Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vittoria
The aftershocks still ripple through me, tiny electric pulses that make my thighs twitch.
My wrists pull uselessly at the rose gold cuffs.
I'm utterly exposed, utterly wrecked, and Dmitri Baganov is pressing soft kisses to the inside of my thigh like I'm something precious.
My spent body hums with a new kind of hunger.
He rises slowly, those eyes never leaving mine. He looks like a man who just conquered something. Maybe he did.
His hand drops to his belt, and my breath catches.
One stroke. Just one, his palm pressing against the obvious bulge straining his pants. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
"Watch me," he says.
I couldn't look away if the theater caught fire.
The belt buckle clicks open. He takes his time, and I realize he's giving me a show. Payback for making me strip piece by piece..
My mouth goes dry when the pants drop.
Black boxer briefs. And doing absolutely nothing to hide what's underneath. He's... Dio mio, he's huge. The fabric stretches obscenely, outlining every thick inch.
My fingers curl against the armrests. The cuffs bite into my wrists.
"Still watching, solnyshko?"
"Hard not to," I manage. My voice sounds wrecked. "You're blocking the stage."
His laugh is low. "That mouth."
He reaches for his shirt buttons. One by one, the white fabric parts, revealing a chest that makes my brain short-circuit.
Broad. So impossibly broad, with planes of muscle that shift and flex with each movement. A dusting of dark hair trails down his sternum, disappearing beneath his boxers. His skin is tan, stretched tight over a body that's clearly been forged through violence and discipline.
But it's the scars that steal my breath.
A raised line curves under his left pectoral. Another slashes across his ribs, newer, still pink at the edges. A circular mark near his hip that looks suspiciously like a healed bullet wound.
He's a map of survival. A history written in damaged tissue.
The shirt drops to the stage floor.
His shoulders could block out the sun. His arms are roped with muscle, veins prominent along his forearms. Those scarred knuckles flex at his sides. The same knuckles that just gripped my thighs while he devoured me.
I've seen attractive men before. I grew up surrounded by them, all Italian dark-haired charm and perfect bodies. But Dmitri Baganov isn't attractive.
He's devastating.
Built like a weapon someone forgot to put away. Dangerous even standing still.
"You're staring," he says, stepping closer.
"You told me to watch."
"I did." He stops between my spread thighs. "Do you like what you see?"
Yes. God, yes. You're the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on.
"You'll do," I say instead.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. His thumb traces my lower lip, still swollen from biting back screams.
"Liar," he murmurs. His finger trails down my throat, pressing lightly against the hammering beat. "Your body doesn't lie to me, Vittoria."
I swallow hard. "My body is currently tied to a chair in an empty theater. It's had a confusing evening."
"Has it?" He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. "Or does it finally know exactly what it wants?"
"Dmitri."
"Yes, solnyshko?"
"Untie me."
"No."
"No?" I repeat.
Dmitri's thumb traces my jaw, tilting my face up. Those eyes burn into mine. "You're not touching me yet. Not with your hands."
It takes exactly two seconds for his meaning to click.
Oh.
My gaze drops to the straining fabric of his boxers. To the thick outline that seems even more obscene up close. My tongue darts out, wetting my lower lip before I can stop it.
"There she is," he murmurs. "My hungry little queen."
Heat floods my cheeks. Between my thighs. Everywhere.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband. Drags the fabric down. The boxers drop to his ankles, and I forget how to breathe.
That's not going to fit.
He's thick. Impossibly thick, with a slight curve that makes my internal muscles clench. A vein runs along the underside, pulsing visibly. The head is already leaking.
"Vittoria." His voice is gravel. "Eyes up here."
I drag my gaze to his face.
"You look scared, solnyshko."
"I'm doing math," I manage. "The geometry doesn't work."
He laughs. He moves to my left side. His hand comes up, stroking through my hair.
"Such a smart mouth," he says. "Let's see what else it can do."
His fingers tighten in my hair. Not painful. Just enough to make my scalp tingle.
"You're going to take me in that pretty mouth." His voice drops to a growl. "And you're going to love every second of it."
Yes. God, yes.
"Open."
I part my lips.
He guides himself forward, the head pressing against my tongue. Salt and musk flood my senses. I close my eyes, letting the taste of him overwhelm everything else.
