Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Antonella
Irise from my knees.
My legs shake. My throat burns. My jaw aches from being stretched around him.
But I don't let any of that show on my face.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Casual. Like I didn't just swallow everything he gave me. Like my heart isn't pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples.
"Is there anything else you need?" I ask.
My voice comes out hoarse. Wrecked. I clear my throat.
Bruno stares at me. His chest rises and falls. His cock is still out, softening against his thigh.
He doesn't answer.
"Because if not," I continue, "I need to sleep."
I turn toward the bed.
His hand shoots out. Grabs my wrist. Yanks me back.
I stumble. Catch myself on the arm of his wheelchair. My face ends up inches from his.
"What do you think you're doing?" His voice is low.
"Going to bed."
"No." His grip tightens. "You think you can just—" He stops. His jaw works. "You think I'm a toy?"
I blink. "What?"
"Something you play with when you're bored." His dark eyes burn into mine. "Then toss aside when you're done."
I've spent some hours lately reading about what it means when a person is acting the way he does.
Bruno doesn't know how to be close to someone without expecting them to leave.
So he pushes first. Hurts first. Runs first.
And when someone doesn't run he doesn't know what to do with it.
I've seen this before.
Not exactly like this. But close enough.
My father, after my mother's diagnosis.
Trauma makes people do strange things.
It makes them push away the people they want closest.
Bruno is drowning in trauma.
He doesn't know how to let someone in without expecting them to destroy him.
So he destroys first.
But I'm still mad at how he treated Oliver.
"Let go of my hand," I say.
He doesn't.
His fingers dig into my wrist. Not hard enough to bruise. But hard enough to make a point.
"Bruno." I keep my voice steady. "Let go."
"No."
I could fight him. Could pull away. Could scream and make a scene.
But that's what he expects. That's what he's used to.
So I do the opposite.
I step closer.
His breath catches. His grip loosens slightly—just from surprise.
I lean down until my face is level with his. Until I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Until I can smell myself on his lips.
"You wanted to touch yourself while watching me," I say quietly.
His jaw tightens.
"I helped you finish what you started." I hold his gaze. "And I found some pleasure for myself in the process. That's all that happened here."
"That's all?" he repeats.
"That's all."
I straighten. Try to pull my wrist free.
He doesn't let go.
Instead, his grip tightens. He pulls me closer. So close I have to brace my free hand on his shoulder to keep from falling into his lap.
"You're lying," he says.
"I'm not."
"You are." His voice drops. Rough. Raw. "Because if that's all it was—if I'm just a convenient cock you used to get off—then why are you shaking?"
"I'm cold," I lie.
"Bullshit."
His free hand comes up. Cups my jaw. Tilts my face toward his.
"You want to know what I think?" he asks.
I don't answer.
"I think you're scared." His thumb traces my bottom lip. The same lip that was wrapped around his cock minutes ago. "I think you felt something when you were on your knees for me. Something that terrified you. So now you're trying to run."
"I'm not running. I'm going to sleep."
"Same thing."
"It's not—"
"You're running," he cuts me off. "Just like I've been running. From you. From this. From whatever the fuck is happening between us."
My heart pounds.
"Nothing is happening between us," I say. "You made that clear. This marriage is a transaction. The kiss was a mistake. Remember?"
"I was wrong," he says.
I go still.
"What?"
"I was wrong." The words seem to cost him something. His jaw clenches. His grip on my wrist tightens, then loosens. "About the kiss. About you. About all of it."
I don't know what to say.
"I don't know how to do this," he says. His voice is rough. Broken. "I don't know how to let someone in. I don't know how to want something without destroying it. I don't know how to be the man you deserve.
"But if that's what you want," Bruno continues, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "then go to bed. Sleep. Forget this happened."
His thumb traces my jaw one more time.
"I won't stop you."
His hand falls away from my face.
His grip on my wrist loosens.
I could pull free now. Could step back. Could climb into that massive bed and pretend the last hour never happened.
That's what he's offering me.
