Chapter 25
25
ARIA
I never understood how silence could be so suffocating.
But ever since Nicolas left, the silence in this house wraps around me like a vice, pressing down on my chest, making every breath feel like a struggle.
I can’t sit still.
I try. I curl up on the couch in Nicolas’s study, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. I even pick up a book from the shelves, but the words blur together, meaningless. Nothing can hold my attention. Nothing can quiet the storm inside me.
Everything I do feels pointless, only making the knot in my stomach tighten. My hands tremble as I set the book down, nausea twisting inside me.
I’ve never felt anxiety like this before. And the worst part? It’s not even for Marco.
I care if he survives—I meant it when I asked Nicolas to look after him. But it’s not Marco I can’t stop thinking about. It’s my husband.
The man who has shown me a kind of affection I never knew existed.
It’s because of Nicolas that my stomach is in knots, that my hands won’t stop shaking, that I’ve spent every second praying this operation is a success.
I press my palms against my face, exhaling sharply. I should be angry. I should be furious that he’s made me feel this way. But I’m not.
I am terrified.
Terrified of how deeply I feel for someone like Nicolas. And even more terrified that I never got the chance to tell him.
He has to come back. He has to.
I push off the couch and head to the kitchen, hoping that movement—any kind of distraction—will quiet the storm inside me.
Teresa is there, chopping vegetables at the counter. Her strong hands move with steady precision, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s the only maid I ever speak to.
The others scurry away when they see me, avoiding my eyes as if making contact with me might bring them bad luck. Teresa doesn’t exactly meet my gaze either, but at least she doesn’t run.
I lean against the counter, gripping the edge as I try to steady my breath. “Do you ever worry?”
She doesn’t pause. “Worry about what, Mrs. Paolo?”
I chew my lower lip. “About the men. About… them not coming back from these operations.”
“It’s not my place to worry about the boss’ job, Mrs. Paolo. I just do mine,” she replies, her voice even.
A lump rises in my throat, but she finally looks up before I can say anything. Her sharp eyes study me momentarily before she offers a small, knowing smile. “But I also trust the boss. And so far, he has always come back. He’s a capable man.”
Her words offer a sliver of comfort—probably the reason she said them—but it’s not enough to stop the gnawing dread in my stomach.
He’s returned every time before, but what if something goes wrong?
What if this time is different?
What if Marco does something reckless?
I shift on my feet, watching her slice through a tomato. “But what if one day, they don’t come back? What happens then?”
Teresa sets the knife down and turns to me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Then what difference does worrying make, Mrs. Paolo?”
I press my lips together.
She exhales, shaking her head. “You are young. You do not understand yet. But you will.”
Her words do nothing to calm me.
I leave the kitchen and start pacing the hallway. Back and forth. My nails bite into my palms, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. My chest feels too tight, my hands too cold.
I need to do something.
Before I know it, I’m back in the kitchen, yanking open cabinets, pulling out flour, sugar, eggs. My hands tremble as I measure ingredients but I force myself to focus. The rhythmic scrape of the whisk against the bowl. The scent of vanilla filling the air.
It should be soothing.
It usually is.
But today, it isn’t enough.
I keep glancing at the clock. Every tick sends another pulse of panic through me. My mind conjures images I don’t want to see—Nicolas bleeding, alone, broken beyond repair. Dead.
I squeeze my eyes shut. He’ll come back. He has to.
He promised me.
The timer beeps, but I barely register it. My stomach churns as I pull the cookies from the oven, the scent of warm chocolate filling the room. But I can’t taste them. I can’t eat.
I shove the tray aside and sink into a chair, my hands gripping the table's edge.
I hear it just as I’m about to do something reckless—like order the driver to take me straight to wherever Nicolas is.
The low rumble of engines outside.
Then… footsteps.
My body moves before my mind catches up. I dash towards the door. I run like my life depends on it.
I don’t bother with shoes. My bare feet slap against the cold marble as I race through the house, my breath coming in short gasps. I skid to a stop when I get outside, just as the car doors swing open.
Matteo steps out first. His face is hard, unreadable. His suit is wrinkled, his hands stained red. His shirt is bloody.
There’s so much blood. Too much. His face is so pale that if he lay on the ground right now and played dead, I would believe it.
My breath catches. My legs feel numb. The world tilts.
No. No, no, no ? —
“Matteo,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
My body moves before my mind catches up. My steps are slow at first, hesitant. Then faster. More desperate. My vision blurs. My throat tightens.
“Is Nicolas—” My voice cracks. “Where is he?”
Matteo just stares at me.
I shake my head, my breath hitching. “Matteo.” My voice rises, my hands curling into fists. “Tell me where he is!”
Still nothing.
Tears spill down my cheeks. I grab his shirt, twisting the fabric in my fingers, my knuckles white. “Where is he?”
Silence.
And then?—
A cough.
A weak, ragged sound that makes my whole body freeze. My head snaps up, my eyes darting toward the open car door.
I look closer—and I see him.
Nicolas, struggling to get out.
Matteo moves quickly, slipping an arm around him as he steps out. His suit is torn, stained dark with blood. His skin is pale, but his eyes—his eyes—are still sharp.
He’s alive.
The relief is so sudden, so overwhelming, that my knees almost give out. I move toward him, and Matteo steps away. I throw my arms around Nicolas’s waist, pressing myself against him, my whole body shaking. His breath is warm against my hair, his scent wrapping around me—gunpowder, sweat, and something distinctly him.
