Chapter 11 – Calista
I sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, remote in hand, flicking through the channels even though nothing really catches my attention. Some mindless reality show plays in the background—over-the-top voices, fake laughter, all of it just noise. Still, it's better than silence. That makes me think. And thinking right now? Dangerous.
My fingers tap against my thigh, restless. Lazaro said he’d bring the document today. That goddamn blood pact. My mind’s a cyclone of thoughts I can’t slow down. It’s not just the curiosity—it’s the need. I need to know what I was worth. I need to see it with my own damn eyes.
I hate that I’m waiting on him. Like some obedient mutt expecting scraps. Ugh. I should’ve asked for a better deal—hell, even demanded my damn freedom. But no. I picked a piece of paper. A relic from the past. Why? Because I know that the document isn’t just ink on parchment. It’s a record of betrayal. And I need to see it—to face it—because I need that truth more than I need to breathe right now.
“Bet my father signed it like he was buying groceries,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe threw in a discount.”
I chuckle, dry and bitter.
The TV drones on, some over-tanned influencer crying about a broken nail. I roll my eyes. If only that were my biggest problem.
I lean back, head hitting the pillow. With Riven slithering through shadows, I know I can’t afford to let my guard down. And the messed-up part? This penthouse—this damn fortress—feels like the only place where he can’t touch me.
“Lazaro,” I whisper under my breath, scoffing. “Never thought you’d be the safer devil.”
But that’s the truth now. As twisted as it is.
Every time I see Riven, I can’t help but get breathless. It’s a warning. A silent scream my instincts won’t let me ignore. I see it in the way he moves. The fake calm. The too-casual conversations. The way he watches people a beat too long. Everything he does feels sinister.
But I won’t let him win.
I glance at the clock. Still nothing. Still waiting. My nerves are starting to fray, and I hate it. I hate that a man like Lazaro Virelli has me on edge, waiting like some trembling little thing.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
I sit up fast, heart catching mid-beat. The door opens, and there he is—Lazaro, silent and dominating as ever. He doesn’t say a word at first. Just steps inside and holds out a small black folder, sealed with the Virelli crest.
"You wanted it," he says simply. "Here."
I snatch it from his hand, not bothering to thank him. He just turns and walks out like none of this matters. Like he didn’t just hand me a grenade disguised in a velvet file.
I retreat to the desk, my hands already trembling as I break the seal and open the folder.
The paper smells faintly of dust and ink—old but preserved. My fingers shake as I flip through the first few pages—legal jargon, bloodline signatures, estate clauses. And then—there it is.
My name.
Scribbled beside a signature I know far too well.
Not my father’s.
My uncle’s.
My breath catches. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
It was him. My own blood. He sold me off like cattle. He signed me away like a goddamn property transfer.
Rage explodes behind my ribs, sharp and hot. My hands tighten around the edges of the folder as the words blur in front of me.
But then—there’s another name.
Don Corrado Virelli.
Lazaro’s father.
My pulse skids to a halt, like the floor’s been yanked out from under me. He was part of this too. Don Corrado. The man who fathered Lazaro, the man whose son now acts like he owns me, had his hands in this nightmare from the start. My fingers freeze over the ink. It hits like a punch to the gut—vicious and unforgiving. Not just betrayal—this is legacy-level cruelty. It wasn’t just my uncle. It was the Virellis, too. All of them.
The betrayal doesn’t just stings. It burns. It guts. It destroys.
My fingers trail over their ancient signatures, trying to imagine what they were thinking. Did they even hesitate? Did they ever consider what it would do to a fourteen-year-old girl being thrown into the wolves’ den?
I slam the folder shut, my knuckles white.
I should’ve known. It was never just about survival. It was about power. And now I know exactly whose names I’ll carve into my vengeance.
Starting with the ones etched in ink.
And then I storm out of my room, blood still boiling.
I barge into Lazaro’s study without knocking, the document clutched in my hand like a loaded weapon. His head lifts the second I slam it onto his desk.
"Did you know?" I snap.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that is enough to detonate the fury bubbling in my chest.
"My uncle signed that contract," I hiss. "But your father orchestrated it. You knew. You knew and you didn’t say a damn word. This engagement, this house—this is all just another version of the same damn trap."
He stays still, too calm. "I didn’t know back then. I found out recently, when I got the document myself."
"And you didn’t think I deserved to know? That I had the right to see what kind of deal was signed with my blood?"