An exit.
A way out of whatever this is becoming.
"But I won't forget," he says.
I freeze.
"I'll remember every detail." His dark eyes hold mine. "The way you tasted. The sounds you made when you came on my tongue. The way your throat felt around my cock."
My breath catches.
"I'll remember the way you looked at me after." His voice cracks. Just slightly. Just enough for me to hear. "Like I was something worth looking at. Like I was still a man."
"Bruno—"
"I'll remember all of it," he cuts me off. "For the rest of my miserable fucking life. Whether you're in my bed or gone from this compound. Whether you hate me or forget I exist. I'll remember."
My chest aches.
This man.
This broken, furious, impossible man.
He doesn't know how to ask for what he wants. Doesn't know how to reach for something without expecting it to be ripped away.
So he gives me permission to leave while telling me exactly what it would cost him.
"You think your life is miserable?" I ask quietly.
"I know it is."
"Because of the wheelchair?"
His jaw tightens. "Because of everything."
"Everything," I repeat. "Including me?"
He doesn't answer.
But his eyes do.
They drop to my mouth. Linger there. Then drag back up to meet my gaze.
"You're the only thing that isn't miserable," he says. "And that's the problem."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because I'll destroy you." His hands curl into fists on the armrests of his wheelchair. "I destroy everything I touch. Everyone I care about. It's what I do. It's who I am."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His voice hardens. "My brother is dead because of me. My family spent six months not knowing if I'd wake up. My mother cries every time she sees me in this chair. Everyone I love suffers for it."
"That wasn't your fault."
"It doesn't matter whose fault it was." He leans forward. "It matters that it happened. And it will happen again. To you. If you stay."
I should be scared.
I should take the exit he's offering.
I should climb into that bed and pretend I don't feel anything for this man who tortured someone three days ago and felt nothing. Who pointed a gun at my best friend's head. Who pushes everyone away because he's terrified of losing them.
But I don't move.
"What if I don't want to forget?" I ask.
Bruno goes still.
"What if I want to remember too?"
His breath catches.
"What if I want all of it?" I continue. "The miserable parts. The broken parts. The parts you think will destroy me."
"Then you're a fool," he says roughly.
"Maybe."
"I'll hurt you."
"Probably."
"I don't know how to be what you need."
"Neither do I." I reach out. Touch his face. Feel the rough stubble beneath my palm. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to try."
His hand comes up. Covers mine. Presses my palm harder against his cheek.
"Antonella." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. Or maybe a curse. "I can't promise you anything. I can't promise I won't push you away again. I can't promise I won't say something cruel when I'm scared. I can't promise—"
"I'm not asking for promises."
"Then what are you asking for?"
I lean down. Close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips.
"I'm asking you to stop running." I whisper.
His eyes search mine.
"And if I can't?"
"Then I'll go to bed." I hold his gaze. "And we'll both spend the rest of our miserable lives remembering what could have been."
His hand moves from covering mine to cupping the back of my neck. His fingers thread through my hair. His grip tightens.
"You should run," he says.
"I know."
"You should hate me for what I did to your friend."
"I do hate you for that." I don't look away. "But I don't only hate you."
"What else?"
"I don't know yet." My voice drops. "But I want to find out."
His grip on my neck tightens.
For a long moment, he just looks at me.
I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to push me away fighting against the part that wants to pull me closer.
I don't know which side will win.
I don't know if he knows either.
Then he pulls me down.
His mouth crashes into mine.
His tongue pushes past my lips. His teeth catch my bottom lip. His hand fists in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me.
My hands grip his shoulders. My nails dig into the fabric of his shirt. I kiss him back with everything I have.
He groans into my mouth.
The sound vibrates through me. Settles low in my belly. Makes me want things I shouldn't want from a man I barely know.
His free hand finds my hip. Pulls me closer. Closer. Until I'm practically falling into his lap.
I catch myself on the armrests of his wheelchair. My knees bracket his thighs. My chest presses against his.
