CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
francesca
I didn’t remember the elevator ride to Conall’s penthouse. I couldn’t even allow my phobia to bother me. Everything was a blur—his arm around me, the low hum of the city below, and the sterile lights flashing as we ascended.
Conall maintained a firm grip on me, his touch the only thing anchoring me. I hadn’t resisted as he guided me inside, even though my mind was trapped elsewhere—back in the warehouse, outside the club, amidst the blood and chaos.
Sean. Shot.
Cosimo Oliveto. Shot.
And then—Vanello.
I squeezed my eyes shut as Conall guided me toward the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water and the soft rustling of him tugging at my clothes. I should have protested, but my limbs felt heavy, and my head still throbbed from where they had struck me. I blinked hard, trying to clear the images etched into my mind.
Sean had screamed for me to run when the men in the alley attacked. He had fought hard to shelter me, fighting like a man possessed as he mowed through Oliveto’s men, but there had been too many. Then shots had rung out. A crimson bloom on his chest, the way he staggered, fell.
And Cosimo—his blood splattering across my face when the bullet tore through him. I barely remembered anything except the smell of gunpowder and the heaviness of my breath, too quick and shallow.
Vanello’s voice pierced through everything.
“My daughter.”
I still didn’t know whether I had imagined it.
“Francesca.”
Conall’s voice was firm, pulling me back. He was crouched in front of me, his hands steady as he pulled his shirt over my head. I hadn’t moved to help him. I couldn’t. He was patient, not saying a word as he slid off the shirt. I felt the air hit my skin, cold against the sticky warmth of dried blood—not mine, but Sean’s.
Vanello’s voice echoed again.
How could I tell Conall?
How could I tell my husband that his enemy was my father?
The absurdity of it made my throat tighten. I let him guide me into the shower, the steaming water hitting me in a scalding rush, washing away the night’s filth. My head tipped forward, my palms pressing into the cool tile as the weight of it all crashed down on me.
Sean shot.
Cosimo dead.
How could I tell my brother?
“Breathe, Francesca,”
Conall murmured, stepping into the shower behind me. His arms wrapped around me, steadying me as my knees threatened to buckle. I inhaled a ragged breath, feeling his heartbeat against my back, strong and unwavering. “I’ve got you.”
I wanted to tell him, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I closed my eyes and let the water wash everything away.
“Take it all away.”
I pressed my forehead against the tile, unsure whether I was reacting to the experience of being kidnapped, witnessing a murder, or the information I’d received. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. I recognized the symptoms of shock.
Hands slid up along the curve of my waist as Conall pressed against me, his palms grazing my skin with the back of his knuckles until he reached my breasts. Cupping each in turn, he squeezed and kneaded as he tweaked my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through me.
“I love your tits, Francesca. These pretty pink nipples of yours are just begging for my mouth.”
His mouth landed on the nape of my neck, biting down hard enough to draw blood. His tongue flicked against the wound. “I can’t reach them like this so this will have to do.”
I couldn’t form the words as he caressed and kneaded while he rubbed against me. Each pinch sent a rush of wetness between my thighs.
“Just close your eyes, baby. Relax. Just let me take care of you.”
The whisper in his ear soothed me as I pressed my forehead back against his shoulder. I let him support my weight as he slid a hand down to the apex of my thighs. His cock was hard against me as his finger teased against my folds, circling my swollen clit in maddeningly glancing motions. It felt like I was dripping on his hand.
Two fingers went inside just as I was about to start begging him. I wanted him to make me come. I felt so empty. Pumping back and forth, he flicked my clit as I rode his hand.
“That’s it. What a good girl.”
His teeth were at my ear, and his cock was between the cheeks of my ass as I came. “So beautiful.”
I wanted him to fill me, take me over and over. Just thinking about what might have happened sent chills racing down my skin again. I could have died. We could have lost this.
“Please.”
He spun me around and crushed his mouth to mine — devouring me like I was the air he breathed. His face was a mask of need and fury. All I cared about was the here and now as he hitched me up and drove into me, splitting me apart stroke by stroke in a frenzy as he held me against the tile. His cock felt as if he was stretching me further with each stroke as my back scraped against the subway tiles. Digging my nails into his shoulders, I surrendered as he pistoned into me, coming on a howl as ropes of cum hit my walls. I clenched around his cock, riding out the spasm.
“Damn.”
He slumped against me. “I might get a leg cramp.”
“Well, you are the old man here,”
I teased, resting my forehead against his shoulder with a sigh.
