Chapter 22
LUCIA
It’s been months since Sicily.
Months since Isabella Bellandi was handed over like a living contract, wrapped in designer linen and consequence, to a man whose allegiance now belongs to Dragoni whether he admits it aloud or not.
Months since Giovanni bled in Red Hook, since he woke with resolute fury in his eyes and my name in his mouth, and I learned what it meant to stand inside the machinery of his world and not be crushed by it.
Giovanni wanted to heal properly before he summoned La Fratellanza Nera and I was all for it.
Also… he wanted them to wait.
To sweat in the silence, to sit in their expensive rooms and wonder what it meant that Salvatore Bellandi was still breathing and still locked inside the Dragoni Estate, and that no one in New York dared ask for him back.
That kind of patience is its own violence.
And by some unspoken agreement between Giovanni and me, we’ve not spoken too closely about the personal things either, about the omissions that still ache, about the suitcase that never truly left the room between us, about the fact that intimacy does not erase history.
It only makes it harder to ignore.
I didn’t fight the wait.
Partly because I wasn’t eager to step into another room full of men who believe they are gods simply because they inherited brutality.
Partly because, to my own quiet surprise that I won’t willingly share, I’ve enjoyed taking care of my husband.
I’ve loved watching him come back to himself.
His body has healed into new geography, the scar across his chest a stark reminder of what it cost him to defend what was always his, and the way he moves now carries an even sharper authority, as if pain has only refined him.
But… today’s the day.
Today, he’s going to throw down the gauntlet of his power while also proclaiming me Donna in front of La Fratellanza Nera, and yup, I would be lying if I said my nerves weren’t stretched tight beneath my skin.
Of course, Giovanni senses my churning angst.
I’m still staring at the ceiling when he rolls over, slow and deliberate, his hand sliding down my side with a familiarity that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
His weight settles over me, warm and real, his mouth finding the pulse in my throat as if he is reminding himself I’m here.
Alive.
His.
“Tesoro,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something darker. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
“I’m not thinking at all,” I lie baldly, wondering why I’m bothering even as it happens. “Just checking out the cracks in the ceiling.”
His mouth curves against my skin.
“Bugia.” Liar. “There are no cracks in the ceiling,” he declares, then nips my lobe with his teeth. “But if you need it, allow me to distract you from your tedious inspection.”
My fingers curl in the sheets as the sharp, shiver-inducing nips continue.
Over my jaw, down my collarbone, lingering in the divot at my throat where my pulse races madly just for him.
Outside these walls, there are factions and timelines and men who would rather see me gone permanently, but here, for a suspended moment, there’s only my husband and the way he touches me with fevered intent, like I’m a treasure he seized that day in Queens and is determined never to give back.
His hand moves with unhurried intent, drawing away sheets, then stopping to brush over furled nipples, first with his fingers, then with his mouth.
Eyes on me, I watch him lick his fingers, then use them to pluck at my nipples, drawing feral growls from my throat.
And when my fever is high, he bends his head and he licks, then sucks and pulls them in deep, his eyes fixed on me the whole time.
Drinking in my gasps and my sighs. The silent pleas in my eyes that he answers with more here, less there.
Relentlessly coaxing the tension out of my body in the most physical way he knows.
And I let him. Because I can’t pretend I don’t need it.
His mouth finds mine, deepening into a kiss that is not gentle, exactly, but is careful in the way Giovanni is careful when he wants something badly enough to treat it like devotion.
Devotion I’ve come to crave like air in these past months. Devotion that could come under threat if someone else decides they’re powerful enough to…
I make a small sound of distress before I can swallow it.
His breath hitches.
“Amante,” he drawls softly, lifting his head just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, amused, possessed. “I feel I’m losing you, just when I am about to put in my best performance yet.”
Despite everything, my lips twitch. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you are not trembling as hard as you could be,” he replies, as if this is evidence in a case he has already won. “Let’s fix that.”
His hand tightens at my hip, and he flips us over so I’m on top, straddling him.
Then he goes to work, instructing me where to touch him, where to touch myself so he watches. When to lean so he can devour my mouth to his satisfaction. Then when to rise so he can slide his cock inside me, direct me to ride him hard.
