Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bruno
Kristen appears in the doorway behind Antonella.
"Oh," she whispers, spotting Lily in my lap. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine." My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
Kristen moves past Antonella and crosses the room to me. She reaches down and carefully lifts Lily from my lap, cradling her daughter against her chest. Lily mumbles something unintelligible but doesn't wake.
"She loves your stories," Kristen says quietly. "She talks about them all the time."
I don't respond.
Kristen adjusts Lily's weight in her arms and glances between me and Antonella, who still stands frozen in the doorway.
"I'll let you two," she says.
She carries Lily out of the room, pausing briefly beside Antonella.
Silence fills the space between us.
Antonella remains by the door. She doesn't move closer. Doesn't cross the room to sit on the couch or pull up a chair.
She keeps her distance.
I notice it immediately. The careful space she's maintaining. The way she's positioned herself near the exit, like she might need to leave quickly.
Something hot and ugly twists in my chest.
"You wanted to talk," I say.
"Yes."
She still doesn't move.
The hot feeling spreads. Anger. That's what it is. Anger at the distance she's keeping. Anger at the way she's watching me, like I'm something dangerous she needs to be wary of.
Last night she was in my lap. Last night she had her mouth on me. Last night she told me she didn't want to leave.
Now she won't even come within ten feet of me.
"Then talk." The words come out sharper than I intend.
Antonella's chin lifts slightly. That stubborn tilt I'm starting to recognize.
"I need to ask you about my father."
My hands tighten on the armrests of my wheelchair.
"What about him?"
"Do you know where he is?"
"New York." I keep my voice flat. Controlled. "Working. Meeting people. Handling business for the family."
"I know he's in New York." She crosses her arms over her chest. "That's not what I'm asking."
"Then what are you asking?"
"Is he okay?"
I study her face. The tension around her eyes. The tight set of her jaw. The way her fingers dig into her own arms.
She knows something is wrong.
She doesn't know what. But she knows.
"Why wouldn't he be okay?" I ask carefully.
"Because no one can reach him." Her voice stays steady, but I catch the slight tremor underneath.
"Gianna has been trying to call him for days.
Claudio too. He reads their texts but doesn't respond.
When Claudio called from a different number, Papa picked up and then hung up as soon as he heard Claudio's voice. "
I say nothing.
"He's avoiding them," Antonella continues. "Avoiding his own children. And I need to know why."
I could tell her.
I could tell her right now that her father is gambling again. That he learned nothing from losing everything.
But I don't.
"Your father is fine," I say instead.
Antonella's eyes narrow. "How do you know?"
"Because we're monitoring him. We monitor everyone who works for us."
"Then why isn't he answering his phone?"
"He's busy." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "New York is complicated. He's meeting with people, establishing connections, proving himself useful. He probably doesn't have time for personal calls."
"For a week?"
"These things take time."
Antonella stares at me. Her green eyes search my face, looking for something. Looking for the truth I'm not giving her.
"You're lying to me."
The words hit harder than they should.
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are." She takes a step forward, then stops herself. Maintains that careful distance. "I can see it. Something is wrong and you're not telling me what."
The anger flares again. Hotter this time.
"Why are you standing over there?" I demand.
The question catches her off guard. "What?"
"Over there." I gesture at the space between us. "By the door. Like you're ready to run."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I wheel forward a few inches. She doesn't move, but I see her shoulders tense. "Last night you were in my lap. Now you won't come within arm's reach of me."
"That's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?"
"My father." Her voice rises slightly. "I'm asking you about my father, Bruno. Not about us. Not about last night. About my father."
"And I told you. He's fine. He's working. He'll be back soon."
"When?"
"Soon."
"That's not an answer."
"Your father will be back soon," I say again. "When he returns, you can ask him yourself why he hasn't been answering his phone."
Antonella's expression hardens.
"Fine," she says. "Keep your secrets."
She turns toward the door.
"Antonella."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"Come here."
Antonella
"I'm not a puppy," I say without turning around. "You can't just call me and expect me to come."
