34. Victoria
VICTORIA
Ipush the door open and step inside.
The room is larger than I expected.
Not a bedroom.
Not an office.
A private study.
Dark shelves climb from floor to ceiling along two walls, lined with old leather-bound books, business journals, and thick folders arranged with care. A globe stands in one corner. A map of Chicago hangs above a low cabinet. Cedar, paper, smoke, and burning wood linger in the air.
A fire burns quietly in the hearth.
Lorenzo sits beside it.
The sight of him roots me to the spot.
This is the first time I’ve seen him smoke inside the house.
A cigar rests between his fingers.
A glass of whiskey sits within reach.
He wears dark trousers and a white sleeveless vest. The bandage wrapped around his neck disappears beneath his jaw, mostly hidden from view.
A large wooden table dominates the centre of the room.
Several books lie open across its surface.
His eyes lift.
Find mine.
Neither of us speaks.
I thought I would have a hundred things to say when I saw him again.
Instead, my mind drifts through scattered pieces of the last few days.
The night Olivia drugged me.
The shooting.
The woods.
Elsie.
The way his hand found her cheek before he lost consciousness.
I still don’t know if he heard Olivia in the woods.
I still don’t know what he’s thinking.
His face offers nothing.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
His gaze never leaves mine.
“Better.”
My eyes drift toward a stack of papers near the edge of the table.
Medical reports.
Scan results.
Before I can look closer, his voice reaches me.
“It’s nothing to worry about.”
I look back at him.
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
He takes a sip of whiskey.
“A shallow scratch.”
My gaze drops to the bandage.
“You nearly died.”
“I lost blood.”
His tone remains even.
“That made me dizzy. They missed.”
One corner of his mouth shifts.
“Luciano enjoys dramatics.”
A reluctant smile almost appears.
Almost.
“They missed?” I ask quietly.
The question slips out before I can stop it.
His expression changes.
Only slightly.
But enough.
The fire crackles between us.
Then he gives a single nod.
“They missed.”
Whoever they are.
Whoever sent men into that house.
Whoever knew where we’d be.
My stomach tightens.
“You know who did it?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“It’s handled.”
The certainty in those two words settles heavily in the room.
I believe him.
Not because he explains.
Because he doesn’t.
Lorenzo only speaks that way when the matter is already finished.
I hesitate.
Then force myself to ask the question that’s been sitting in my chest for hours.
“Olivia wasn’t involved.”
“I know.”
The answer comes without pause.
Relief washes through me so fast it leaves me light-headed.
“This isn’t about Olivia.”
His cigar settles into the ashtray.
The whiskey follows.
Then he stands.
Slowly.
My pulse stumbles.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
“So what happens now?” I ask.
My voice sounds thinner than I intended.
He starts toward me.
His eyes never leave mine.
“What do you want to happen?”
The question catches me completely off guard.
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Because I’ve spent weeks asking myself the same thing.
About him.
About us.
About whatever we’ve become.
Somewhere between fear and trust.
Somewhere between running and staying.
“I don’t know.”
The admission hurts more than I expect.
His expression doesn’t change.
I swallow.
“What about Elsie?”
“She’s my daughter.”
The words land deep.
More deeply than they should.
Perhaps because part of me has been waiting to hear them.
Perhaps because he says them without hesitation.
Without doubt.
“And me?” I whisper.
Silence stretches between us.
Then Lorenzo closes the remaining distance.
Close enough for me to feel his warmth.
Close enough that looking away becomes impossible.
“You are standing in my study asking questions you already know the answers to.”
My breath catches.
Everything else fades.
The fire.
The books.
The walls around us.
All of it disappears.
I stare at him.
And all at once, I am tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Months of fear.
Years of secrets.
The weight of every choice.
It crashes into me without warning.
My eyes burn.
I hate it.
I hate crying.
I hate losing control.
But the tears come anyway.
Lorenzo sees the first one.
Then another.
His hand rises.
Not to wipe them away.
Not to stop them.
Only to rest against my face.
The gesture breaks what little strength I have left.
“I couldn’t keep her safe,” I whisper.
“Victoria—”
“I left her.”
“You kept her alive.”
My breathing shakes.
“I wasn’t there.”
“You were.”
I close my eyes.
A tear slips free.
“No.”
His hand slides into my hair.
Steady.
Certain.
“You were there every day you made that choice.”
The tears come harder.
There is no stopping them now.
Weeks ago, I would have hidden this from him.
Turned away.
Pretended I was stronger than I felt.
Now I simply stand there and let him see all of it.
The guilt.
The fear.
The grief I’ve carried for years.
Lorenzo pulls me against him, and it undoes me completely.
And whatever remains of my composure finally gives way.
I bury my face against his chest.
His arms close around me.
I let myself stop fighting.
Just for a minute.
Just for him.
The fire crackles softly behind us.
The room grows quiet.
His lips brush my forehead.
Then my temple.
Then my cheek.
As though there is nowhere else he needs to be.
I tilt my face upward.
