Crowned in Sin (D’Ambrosio Family #2)

1. Lydia

LYDIA

"Enjoying the champagne?"

At the sound of Nico D’Ambrosio’s deep voice at my back, my fingers tighten around the stem of the champagne glass with its bubbling liquid half-finished. I briefly contemplate throwing it in his face instead of dignifying his question with an answer.

It’s more than what he deserves from me.

But it’s my best friend Bella’s wedding day, and it seems wildly inappropriate for the maid of honor to cause a scene, especially when half the reason for the wedding itself is the ending of a five-year-long war between the Romanov Bratva and the D’Ambrosio Family.

I dig my heels into the ground, take a slow breath through my nose to school my face for a response before I turn around.

When I do, I see Nico D’Ambrosio standing there with one hand on the bar.

The light of the early evening accentuates his beautiful cheekbones, and highlights the scar running from his right ear down to his chin.

His perfect lips tug upward and crinkle the corners of his rich amber eyes as he smiles.

It’s unfair how effortlessly good he looks. Despite the afternoon heat of the French countryside, there isn’t a single wrinkle on his perfectly pressed suit. His angular jaw is chiseled with just the slightest hint of scruff. On someone else, it might look lazy and sloppy.

But on him? Somehow it makes him look even better, especially when paired with that familiar shit-eating grin that I still haven’t been able to forget after three months.

I hate it.

Because if he were at least just a little bit harder on the eyes, then it’d be just a hell of a lot easier for me to hate him properly.

"It's French," I finally say. "They tend to get champagne right, Don Nico."

The smile droops slightly, but never disappears as a muscle ticks in his jaw. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“What else am I supposed to call you?”

“Nico would be nice.” He takes a step towards me, and my heart skips a beat when I catch a hint of his cologne—driftwood and salt, like sunbaked skin after a swim. "We need to talk about what happened."

“Actually.” My voice quivers just a little before I find it again. "We really, really don't."

Three months ago, on a blood-soaked New York street, Nico D'Ambrosio put a bullet through his father's forehead and became the new Don of the D’Ambrosio Family.

I saw it all happen because not an hour earlier than that, his father held me hostage along with my best friend Bella’s nephew Anthony. That was when Nico decided that maybe—just maybe—he had a sliver of a soul, and chose to save us all.

Afterwards, he drove me home like he was wrapping up a first date.

I held his hand and did my best to try forgetting what I saw while my heart raced against my throat.

And to his credit, he didn’t seem eager to let me go when we arrived.

I suppose that was why I asked him to come in.

A logical part of my brain told me back then that it would be a very bad idea to sleep with the newly crowned head of New York’s most notorious crime family.

But I had been seconds away from my own death earlier, and I survived only because of Nico. I had to do something to prove to myself that I was still alive, and that it wasn’t just some fucked-up nightmare.

Or maybe I just didn’t want to be alone with my own thoughts after everything that had happened.

So I fucked him.

And it was the best damn sex of my life.

I rode him mercilessly on my threadbare sofa while his teeth left perfectly spaced marks along my throat and shoulders.

He fucked me with my legs spread wide on my cheap linoleum floor while I dug my nails into his muscular back.

We fucked on all fours against my kitchen counter–his hand yanking my hair like a leash and my hands squeezing his balls as he came.

When my throat was raw from screaming and my knees so watery that I couldn’t stand, he scooped me into his muscular arms, and carried me into the shower so we could do it all over again.

But that was three months ago, and since then, the only contact I had from Don Nico D’Ambrosio was fragmented memories of that night in my most twisted dreams.

So it’s just a little fucking surreal to see him up close and in person again.

He refuses to give up. “Give me five minutes."

"I'll give you zero." I turn and start walking, but I don’t get very far when his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist.

Heat rushes up my arms, and his grip tightens as he pulls me back towards him past an invisible barrier where he becomes the only thing I can see in the world, and I’m forced to crane my neck to look up at him.

Between us, the champagne continues to bubble happily and steadily while a drop of sticky sweat rolls down the side of my ribs from the warmth rolling down his body.

He speaks and I can feel my body thrumming like I’m a tuning fork responding to his exact pitch. "I need to know that you’ll stay silent about what happened that night, Lydia.”