Harder.
The heat between us builds slowly, deliberately, the way everything between Giovanni and me has always built, a constant edge of restraint and inevitability.
My thoughts scatter as I shatter to the four winds. Let him pull me down to wrap his arms around me as he roars his own release.
But as I feared, the aftermath lasts a fistful of heartbeats. Then words and the fears I’ve been wanting to blurt for weeks press at the back of my throat.
What if something happens? What if this is the last morning I have him like this? What if La Fratellanza Nera have an unforeseen trick up their sleeve?
My chest tightens as I’m tossed back to the night he was shot. To the dinner that never happened.
Should I say it now? Should I finally say the thing that has been haunting me with increasing frequency, the thing that feels like surrender and inescapable truth braided together?
Giovanni’s mouth brushes my jaw. “Lucia,” he murmurs, quieter now, and it’s not a tease anymore. It’s awareness. “Stay with me.”
I close my eyes and push the thoughts away. They can wait.
For now.
I wrap my arms around him tighter still, pulling him closer, letting the moment swallow everything else, letting him take my stress apart with slow intimacy and the kind of attention that feels almost reverent.
When it’s over, we lie tangled together, breathing in the aftermath, the room heavy with warmth and the quiet knowledge that outside this bed, the world is still waiting.
Giovanni presses a kiss to my forehead. “You will be magnificent today,” he says simply.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be magnificent. I want to be safe.”
His gaze sharpens. “You will be both.”
An hour later, dressed and armoured in silk and composure, I follow him down the steps towards the car.
The guards are already in place, the convoy already waiting. The day is ready to unfold whether we like it or not.
I pause before I get in, my hand tightening briefly on the door frame. And under my breath, so softly I am not sure even God hears it, I mutter a prayer in Italian.
For victory, yes, but also for survival. Because I’m learning that there are some things I can’t live without. And my husband has, the clever bastard, crept to the top of that list.
Giovanni glances back at me, eyebrow lifting. “Dragunnida?”
I force a smile I do not fully feel. Choose to bask in the endearment he hasn’t used in a while. “I’m good. Promise.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods once, as if he understands anyway. As if he always understands.
And when the car door closes, sealing me inside Dragoni territory and Dragoni fate, I realise déjà vu does not frighten me anymore.
It only reminds me that I have lived through it before.
And that this time, I will not be ornamental.
This time, I will be seen.
The room is built to intimidate.
That is my first clear thought as Giovanni and I are ushered inside, past security layers that are older than law and quieter than conscience, into a space designed to remind every man in it that power predates him and will outlive him if he missteps.
Giovanni gave me the Cliff Notes so I know La Fratellanza Nera has always preferred places like this. Thick walls with very few, if any, windows. History pressed into stone and leather and the kind of furniture that does not creak because it was never meant to accommodate hesitation.
They rise when Giovanni enters.
Not all of them. Not immediately.
A few stand out of reflex. A few because they know better. A few remain seated on purpose, eyes sharp, mouths faintly amused, testing him with false indifference.
Giovanni doesn’t slow.
He does not acknowledge the hesitation. He walks as if the room belongs to him already, as if the delay is nothing more than an inconvenience that will be corrected in due course.
His hand closes around mine without looking, a warm, steady pressure that anchors me without asking for permission.
That, I realise, is the first message.
I’m not three steps behind him like some biddable wife. And I’m not beside him by accident. I’m here because he wants me here, at his right hand.
We take our seats.
The head of the table is already occupied, of course.
La Fratellanza Nera does not yield space easily, and Giovanni does not ask for it. He sits where he chooses, at an angle that forces the men across from him to turn slightly, to adjust themselves to his presence.
Small things matter in rooms like this.
The air tightens as the doors close.
Someone clears his throat.
Another man smirks.
His gaze flicks to me, slow and assessing, and I feel the deliberate weight of it as he looks me over with open dismissal, as if I am an accessory Giovanni has brought to provoke reaction rather than a person with a pulse.
My husband notices. I know he does because his fingers tighten around mine just enough to be felt.
The man speaks before anyone else can stop him. “So,” he says, tone light, almost conversational, “this is her.”