He doesn't stop kissing me.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw. To my neck. To the spot just below my ear that makes me gasp.
"Bruno," I breathe.
"Say it again," he growls against my skin.
"Bruno."
His teeth scrape my pulse point.
I shiver.
Bruno
Her mouth is everything.
Soft. Warm. Desperate against mine.
I could stay here forever. Kissing her. Tasting her.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Antonella pulls back slightly. Her lips are swollen.
But the phone keeps ringing.
"Ignore it," she whispers.
I want to.
But I can't. Not in this life. Not with who I am.
"I can't." I grip her hips. "Move."
She blinks. "What?"
"I need to get my phone." I push her gently but firmly off my lap. "Move."
Antonella climbs off me, her bare feet hitting the floor. She stands there in her hoodie and nothing else, watching as I reach for my phone.
My cock is still out. Hard again.
Straining against my stomach like it has a mind of its own.
The screen shows Valentino's name.
I answer. "What?"
"Pietro's office." Valentino's voice is clipped. All business. "Now."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a moment. Then I shove it back on the nightstand and finally tuck myself into my pants, zipping up with more force than necessary.
"I have to go," I tell Antonella.
She nods. Her arms cross over her chest.
"One more thing," I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
"You're not allowed to go on dates with other men."
"Dates," she repeats.
"Coffee. Lunch. Whatever you want to call it." I grip the armrests of my wheelchair. "No more meetings with men who aren't me."
"Oliver is my best friend."
"I don't care."
"He's been my best friend since we were eight years old."
"Still don't care."
She rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her eyes at me. Like I'm being unreasonable. Like I didn't just watch another man wrap his arms around my wife in a public coffee shop.
"Oliver will be my forever date," she says. "Whether you like it or not."
Red edges into my vision.
"What?"
"You heard me." She tilts her chin up. Defiant. Challenging. "He's been there for me through everything. He's not going anywhere just because you're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You pointed a gun at his head."
"That was—" I stop. Breathe. Try to find words that don't make me sound insane. "That was a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding." She laughs. The sound is sharp. "You threatened to kill my best friend because he hugged me."
"He had his hands on you."
"He's allowed to have his hands on me. He's my friend."
"No other man is allowed to touch you." The words come out harder than I intend. More possessive. More desperate. "Not him. Not anyone."
"Bruno." She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her. Jasmine and something sweeter underneath. "Oliver is extremely hot."
My hands curl into fists.
"And extremely gay."
I freeze.
"What?"
"Gay." She says the word slowly, like I'm stupid. "He likes men. Not women. Definitely not me."
"You could have told me that before I pointed a gun at him," I say.
"You could have asked before you pointed a gun at him."
She has a point.
I hate that she has a point.
"Fine." I force the word out. "He's gay. That doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything."
"It doesn't." I lean forward in my chair. "You called him hot."
"Because he is."
"You're not allowed to call other men hot."
She stares at me. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious." I hold her gaze. "If you call another man hot again, I'll kill him. I don't care if he's gay. I don't care if he's your childhood friend. I don't care if he's a fucking priest. You don't call other men hot. Not while you're married to me."
"That's insane."
"I never claimed to be sane."
She laughs again.
"You're jealous," she says. "Of my gay best friend."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm protective."
"You're possessive."
"Same thing."
She shakes her head. But she's smiling now. That dimple appearing in her cheek. The one I noticed the first time I saw her face without the veil.
"I'll think about it," she says.
"Think about what?"
"Not calling other men hot." She tilts her head. "I make no promises."
I should make it clear that I'm not joking about killing anyone who touches her, looks at her, or makes her smile the way Oliver did in that coffee shop.
But Valentino is waiting.
And Pietro.
And whatever crisis is happening at three in the morning that requires my presence.
"We're not done with this conversation," I tell her.
"I'm sure we're not."
"I mean it, Antonella."
"I know you do." She steps back. Gives me space to wheel toward the door. "Go. Handle your family business. We can argue about my friendships tomorrow."