I don’t mind.
I love it.
I love the scent. I love the hardness of his body. I love the strength of his arms around me.
I… I love him.
I love Nicolas Paolo with everything I have, every part of me. A tear slips down my cheek, and I pull back, my fingers trembling as I touch his face.
“You’re bleeding,” I whisper.
He lets out a low chuckle, though it’s strained. Then, slowly, he reaches up and brushes my tear away.
“It’s not that bad.”
I search his face. He looks exhausted, but that damn smirk is still there—the one that drives me insane.
“I told you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing away the tears I didn’t even realize were falling. “Even if the world falls away, nothing is keeping me from you.”
Something inside me shatters.
It isn’t just relief. It isn’t just gratitude.
It’s love.
Pure, unfiltered, terrifying love.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
I kiss him.
I kiss him because he’s here. Because I almost lost him. Because I love him, and I don’t know how to stop.
His lips crash into mine with the same desperate intensity. His hands slide into my hair, holding me close, his grip firm despite his injuries. He kisses me like I am the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
The pain, the fear, the uncertainty—none of it matters.
Only this.
Only him.
I slide a hand up his arm and he groans. I pull back, my heart twisting at the pain etched on his face—the pain he tries to smile through.
“Come on, let’s get you to a shower,” I say softly. Matteo steps in, steadying him as I guide him inside.
The doctor arrives a few minutes later, tending to his injuries before leaving us alone. And then it’s just me and my husband, curled together in bed, the sharp scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.
But I don’t care.
Because Nicolas is here. Because he’s alive. Because he’s trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw.
I gasp as he finds my sensitive spot at the nape of my neck. His mouth seals over my skin, sucking gently, marking me the way he always does.
I run my hands carefully over his body, threading my fingers through his damp hair. My touch glides over his tattoos, tracing old scars while avoiding the fresh wounds.
His dark eyes burn with desire. Mirroring my own, and when I kiss him, he groans into my mouth, deepening the fire already spreading between us.
I should tell him to rest. To recover. But I can’t. I need him—beside me, inside me. And from the way his hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, I know he needs me just as much.
When I’m close enough, he fingers slip between my thighs, finding my pussy effortlessly.
Of course, he does. I’m bare. So is he.
This isn’t like the other times. It’s softer. Slower. But somehow, it feels more intimate than anything we’ve ever done.
He groans as he feels how wet and ready I am for him, his lips breaking from mine. I watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them, tasting me. Then, he slides them between my lips, and I do the same.
“The thought of tasting you again can pull me through any hellhole I find myself in.”
I bite my lip, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I love you, Nicolas.
The words press against my tongue, but I can’t say them. What if I scare him off? What if it changes things?
He leans down, his lips brushing over my breast before closing around my nipple. He sucks gently at first, then bites down just enough to make me gasp. A shiver runs through me as he lavishes attention on the sensitive peak, his tongue flicking teasing, worshipping.
It’s too much. Or maybe not enough.
The sensation builds, tightening every nerve in my body, and for a moment, I swear I could fall apart from just this. But then he pulls back, his fingers slipping between my thighs.
Everything is so slow. Intentional. I know I’ll never forget this moment.
His fingers find my clit, circling in lazy, teasing strokes before slipping two deep inside me. My breath hitches, hips arching toward him, begging him without words. But he takes his time, dragging out the pleasure.
I see the flicker of discomfort on his face, but it’s gone before I can say anything. Then he pumps deeper, harder, his fingers curling just right, and my knees tremble.
“Come for me, Bambina ,” he murmurs. Let me taste your glory.”
I cry out as the pleasure snaps, my body shuddering against the mattress. He doesn’t stop watching me, taking in every desperate moan, every pulse of my release.
I writhe beneath him, grinding against his fingers, chasing the release I so desperately need. My body trembles, wrung out and weak, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
He finally pulls his fingers from me and, without breaking eye contact, brings them to his lips. His tongue flicks over them, tasting me, savoring me.
“Please,” I whisper, breathless. “Fuck me. I need you inside me. I’m begging you.”
His lips curve into a slow knowing smile. He shifts, reaching for me, guiding me to straddle him. But I hesitate.
“We should take it easy,” I murmur. “Your injuries-“
His jaw tightens. “Sit on my cock, Aria. I’m not a weak man.”
There’s frustration in his tone, as if my concern offends him. But beneath that, there’s something raw, something aching. A need to prove himself—to me, to himself, to the world.
So I obey. I straddle his lap, and the second I sink onto him, he thrusts up to meet me, burying himself inside my pussy in one deep, devastating stroke.
A sharp cry rips from my throat. His hands grip my hips, holding me there, stretching me, filling me completely.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
He cups the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss, his tongue tangling with mine, hot and consuming. My body rocks instinctively, my walls clenching around him. Then, without warning, he growls low in his throat and flips us over.
I don’t know how the fuck he does it without hurting himself, but I don’t care. My back hits the mattress, and before I can catch my breath, he slams back into me.
A scream tears from my lips.
He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to my clit.
Bracing himself against the headboard, he fucks me slow and deep, dragging out every sensation. My orgasm builds again, coiling tight inside me, wrapping around his cock, making me tremble.
My back arches, and when I come, my entire body clenches around him, locking him inside me. His rhythm falters, and then he groans my name, spilling his release into me, filling me until I feel like I might burst.
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him close as we shudder together, our breathing ragged. Our eyes meet and something passes between us—something unspoken.
I love this man.
And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do about it.