"I wasn’t hiding it from you," he says, voice flat. "I just didn’t care. It changes nothing."
That hits hard. I step closer, fury blazing in my chest. "Of course it doesn’t change anything—for you. You’ve always known how to play the game. Me? I was collateral. A signature on a page. You’re still using me, Lazaro. Just like they did."
"No," he snaps, eyes narrowing. "I refuse to use what I protect."
I laugh bitterly, eyes burning. "Oh, spare me the lies. You protect what you own. That’s what I am to you, right? A person to control, to brand, to cage."
He steps around the desk, body taut. "I didn’t ask for this. But don’t confuse this with what they did."
"What am I, Lazaro?" My voice cracks, thick with rage and something deeper I can’t name. I close the space between us, eyes burning. "Say it. Say what I am to you. Because I’m done being yanked around in your little power games."
"You’re my fiancée," he says, low and sharp. "Whether you like it or not. That’s the truth. And you have your brother to thank for it. If I hadn’t come for you, Zano would’ve. You’d be in his bed, in his house, wearing his ring. So, what the hell difference does it make?"
"It makes every difference!" I shout. "This is my life! I should decide who I marry—not you, not my uncle, not your dead father. Me!"
He moves in closer, eyes dark and cutting. "You get to marry me. There. Decision made. Problem solved."
I scoff, stepping back just slightly. "In your dreams."
"Oh, you have no idea the kind of dreams I have about you…" he murmurs, and the heat in his eyes says every filthy thing he doesn’t.
I barely get a breath in before he grabs me by the waist and slams his palm against the desk behind me, caging me in. I shove him back instinctively, fists curled—but he barely budges.
"Get away from me," I growl.
"Make me," he breathes back, voice gravel.
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
His lips devour mine like he’s trying to erase the rage between us, but it only feeds the fire. My fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer, my body burning from every point where we touch. I hate this. Hate how much I want him. Hate how my body betrays me with every pulse of need.
His hands tear at my clothes with desperate precision—yanking my sweater over my head, pushing my sweatpants down. I claw at his belt, yanking it free, nails dragging down his abdomen as I push his pants down just enough.
When he lifts me onto the desk, it’s not tenderness—it’s possession. His fingers bruise into my hips, mouth grazing my lips, my neck, biting just enough to sting.
"This isn’t love!" my mind screams. "This is rage. This is chaos. This is everything I promised I’d never let happen."
But my body wants it. Wants him. Craves him like a drug I never asked for.
His hand slides down between my thighs, finding how soaked I already am. He smirks against my collarbone. "You hate me, but your body says otherwise."
"Shut up," I snap, breathless.
He presses harder, fingers teasing, slipping inside me. I moan, furious with myself. Furious with him. I dig my nails into his shoulders, pulling him tighter.
His mouth finds mine again—rougher, deeper—and his other hand slides behind my neck, keeping me close. The heat between us is searing, unbearable, and in one swift, brutal motion, he thrusts inside me. My scream rips through the office, echoing against the cold walls, sharp and raw. The force of him slamming into me knocks the breath from my lungs—it’s not pain, but shock, intensity, a surge of something animalistic that tears through my spine and leaves me trembling. My nails dig into his shoulders, scraping down his back as he moves, relentless, his grip bruising, his body claiming mine with every fierce thrust.
He’s relentless. Ruthless. Every thrust is an accusation, every grip a challenge. I brace my hands on the desk behind me, knuckles white, legs locked around his waist as he drives into me, faster, harder.
A part of me hates how much I want this—how much I want him. The part of me that swore I’d never lose control, never surrender to anyone, least of all him. But another part, darker and far more dangerous, thrills in it. In this chaos. In this fire.
I arch my back, head thrown back as he fucks me like he owns me—and maybe he does. In this moment, maybe he always has.
"Say it," he growls into my ear, slamming into me. "Say you want me."
"Never," I gasp, even as my hips meet every thrust.
His hand wraps around my throat again—firm, commanding, sparking a primal and volatile force deep inside me. It’s not just the touch—it’s the power behind it, the promise of dominance that pulses beneath his fingers. My breath hitches, not from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline rushing through me. His grip isn’t tight enough to hurt, but it’s enough to remind me exactly who holds control in this moment—and how much I hate that I want it.
"You’re mine, Calla," he breathes, and the way he says it—low, possessive, primal—makes my entire body shudder.
Lazaro reaches between us and strokes my clit, sending another sharp burst of pleasure through my body.
