come undone with the slightest tug.
Her legs are bare and endless, ending in strappy sandals that add three inches to her height. Her hair is gathered in a high ponytail, the dusky pink strands swinging as she moves toward me.
My gaze drops to the pink wrist wraps—perfectly matching her hair—covering the still-healing wounds from where those fucking handcuffs bit into her skin. The sight of them makes me wish Salvador was still alive just so I could kill him again.
But it’s her eyes that truly hold me—warm, alert, alive. The haunted look is fading, replaced by something bright and hungry that makes my cock twitch against my zipper.
“You got my text?” she asks, climbing the steps to the stage with deliberate slowness, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I did.” I don’t move, letting her come to me.
“And what exactly was so important that I had to rush over here instead of having ice cream with Piper?” She stops just out of reach, hands on her hips, challenge written in every line of her body.
I close the distance between us in two strides, my hand sliding around to grip the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her ponytail. “Missing you isn’t reason enough?” I ask, my voice a low growl against her ear.
Her laugh is breathy, surprised. “You saw me this morning. You fucked me in the shower before I left.”
“That was hours ago.” I tug her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat. “Too long.” When my mouth finds hers, she makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-moan, opening to me instantly.
Raven’s hands slide up my chest, clutching at my shoulders as I kiss her hard enough to bruise, my tongue claiming her mouth with the same hunger that’s been burning in me since she walked out the door this morning.
Her body arches into mine, soft curves pressing against hard angles, her nipples hard points against my chest even through our clothes. I walk her backward until her ass hits the edge of the table, my hands sliding down to cup her perfect bubble ass and lift her up against me.
“Fuck, I missed you,” she gasps when I finally release her mouth to drag my lips down her neck. Her hands find my hair, tugging me back up to her mouth. “Speaking of which, what’s my surprise? And why are we at the Leone Room when it’s still closed?”
I lean back just enough to study her face—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips already swollen from my kisses. Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.
“How do you feel about playing today?” I ask, one hand tracing the edge of her crop top, fingers just brushing the underside of her breast.
Her breath catches, and I watch her eyes darken with understanding. “What kind of playing?”
“The kind that involves this table.” I tap the wood beneath her. “And you. And me making you scream until you forget your own name.”
Instead of answering, she pulls me back for another kiss, this one desperate and hungry, her tongue sliding against mine in a filthy promise of what’s to come. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. I trace my thumb over her bottom lip, feeling it tremble beneath my touch.
Her eyes meet mine, clear and steady. “I’m all yours, Firestarter.”
I smile, slow and predatory. “Yes, you fucking are.”
The sturdy table with leather cuffs attached to each corner has already been adjusted for her size. She hesitates for just a second.
“Handcuffs,” she whispers.
And, fuck me, now I feel like the dumbest person alive. How did I not consider this might be a trigger for her? “Is that okay?” I rasp.
Raven looks up at me, her lips curving into a smile that’s pure sin. “With you, everything is okay,” she answers honestly. “I trust you.”
“Good,” I reply, my voice husky.
Her breath hitches as my fingers find the knot holding her skirt closed. One tug and it comes undone, the fabric parting to reveal a white lace thong that’s gone the next second. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper at the sight.
“Arms up,” I command, and she complies immediately, allowing me to pull the crop top over her head in one smooth motion.
She’s not wearing a bra. Of course she isn’t. Her perfect breasts are bare, nipple piercings catching the light, making my mouth water with the need to taste her. But patience is key to what I have planned.
“Get on the table,” I tell her, helping her climb up and lie back on the smooth wood. “Arms above your head.”
Her eyes hold mine as she obeys, stretching her arms toward the head of the table, her back arching slightly in the process. The position pushes her breasts up, making them look even more perfect.
I secure her wrists with the leather cuffs, checking that they’re tight enough to hold her but not so tight they’ll hurt her already damaged skin.
“Spread your legs for me, Little Thief.”
She hesitates, just for a second—not in fear, but in playful defiance that makes my cock twitch. “Make me.”
I smile, slow and dangerous, and grab her ankles. “As you wish.”
I pull her legs apart roughly, securing each ankle to a corner of the table until she’s completely spread-eagled before me, vulnerable and exposed. Her pussy lips are already swollen and glistening, a detail that sends a surge of possessive pride through me.
“Look at you,” I murmur, running one finger along the inside of her thigh, watching goosebumps rise in my wake. “Already wet for me.”
She licks her lips, eyes darkening. “I’m always wet when you’re around,” she admits with a moan.
“Do you want to be blindfolded or watch what I’m going to do to you?” I ask, wanting her to decide.
Her breath comes faster now, chest rising and falling rapidly. “What are you going to do?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I uncap the bottle of oil—specially formulated for what I have in mind—creating a barrier between her skin and the heat while still allowing her to feel every sensation.
The liquid warms in my palms before I begin applying it to her shoulders, working my way down with slow, methodical movements.
“What is that?” she asks, her back arching into my touch.
“Shhh.” I pour more oil onto my hands, watching it glisten on her skin as I spread it across her collarbones, down to her breasts. I take my time here, kneading the soft flesh, circling her nipples with my thumbs until they’re hard and begging for my mouth. “No more questions until you answer me.”
My hands continue their path down her body, coating her stomach, her hips. As always when I read her tattoo, I can’t help grinning. I bend down and press a kiss to the skin. Then I work the oil onto the insides of her thighs.
She’s squirming now, little whimpers escaping her throat as I deliberately avoid touching where she wants me most. “Please,” she gasps when my thumbs brush her slit, but I don’t give her what she wants. “Fine, no blindfold.”
I pour the last of the oil onto her legs, massaging it into her calves, her ankles, even the arches of her feet until every inch of exposed skin gleams in the dim light.