Chapter 28 - Valentina
The Porsche purrs through empty Chicago streets, its leather seats sticky with blood that isn’t ours.
Marco drives with one hand, the other resting on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns through the torn green fabric of this hideous dress.
The weight of his mother’s ring sits heavy on my finger, Liam’s blood dried in its diamonds like rust in the crevices.
"Your place or mine?" Marco asks, dark humor threading through exhaustion.
The joke lands wrong, too light for what we've done, what we've survived.
I study his profile in the passing streetlights: blood splattered across his jaw, his white shirt more red than white now, the cologne I know so well now mixed with gunpowder and gore.
This man who signed divorce papers in the rain. Who came for me anyway.
"Ours," I correct, the word feeling foreign but right on my tongue. "It's ours now."
His hand tightens on my thigh, sliding higher until his fingers brush against my panties. The touch sends electricity straight to my clit, making me gasp, and I can feel the dampness spreading through my panties.
"Say that again." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my pussy clench.
"Ours. Our home. Our choice. Our blood on the floors."
The engine growls as he accelerates, his fingers pushing my panties aside to find me dripping wet. "You're soaked, principessa. Is this from the violence or from me?"
"Both," I admit, spreading my legs wider as he slides two fingers into me. "Always both with us."
He finger-fucks me as he drives, his thumb circling my clit until I'm close to coming. He withdraws his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste me. The sight makes me whimper.
"You came for me," I say, needing to voice it. "Even after the cemetery. After I walked away."
"I'll always come for you." His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "That's the curse, principessa. Even when you leave, even when you choose someone else, I'll still come."
"I didn't choose him. I chose Alice's freedom."
My stomach clenches at her name. "Marco, Alice. We need to know if she's safe. If they kept their word about letting her go."
"I have men checking every train station, every bus depot," he says, his voice gentling. "We'll find her. But first, we need to get inside. Clean up. The Irish will be looking for us."
The reminder of immediate danger makes my skin prickle. We just killed two O'Brien heirs. There will be consequences.
We pull into his private garage, and I notice the extra security: men I recognize from Marco's crew, weapons visible. They nod as we pass, their eyes scanning for threats even here.
Marco comes around to open my door, and when I stand, my legs shake from need and exhaustion in equal measure.
He catches me, pulls me against him, and I feel his cock hard against my belly through his pants. "We're home," he says against my hair, grinding against me. "Safe. For now."
The elevator rises in silence, forty floors of anticipation building between us. The moment the doors close, I drop to my knees.
"Valentina, what—"
I have his belt open before he can finish, his cock springing free, already hard and leaking precum. I take him deep in one motion, swallowing around his length as he hits the back of my throat.
"Fuck," he groans, his hands tangling in my hair. "Your mouth, principessa. That perfect fucking mouth."
I work him with lips and tongue and just enough teeth, tasting his musk. His cock is thick and heavy, stretching my lips, and I love the weight of him on my tongue. He fucks my mouth with shallow thrusts, letting me control the depth until the elevator dings. Fortieth floor.
I pull off him with an obscene pop, wiping my mouth as I stand. His cock juts out, wet with my spit, and the sight makes my pussy clench hard.
"Inside," he growls, tucking himself away with visible difficulty. "Before my control snaps completely."
The penthouse feels different as we step inside. Not like a prison or a palace, but something in between.
Marco locks the door behind us with finality, activating the security system. When he turns, we face each other properly for the first time since the cemetery.
"You killed him without hesitating," he says with something like awe. "Shot him point-blank."
"I was never going to be his victim. Not after being your equal."
We crash together, violent and desperate. His mouth claims mine, his tongue fucking into my mouth like he's claiming me from the inside out. My hands tear at his shirt, buttons scattering across marble, needing his skin against mine.
The dress rips as he yanks it down, good riddance to green silk and Irish claims. His mouth finds my breast, sucking my nipple hard enough to make me cry out, teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
He growls against my skin, then bites down on the soft flesh of my breast, marking me. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You. Always you. Even when I hated you." I gasp as he switches to my other breast, lavishing it with the same rough attention. "But you're mine too, Rosetti. That's the deal."
He drops to his knees, pushing my legs apart, then licks a long stripe from my knee to my pussy. "All this for me?"
"Please," I beg, beyond pride.
He buries his face between my legs, his tongue finding my clit immediately. He sucks it between his lips while sliding three fingers into my pussy, stretching me, filling me, making me scream.
"That's it," he growls against my clit. "Let me hear you."
I come hard, my pussy clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn't stop, working me through it and straight into another orgasm that has my legs shaking.
He stands, spinning me around to press me against the door. I feel the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"I fucking love you," he says, rubbing his cock through my wetness but not entering.
"You too, husband, I love you," I whimper.
He slams into me with one brutal thrust, filling me completely. The stretch burns perfect, my pussy struggling to accommodate his size at this angle.
"So fucking tight," he groans, pulling out only to slam back in.