"Tell me how much you need to come," he rasps, scraping his teeth against my neck and sucking hard. "How much you need me to make you come."
"No." My refusal sounds weak to my own ears.
He thrusts into me again, maddeningly slow, each motion passionate, calculated to push me closer to the edge without letting me fall. My body betrays me—I whimper, low and desperate, unable to hold back the sounds as he teases me, dragging me to the brink again and again until I’m shaking with frustration, teetering between bliss and torment. My hands clutch the sharp edges of the desk behind me, my legs tangled around his waist, trembling with every brutal thrust.
"Please," I choke out the word.
"Please what?"
"Please... I want to come." The words fade into a moan as Lazaro increases his speed.
Within seconds, his thrusts slowly, knowingly, teasing the edge of release I’ve been clinging to.
"What was that?" he murmurs, voice thick with mockery.
I let out a broken whimper, the ache building into an unbearable desire, my hips instinctively rolling in search of friction.
He pushes me down on the desk, the cool surface sending a shiver up my spine as my head thuds softly against the wood. My body sprawls beneath him, exposed, raw, vulnerable—but there’s no fear. Only fire. His eyes rake over every inch of me, possessive and hungry, and for a second, I swear I see the barely held together restraint in his shaky breathing, the war he’s fighting between control and indulgence. He’s seen me before, but never like this—completely his, completely unguarded. The heat in his gaze scorches me. There’s no hiding. Not from him. Not from myself.
"Lazaro, please... I can't take it anymore," I gasp, breath catching as my body coils tighter, trembling beneath his cruel rhythm.
Me saying his name must’ve snapped something inside him, because he finally stops teasing and starts fucking me with full force again. The restraint he clung to shatters, replaced by raw, primal urgency. His grip tightens, his hips slam forward with brutal precision, and the air is punched from my lungs. I know it’s not just about possession for him anymore—it’s about domination.
"You feel so fucking good," he growls. "You love my cock inside your tight little pussy, don’t you?"
My response is nothing but a gasp—high, helpless, desperate—as my body arches into him without thought. I hate that he’s right. Hate that I need it this badly. That I crave the chaos he brings with every thrust.
"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, God, please. I’m going to… I’m… Oh God, oh fuck!"
His hand slides down, gripping my thigh, spreading me wider, forcing me to take every inch. I meet him stroke for stroke. My body fights him—and welcomes him—all at once.
Finally, a guttural scream tears from my throat as a wave of searing pleasure crashes through me, obliterating every coherent thought and memory in its wake. My vision blurs, breath caught in my lungs, body shaking with the force of release that ignites like fire behind my eyes, leaving me adrift in a haze of raw ecstasy and trembling limbs.
Lazaro drives into me with unrelenting force, sending another climax crashing through me. My body convulses, caught in a storm of pleasure that refuses to end. One orgasm rolls into the next, each one more intense than the last, stripping me raw until I’m left trembling, limp, barely able to hold myself upright on the desk. My limbs feel like jelly, my breath shallow, skin slick with sweat. Every nerve is alight, every muscle burning, as he continues to take me without mercy, pushing me beyond the edge again and again until I’m a wrecked, boneless mess beneath him.
After my second orgasm, Lazaro finally comes, a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips as he spills.
Lazaro pulls away first, breath rough. My chest rises and falls with every uneven breath, lips swollen, hair tangled, fury still coiled deep inside me. He leans in, eyes locked on mine. There's a fire in his gaze, but I refuse to let it burn me.
His mouth brushes my ear, voice low and dark, "See who you belong to now?"
My body stiffens, a spark of defiance burning behind my ribs. I turn my back to him, fingers tightening around the blood pact still lying on his desk.
"You got what you wanted," I say, sitting up. "So did I."
Our eyes lock —his stormy and unreadable, mine blazing with fury I can't swallow. "Riven," I spit out. "That’s who’s been leaking Syndicate intel."
His eyes snap up to meet mine, and for a split second, I catch the betrayal flashing there—sharp, raw, unfiltered. His lips part slightly, like he can barely contain himself. It’s not just shock—it’s pain, fury, disbelief. Riven is his right-hand man. His most trusted. And I just shattered that trust with a few words. Still, I refuse to wait for a response.
I grab the document and walk out—naked, furious, and burning. I keep my eyes forward. I won’t look back. I can’t.
But even as my footsteps echo down the hall, his eyes haunt me, and a voice inside me whispers that no matter how far I walk, there's no going back now. Not from this. Not from him.