His eyes meet mine.
The distance disappears.
A dark flare ignites in his gaze. He doesn’t hesitate.
His hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls my head back, his mouth coming down on mine with a heavy, demanding hunger.
The kiss is deep, thick with the taste of whiskey and tobacco, a bruising pressure that leaves no room for hesitation.
He shifts his weight, guiding me backwards until the back of my thighs hit the edge of the large table.
Without breaking the kiss, his free hand sweeps across the wood, sending the scattered files and books sliding across the polished surface, hitting the floor with a series of heavy thuds.
He hooks his hands under my thighs and lifts me up onto the edge of the desk.
The wood is cool against my bare skin as he steps into the space between my knees, crowding me until I am completely wrapped in his shadow.
His hands slide up my legs, parting the fabric of my clothes with an unyielding persistence.
There is no gentleness in the way he claims my mouth, but there is an undeniable intimacy—a recognition that we are both bound to the same dark wheel.
He reaches down, his thick fingers finding the core of me, slick and completely ready for him.
I release involuntarily at his touch, my walls tightening as he slides the thick, blunt head of his cock up and around my clit.
The friction is a sudden, blinding spark of jolts that completely shatters my restraint.
“Fuck me, Lorenzo,” I gasp out, the words tearing from my throat before I can stop them. My hands lock onto his broad shoulders. “Please. Fuck me.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
Instead, he positions himself, grounding himself against me, and slowly pushes his length into me. He fills me completely, stretching me until a sharp, breathless cry leaves my lips.
As he buries himself all the way to the hilt, a massive, gravelly groan of pure relief rips from his chest—a visceral sound carrying the weight of everything that has been building between us for weeks.
I wrap my legs tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him to anchor the frantic spinning in my head. His fingers dig into my hips, bruising the flesh as he pulls back and thrusts again.
The rhythm is heavy and deliberate, each deep stroke sending a wave of intense heat straight to my core.
I arch into him, chasing the friction, my teeth catching his bottom lip as a low moan builds in my throat.
He meets every movement with a possessive force, his chest pressing against mine, the roughness of his vest scraping against my skin.
“Lorenzo,” I whimper, the word twisting into a plea as the tension builds too fast, too tight.
He tightens his iron grip on my waist, his pace quickening into something raw and urgent. He drives deeper and harder, the table groaning beneath our weight.
The pleasure is sharp, nearly painful in its intensity, a blinding friction that consumes every single thought left in my head. I hold onto him as if he is the only solid object left in a collapsing universe.
Something snaps inside me—a dam breaking after weeks of terror and silence. Tears hot and fast spill over my eyelashes, wetting my cheeks as the climax hits, a violent, shattering wave that leaves me breathless and shaking.
Lorenzo buries his face in the crook of my neck, his entire body tensing completely as he follows me over the edge, his breath coming in harsh bursts against my skin as he releases inside me.
For a long time, the only sound in the study is our synchronised breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.
He doesn’t pull away immediately.
He keeps his forehead resting against my shoulder, his large hands still anchored on my hips, holding me steady on the edge of the table as our racing pulses begin to slow.
Slowly, he shifts.
He doesn’t slide out of me yet; instead, he carefully lifts me into his arms, keeping our bodies intimately joined as he carries me across the room.
He moves over to the wide leather sofa near the hearth, sinking deep into the cushions while keeping me straddling his lap, my thighs wrapped tightly around his hips.
The change in position makes him sink even deeper into my core. A soft, involuntary gasp escapes me as I rest my forehead against his shoulder.
He pulls the heavy woollen throw from the back of the couch, draping it over both of us to shut out the chill of the room, sealing us together in the dark warmth.
With the edge of adrenaline gone, the rhythm changes on the couch. He begins to move again, but it isn’t the frantic, desperate driving from before.
It is slow, melting, and incredibly deep. His hands rest on my lower back, guiding my hips in a gentle, rolling motion that coaxes a second, quiet ache from deep within me.
This time, there is no noise, no violence—just the heavy slide of skin against skin in the firelight, a quiet claim that heals the fractures inside me step by agonising step.
When he finishes inside me a final time, it is a quiet, trembling shudder.
He slowly withdraws and pulls me down fully against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around my waist. My face is pressed against the warm skin of his torso, right above his heart.
His heartbeat is steady now, a slow, rhythmic thud beneath my cheek.
One of his large hands moves to the back of my head, his fingers gently smoothing through my tangled hair, wiping away the damp from my skin with his thumb.
He doesn’t offer empty words or promises he won’t keep. He simply holds me against him, his grip unyielding, making it clear without a single spoken sentence that I just crossed a line I can’t uncross.
For once, there are no questions.
No enemies.
No decisions waiting outside the door.
Only warmth.
Only exhaustion.
Only the strange comfort of knowing he is still here.
My eyes grow heavy.
The last thing I feel before sleep claims me is Lorenzo pressing a kiss into my hair.
Then darkness comes.
Gentle this time.
And I let it take me.