He fucks me against the door with punishing force, each thrust rattling the frame. One hand wraps around my hair, holding me in place, while the other finds my clit.
"Never again," he pants against my neck. "Never walking away again."
"Never," I agree, then scream as another orgasm tears through me.
He follows immediately, his cock pulsing as he fills me with hot spurts of cum. We collapse to the floor in a tangle of limbs and torn clothes, his cum already leaking out of me onto the marble.
But it's not enough. Can never be enough after tonight.
"Shower," I manage, and he carries me there, both of us stumbling over scattered weapons and ruined fabric.
The hot water sluices over us, turning pink as it washes away blood that isn't ours. Marco presses me against the shower wall, drops to his knees again, and I realize he's licking his own cum from my pussy, cleaning me with his tongue.
A moan escapes me, my body trembling between pain and pleasure, already reaching for the next crest.
He rises, guiding me to face the wall. "Palms against the glass," his voice leaves no room for argument.
I position myself, widening my stance as he claims me from behind. He fills me completely. Our bodies connect in rhythmic percussion beneath the shower's cascade.
"You feel like heaven," he murmurs, his fingers finding my breast while his other hand circles lower, teasing. "Like you were made for this. For me."
"Don't hold back," I urge, pressing against him.
His response is immediate—relentless and consuming until tears of ecstasy blur my vision. When release claims me, my body contracts around him so powerfully he has to support my weight as strength leaves my limbs.
He withdraws only to turn me, lifting me effortlessly. My legs encircle him as he joins us once more, my back against the cool tile, his movements driven by raw necessity.
"Eyes on mine," he demands. "I need to watch you when I mark you inside."
I hold his gaze while he moves within me, each thrust sending waves through my body. His lips claim my throat, promising bruises that will tell our story tomorrow.
"Marco," I whisper, feeling tension building anew. "I can't—"
"Let go," his words command. "Surrender to me. Only to me."
His words unlock something primal, and I shatter around him. He follows, my name a prayer on his lips as he finds his release deep within me.
Hours later, collapsed in sheets that reek of sex and sweat and us, I trace patterns on his chest. My pussy is sore, well-used, and I love it. The clock on the nightstand shows 5 AM. We've been at this for hours.
"Those divorce papers," I say against his skin, something nagging at me. "I believed they were real. Needed them to be real to save Alice."
"They might have been," Marco admits. "Liam was desperate enough. But even if they were legitimate, I never accepted them. Not in my heart. Not where it matters."
"I needed them to be real," I repeat, my voice breaking slightly. "It was the only way to save her. And now… we don't even know if she's safe."
"We'll find her," he promises, his arms tightening around me. "First thing when the sun's up. I have every contact looking."
I nod against his chest, then voice what's been building in me all night: "I want something permanent. Something that can't be questioned or undone."
"What do you mean?"
"No papers. No ceremonies that can be interrupted. No rings that can be removed." I meet his eyes. "I want us marked. Branded. Something that can't be undone by rain or bullets or doubt."
"Tattoos," he says, understanding immediately, his cock already hardening again at the thought.
"On our ring fingers. Where everyone can see. Where we can't hide it."
He flips me onto my back, settling between my thighs. "You want to be marked as mine forever? No escape clause?"
"I want to be marked as yours while you're marked as mine." I reach down to stroke his cock, already fully hard again.
"We'd have to wait," he says, even as he pushes into me again, slower this time. "Everything's closed now. And we need secure transport after what happened tonight."
"Tomorrow then," I gasp as he fills me. "After we deal with the aftermath."
We make love this time. There's no other word for the gentle way he moves in me, the soft kisses, the whispered promises. When we come, it's together, my name on his lips, his on mine.
As the sun rises higher, painting the bedroom gold, Marco's phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand. He checks it, his expression darkening.
"Alice," he says, and my heart stops. "She's safe. My men found her at Union Station. She's scared but unharmed. They're bringing her to a safe house."
Relief floods through me so intensely I start crying. Marco holds me as I sob, the stress of not knowing finally releasing.
"And your father," he continues carefully. "He's still alive. Still at his mistress's old apartment where I left him. Under guard."
"We need to deal with him," I say, wiping my tears. "Whatever that means."
"Tomorrow," Marco says. "Today," he corrects himself, seeing the full sunrise through the windows. "But first, we sleep. Then the tattoos. Then your father."
I trace patterns on his chest, thinking about the permanence we're choosing. "No divorce this time. You'd have to cut off your finger."
"Or yours," he counters, pulling me closer.
His phone buzzes again. Multiple messages in quick succession.
"Let it ring," I say, pulling him down for another kiss. "For a few more hours, let the world wait."
He silences the phone, his attention returning fully to me. As exhaustion finally claims us, I think about the tattoos we'll get, the marks that will bind us when everything else has failed.
We're home. But home, I'm learning, is just another battleground. And when we've slept, when our bodies have recovered enough to face what comes next, we'll go to war again.
Together this time. Permanently. No escape clause for either of us.