I hear the soft whir of his wheelchair. The sound of him moving closer.
I turn around.
He's right there. Right in front of me. Close enough that I have to look down to meet his eyes.
I didn't hear him cross the entire room. Didn't realize how fast he could move when he wanted to.
His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
Before I can react, he pulls me down onto his lap.
I land hard, my hip pressing against the armrest, my legs draped awkwardly across his thighs. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place.
"Bruno—"
"Why are you trying to leave this room without kissing me?"
I stare at him. At the hard line of his jaw. At the intensity burning in his dark eyes.
"I didn't know what to do," I admit. The words come out quieter than I intend. "You're not talking to me. You're lying to me about my father. And last night—"
I stop myself.
His grip on my waist tightens.
"Last night what?"
"You didn't come back.
Something flickers across his face. Something that looks almost like guilt.
"I had business."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"You couldn't have sent a message? Couldn't have told me you weren't coming back?"
His jaw tightens. "I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't." I try to push off his lap, but his arm is like iron around my waist. "Let me go."
"No."
"Bruno."
"I said no."
His free hand comes up and grabs my chin. His fingers press into my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
"I should have come back," he says. The words sound like they're being dragged out of him. "I should have told you."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I don't know how to do this." His grip on my chin tightens slightly.
He pulls my face down to his.
The kiss is hard. Demanding. Nothing like the desperate, searching kiss from last night. This one is pure possession. His mouth claims mine like he's trying to brand himself onto my lips.
I grab his shoulders to steady myself. My fingers dig into the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
He groans against my mouth. The sound vibrates through me, settling low in my belly.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Close the door," he says.
I blink at him. "What?"
"The door." His voice is rough. Strained. "Close it."
I look over my shoulder. The door is still open. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could see us.
I slide off his lap. My legs feel unsteady as I cross the room.
The door clicks shut.
I turn around.
Bruno is watching me. His eyes track every movement I make. Every breath I take.
"Lock it," he says.
I turn the lock.
"Come here."
I walk back to him. Slowly this time. Letting him watch me move.
His hands grip the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles are white.
I stop in front of him.
"Take off your clothes."
The command sends heat rushing through me.
"Bruno—"
"I want to see you." His voice drops lower. "All of you. Take off your clothes."
My hands tremble as I reach for the hem of my shirt.
I pull it over my head.
I'm wearing a simple white bra underneath. Nothing fancy.
Bruno's eyes drop to my chest. His jaw tightens.
"Keep going."
I reach behind my back and unhook my bra. It falls to the floor.
I've never felt more exposed. More vulnerable. Standing half-naked in front of a man who watches me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"The rest," he says. His voice is barely above a whisper now.
I unbutton my jeans. Slide them down my hips. Step out of them.
I'm left in nothing but my underwear.
Bruno's hands grip the armrests so hard I think he might break them.
"Those too."
I hook my thumbs into the waistband.
I push my underwear down my legs and step out of them.
I stand before him completely naked.
The silence stretches between us. Heavy. Charged.
Bruno doesn't move. Doesn't reach for me. Just looks.
His gaze travels down my body. Slow. Deliberate. Taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin.
"Come here," he finally says.
I step closer.
His hands leave the armrests and settle on my hips. His palms are warm against my bare skin.
"You're beautiful," he says quietly. "I told you that before. But I don't think you understood what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
He pulls me closer. Closer. Until I'm standing between his legs, his face level with my stomach.
"I meant that looking at you makes it hard to breathe." He presses his lips to my hip bone. "I meant that I think about you constantly." Another kiss, lower this time. "I meant that I haven't wanted anyone in years. And then you walked down that aisle, and I couldn't stop wanting you."
His mouth moves across my stomach. Soft kisses that make my legs shake.
"Bruno," I whisper.
"Get on my lap."
Bruno
She climbs onto my lap.
The weight of her settles against me. Warm skin against my clothed thighs. Her knees press into the sides of my wheelchair, bracketing my hips.