"Wider."
I stretch my jaw, and he pushes deeper. The weight of him fills my mouth, heavy and hot. My tongue traces the underside, finding that thick vein, and he hisses through his teeth.
"Fuck." His grip tightens in my hair. "Just like that."
I hollow my cheeks and suck. Hard.
The sound he makes shoots straight between my legs. A groan torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
I want more.
I take him deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat. My eyes water. I don't care. His hips jerk forward, and I moan around him, the vibration making his whole body shudder.
"Look at you." His voice is ragged now. Barely controlled. "Taking me so well. Like you were made for this."
I pull back, tongue swirling around the head, then plunge forward again. His thighs tremble against my shoulder. The mighty Bratva heir, shaking because of my mouth.
Power. This is power.
"More," I demand, pulling off just enough to speak. "Give me more."
"Careful what you ask for."
Both hands grip my hair now. He holds me still and thrusts, slow but relentless, fucking my mouth. Each stroke goes deeper.
I'm dripping. Aching. The velvet ribbons dig into my ankles as I squirm against the chair. Every groan he makes winds me tighter.
"So fucking perfect," he grits out. "That mouth. Blyad, that mouth."
I suck harder. Faster. My tongue works the sensitive spot beneath the head, and his rhythm falters. His chest heaves. Sweat gleams on those scarred muscles.
"Vittoria." My name sounds like a prayer. A curse. "I'm going to—"
He pulls back suddenly, his cock slipping from my lips. His hand wraps around himself, stroking fast and rough.
"Open your eyes," he commands. "Watch."
I do.
His jaw clenches. Every muscle in his body goes rigid. Then he's coming, hot and thick, painting my breasts in white streaks. It drips down my skin.
Dmitri stares down at me, chest heaving, eyes wild. His thumb traces through the mess on my breast, spreading it.
"Mine," he breathes. "Every inch of you. Mine."
The word settles into my bones. Brands itself there.
And the terrifying part?
I don't want to argue.
Dmitri
Vittoria's chest rises and falls. She looks like a painting. Something priceless that belongs in a museum behind bulletproof glass.
I reach down and pick up her underwear from where I dropped it earlier.
"You're going to wear these later," I tell her, using the fabric to wipe my fingers clean. Her eyes widen as she watches me drag the lace across my knuckles, collecting the evidence of what we've done together. "And when you do, they'll already be covered with my cum."
Her throat bobs as she swallows. But she doesn't look away. Doesn't tell me I'm disgusting or demand I stop.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, tucking the ruined underwear into my pocket.
Vittoria blinks, clearly thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"
"Food, solnyshko. When did you last eat?"
She considers this, her brow furrowing in that way she does when she's processing information. Like everything is data to be analyzed. "I had coffee this morning. And then some cookies."
"That was twelve hours ago."
"I was busy."
I shake my head, already moving toward her. "You don't take care of yourself."
"I take care of myself just fine."
A small gold key dangles from a chain attached to the cuff itself.
I turn the key, and the mechanism clicks open. Vittoria's wrists fall free, red marks circling her skin where the metal pressed too tight.
Blyad. I should have checked them earlier.
I bring her wrist to my mouth and press my lips to the irritated skin.
"I could eat," she says finally. "If you're offering."
"I'm always offering you things, Vittoria. You're the one who keeps refusing."
I pull her underwear from my pocket and use it to clean my release from her breasts. The lace drags across her nipples, and she inhales sharply. I take my time, making sure every trace of me soaks into the fabric.
When I'm done, I tuck it back in my pocket.
I crouch down to untie the velvet ribbons from her ankles. The red marks here are softer, the fabric gentler than the metal. I run my thumb across the indentations anyway, memorizing the pattern.
When both legs are free, I extend my hand to her.
Her palm slides into mine.
I pull her up, and she sways slightly, unsteady on her heels. I catch her waist, holding her against me. She's so small compared to me.
I kiss her.
When I pull back, her eyes are closed.
"Dmitri," she whispers.
I lift her into my arms before she can say anything else. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders.
"What are you—"
"The night has just begun," I tell her. "I'm not done with you yet."
She curls into my chest. Her head finds the space between my shoulder and neck like it was made to rest there.