**
Conall wrapped a thick, perfectly folded towel around me before I could protest, his touch firm and gentle. The air outside the shower was bracing, but Conall radiated warmth, stabilizing me as he ran another towel over my dripping hair. I didn’t resist him. I didn’t have the energy
He crouched in front of me, his hands methodically drying my arms and then my legs, moving with efficiency. Everything about him was precise. The towels in this bathroom were arranged by size and stacked in perfect symmetry. His razor and toothbrush were aligned on the counter like soldiers standing at attention. I was starting to get used to how he liked things in his spaces and things just so.
“You’re still freezing,”
he murmured, barely concealing his frustration. Not directed at me—I didn’t think—but at the situation. He despised disorder. I wondered if I appeared broken to him right now.
He pulled a robe off the hook and draped it around my shoulders. The thick fabric enveloped me, but I still felt hollow and cold inside.
“Talk to me.”
He cupped my chin, tilting my face toward his. “Begin with when you left the club.”
I swallowed hard. My pulse throbbed erratically against my throat. I didn’t want to discuss this, but Conall wouldn’t let it go. He needed the details. He needed to fit the pieces together, organizing them into something logical and manageable.
“I—I was outside. Sean was with me.”
My voice wavered. “Sean was being careful, and it seemed clear. Men were waiting. Cosimo was there with a team of Vallone’s men. Sean fought back—”
I sucked in a breath. “Then he couldn’t anymore. He got shot. There were so many of them. A lot.”
They had him on the ground, and I’d been screaming and screaming as I tried to help. “I was hit on the back of the head. I think it was with the butt of his gun. Everything went dark.”
Conall exhaled slowly through his nose. “And then?”
I focused on how his thumb smoothed the edge of the towel, straightening an invisible wrinkle. I concentrated on its steady rhythm, as I didn’t want to relive the next part—the warehouse.
“I woke up tied to a chair.”
The words spilled out before I could convince myself to hold them back. “Cosimo wanted information. He was desperate to know about Fausto’s death.”
Conall stayed silent, but the space between us felt heavy and charged.
“He paid for ten minutes with me,”
I whispered. “Or perhaps he bartered something for it. I’m not sure.”
I tried to think back to what Cosimo had said.
Conall became so still that I couldn’t be sure he was breathing. His eyes darkened.
“That’s what he said,”
I interjected hurriedly. “Vanello was there.”
Conall’s jaw flexed, but he stayed silent, waiting for me to continue.
“I think—”
I hesitated, gripping the robe tighter. “I believe Vanello was protecting me in his own way. He mocked Cosimo and allowed him to fail, but when it became clear I wasn’t speaking… he killed him. Shot him in the back of the head.”
I could sense Conall’s shift, the intensity of his focus, and the gears turning in his mind. He would dissect the pattern, analyze it, and search for the flaw. I wasn’t sure he would find one. Rubbing my hands over my legs, I prepared for what would have to be the next question out of his mouth.
“You’re okay.”
His hands covered mine. “You’re home. Your brothers are here. Sean will be okay.” I nodded.
“Why?”
he asked, his voice low but sharp. “Why would Vanello protect you?”
My throat constricted. I hadn’t spoken it aloud yet. Not to myself. Not to anyone. The words felt alien, surreal.
“Francesca.”
His patience was razor-thin now.
I forced my lips to move and my tongue to form the words. “Because…”
I swallowed hard, struggling to get it out. “Because he said he’s my father.”
The silence between us grew thick and suffocating. Conall didn’t react initially. There was no twitch of his jaw, no tell in his expression. Yet the air in the room shifted, heavy with something unspoken and dangerous.
“Vanello told you that?”
His voice was disturbingly quiet.
I nodded, clutching the edges of the robe as if they were the only thing keeping me steady.
Conall exhaled slowly, yet it did little to hide the fire that simmered beneath his control. “And do you believe him?”
I wasn’t sure. However, the fact remained whether it was true or not—Vanello had protected me in a way. Now, I had no idea what that meant and how it would affect Conall or Angelo.
Vanello wasn’t just any man. He was yet another mafia boss who had been waging war against Conall, Maxim, Ilias, and my brother, Angelo. There had never been a whisper of a connection between him and the Santellis. If what he said was true, it would change everything. It would upend history, rewrite alliances, and tear open old wounds that weren’t even suspected.
Conall’s eyes were fixed on mine, unreadable but seething beneath the surface. “That’s impossible,”
he muttered, almost to himself.
I wanted to believe that. I needed to. But Vanello’s words echoed in my head, relentless.
And the worst part? A small, terrible part of me wondered if it made sense.
“I do. He had a DNA test.”