I've already freed myself from my pants. My cock strains between us, hard and aching.
Antonella looks down. Her breath catches.
"Bruno..."
"I know." My hands grip her hips. "This isn't going to be comfortable. Not here. Not in this chair."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't climb off.
Instead, her hand wraps around my cock.
I hiss through my teeth. Her fingers are soft. Warm. She strokes me slowly, learning the shape of me.
"I don't care about comfortable," she says.
She leans down and kisses me.
I groan against her lips.
Her hand keeps moving. Stroking. Squeezing.
I'm going to lose my mind.
I pull back from the kiss. My breathing is ragged. My control is slipping.
"Stand up," I say.
She blinks at me. "What?"
"Stand up. Turn around. Face the wall."
Her brow furrows. "Why?"
"Because I need to get to the bed."
Understanding dawns in her green eyes.
"No."
I stare at her. "What?"
"I said no." She doesn't move from my lap. "I'm not turning around."
"Antonella—"
"I'm not going to look at the wall while you move to the bed." Her chin lifts. Defiant. "I'm going to watch you. And you're going to let me."
Fuck me.
This woman.
"You don't understand," I say through gritted teeth. "It's not—I don't—"
"I understand perfectly." She climbs off my lap and stands in front of me. Naked. Beautiful. Completely unashamed. "You think watching you transfer to the bed will change how I see you."
"It will."
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." She crosses her arms under her breasts. The movement pushes them up, and I have to force my eyes to stay on her face. "Because nothing you've done has changed how I see you."
I don't have words.
She's standing there, naked and defiant, telling me she doesn't care about the thing I've spent two years hiding from everyone.
"Move to the bed," she says. "I'm watching."
I wheel myself to the edge of the bed.
My hands grip the mattress. I position myself the way I've done a thousand times. The way I hate doing. The way that makes me feel like less than a man.
I push up from the wheelchair.
My arms take my weight. My legs are useless, dead things that I have to drag along with me. I swing myself onto the mattress, landing harder than I'd like.
The wheelchair rolls back slightly from the force.
I'm on the bed now. Sitting on the edge. My legs stretched out in front of me.
I don't look at Antonella.
I can't.
"Bruno."
Her voice is soft. Close.
I feel the mattress dip as she climbs onto the bed beside me.
Her hand touches my jaw. Turns my face toward her.
"You want to know what I just saw?" she asks.
I don't answer.
"I saw a man who can command a room full of people with a single word." Her thumb traces along my jawline. "I saw a man who terrifies everyone around him. Who makes grown men flinch when he looks at them."
"Antonella—"
"I saw the most terrifying man I've ever met." She leans closer. Her lips brush against my ear. "And the hottest."
Something cracks open inside my chest.
"The wheelchair doesn't change that," she whispers. "Nothing changes that. You could be in that chair for the rest of your life, and you would still be the most dangerous man in any room you enter."
I grab her.
My hands fist in her hair. I pull her mouth to mine.
The kiss is brutal. Desperate. I pour everything I can't say into it. Every fear. Every doubt. Every moment I've spent hating myself for what I've become.
She kisses me back just as hard.
Her hands grab my shirt. She pulls at it, trying to get it off me.
I break the kiss long enough to yank the shirt over my head.
Her eyes drop to my chest. To the scars that mark my skin. The bullet wound on my shoulder. The surgical scars from the operations that saved my life but couldn't save my legs.
She doesn't flinch.
She traces her fingers along the scar on my shoulder. Light. Gentle.
"These don't change anything either," she says.
I grab her wrist. Pull her hand away.
"Stop talking," I say.
She smiles. That dimple appears in her cheek.
"Make me."
I flip her onto her back.
The movement is awkward. My legs don't cooperate the way I want them to. But I manage it. I pin her beneath me, my weight pressing her into the mattress.
Her eyes go wide.
"You were saying?" I ask.
She laughs. The sound is bright. Surprised.
"I was saying you're terrifying," she says. "And hot. Very, very hot."
I kiss her again.