The theater is silent around us. No audience, no orchestra, no applause. Just the sound of my footsteps echoing across the empty stage and the woman in my arms who somehow became everything.
Right now. Right here. I want time to freeze.
I want to live in this moment forever.
Let the world stop spinning.
I set her down near the stage steps.
"Get dressed."
She steps into her dress, pulling it up over her hips.
I cross the distance between us. My fingers find the zipper and pull it up slowly. I let my knuckles drag across her spine as I go.
She shivers.
"My underwear," she says, turning to face me. "I need it back."
"No. Not yet."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "No?"
"You heard me."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Then she laughs.
The sound fills the empty theater. Bright and so fucking beautiful.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't demand. Just shakes her head.
I pick up her purse and hand it to her.
"Come." I offer her my arm. "We have a reservation."
"A reservation?" She loops her hand through my elbow. "Where?"
"Tsuki to Umi."
Vittoria stops walking.
I turn to look at her. The stage lights catch the gold in her earrings, the flush still lingering on her cheeks.
"That's my favorite restaurant," she says quietly.
"I know."
"You're terrifying," she whispers.
"You keep saying that. And yet." I gesture between us. "Here you are."
She doesn't deny it. Just starts walking again, her hand tightening on my arm.
We exit through the side door where my car waits. Yuri stands beside the Mercedes, his face carefully blank as he opens the back door.
She tells Elio where they're heading to. He nods and gets in his own car.
I help Vittoria inside. Slide in after her. The leather seats are warm from the heater. She settles against the cushion, and I watch her wince slightly.
The chair was too hard.
I make a mental note. Next time, cushions. Blankets. Something soft beneath her.
"You should know something," Vittoria says as the car pulls away from the curb.
"Tell me."
"If you keep spoiling me with Japanese food, you're going to regret it."
"Why would I regret it?"
She turns to face me. The streetlights flash across her features as we drive. Light. Dark. Light. Dark.
"Because I'll want it every single day." Her lips curve into a smile. "Every. Single. Day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Miso soup and sashimi and those little rice balls with the—"
"Onigiri."
"Yes. Those." She pokes my chest. "You'll be sick of raw fish within a week."
I catch her hand. Press it flat against my heart.
"Would you be there?" I ask.
She blinks. "What?"
"Every day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner." I hold her gaze. "Would you be there with me?"
The smile fades from her face. Something else takes its place. Something I can't name but desperately want to understand.
"Dmitri..."
"Because if you would be there." I bring her hand to my lips. Kiss her knuckles. Each one. Slowly. "I could eat sushi every day for the rest of my life."
She doesn't pull away.
"You don't mean that," she says softly.
"I mean everything I say to you, Vittoria." I turn her hand over. Press a kiss to her palm. "Every word. Every promise. Every threat."
"You're going to break my heart," she whispers.
The words hit me like a bullet to the chest.
"No." I cup her face in my hands. Force her to look at me. "I'm going to worship it. Guard it. Kill anyone who tries to touch it." My thumb traces her lower lip. "Your heart is the safest thing in Chicago, solnyshko. Because it belongs to me now."
She doesn't say anything.
But when she leans forward and presses her lips to mine, I have my answer.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull back from Vittoria's kiss, irritation flashing through me. Not now. Whatever this is can wait.
But the screen shows Karolina's name. My sister never calls unless it's important.
I swipe to answer. "What?"
Sobbing. Ragged, broken sounds that make my blood freeze.
"Dmitri." Karolina's voice cracks on my name. "You need to come. Now. As fast as you can."
My chest tightens. The words don't register at first. Or maybe they do, and my brain refuses to process them.
"Karolina—"
"Please." She's crying so hard I can barely understand her. "Just come. He's... Dmitri, please."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
He's...
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
"Dmitri?" Vittoria's hand touches my arm. Her voice sounds far away. Muffled. Like I'm underwater. "What happened?"
I can't look at her. If I look at her, something inside me will crack. And I can't crack. Not yet. Not until I know for certain.
"My father."
Two words. That's all I can manage.
Vittoria's grip on my arm tightens. She doesn't ask anything else. Doesn't push. Just holds on.
"Yuri, home. Now."
The car lurches forward.