I hate how he says my name like he’s tasting it, just like when he wrapped his fingers around my throat that night and pushed me against the wall of my shower.

Heat rushes up my face when his thumb brushes against the pulse in my wrist. "Silence about which part, exactly?"

"About whichever one scares you more."

"You didn’t seem to care about me staying silent ninety days ago." I do my best to keep the quiver from seeping into my voice. "Why now?"

“I wasn’t the don back then.”

I try to pull my hand back, but all it does is make him tug me even closer. His patience cracks a hairline, and underneath is something that looks suspiciously like a man holding himself very, very still.

“And which scares you more, Don Nico?” I breathe as his thumb continues to run maddening circles against my skin. “Me telling people about how you took the crown? Or me telling people about what we did after?”

“Does it matter?” He leans in closer until his lips are inches from my ear, and my body tenses when the edge of his suit brushes against the thin fabric of my green dress. “That night was a mistake that never should’ve happened, Lydia.”

Wow, fuck you.

"Don't Lydia me like we're on speaking terms.” I clench my jaws to force myself back to the present. “And let me go.”

“Not until you give me an answer.” His grip tightens. “Piccola.”

My blood is practically boiling now. But whether it’s boiling from anger or desire is impossible to tell.

My free hand holding the glass starts to move before either of us realizes what is happening.

Champagne arcs out in a perfect golden ribbon. It catches the scarlet sunset on its way, and hits him square in the face—lapels, jaw, collar, and that stupid unforgettable grin.

His hand frees me and suddenly I can breathe again. I gulp air into my lungs and take a small stumbling step backwards.

He neither flinches nor wipes as he continues looking at me.

I slam the empty glass on the nearby bar without breaking eye contact. “Clear enough answer for you?”

I turn on my heel before he can answer. The garden path crunches under my heels. I walk like I'm going somewhere I’ve always meant to go—spine straight and chin up while his touch continues to burn like a brand against my skin.

Behind me, I feel his gaze on my back.

And then I hear him laugh.

It’s not a cruel laugh but a startled, full-bodied, and genuinely delighted sound. Almost like he’s just realized that the thing he came over to prevent is about to become the most interesting problem of his entire life.

The fury rising up my throat at his laugh is white-hot and bone-deep. But the worst part is that it’s not even aimed at him, but at myself.

I continue walking to the edge of the lawn towards the chateau overlooking the grounds, hoping to put as much distance between myself and him as I can.

It doesn’t take me long to find refuge inside. I climb the curving stairs without stopping until I reach my own room, shut the door, and kick my heels off.

Sighing, I sit down on the bed and look out at the lawn, hating that my eyes have no problem finding Nico even at this distance.

Three months of imagining what I’d say to him and practicing it in front of a mirror, and all I manage to do is throw a drink in his face while he literally got the last laugh.

I thought three months would’ve been enough to get over him. But judging by how my body is reacting to him, I clearly haven’t.

And that’s the fucked up truth.

I fucking miss it. I fucking miss him and everything about him.

His face, his smell, and the way my stomach twists around itself when he’s near.

I want to feel the weight of him between my legs, taste the musky salt of his sweat, and hear his voice rumbling against my chest while he buries himself to the hilt.

And as I tear my gaze reluctantly away from the lawn towards the corner of the room where my phone is charging on top of my luggage, I feel a bitter self-loathing bubbling up inside of my gut.

But this time, I know the self-loathing has nothing to do with Nico.

Slowly, I force my breath to return to something that resembles a steady rhythm, and then I walk over to look at my phone.

The notification is still there.

A single unread text message from Mom.

I’d gotten it in that single second after arrival, between taking my phone off airplane mode and turning off roaming. But it had been enough for her message to slip through.

I look at her name and bite my lower lip. Mom.

There’s an odd sense of normality with how those three letters look on my phone, as if it hasn't been seven years since I walked out of her home with nothing but a duffel bag and tears in my eyes.

She hadn’t reached out to me since that day. Which means there’s only bad news if she’s doing it now.

I spare a glance outside again, and see Bella give her new husband a gentle kiss on the cheek before she starts making her way towards the chateau. I know it’ll be a few minutes before she comes to check in on me.