Chapter 16 #3
The command, his eyes, the angle, the pressure.
It’s too much. I shatter around him, crying out his name, my body clenching tight around his cock.
And then I feel it, that same overwhelming release, liquid gushing from my body, even with him inside me.
I’m making an absolute mess, and I can’t stop it, can’t control it.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, his rhythm breaking as he feels it. “Yes—fuck—you’re squirting on my cock.” His voice is ragged with pleasure. “That’s it. Soak me. Let me feel all of it. God, Adora.”
He drives deep one final time, his whole body going rigid as he comes, filling me with heat. “Mine,” he growls against my neck. “Mine, mine, mine—”
We collapse together, breathing hard, slick with sweat and thoroughly spent. For long moments, neither of us moves. We just breathe in the afterglow.
And the wet patch.
I bury my face in his shoulder, laughing silently, my body shaking.
“What’s funny?” he asks, a smile in his voice as he presses kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw.
I just made a mess of silk sheets and my own body and screamed loud enough to shake the chandeliers.
I was reckless and wild and so full of feeling and I couldn’t contain it.
It spilled out of me, literally, embarrassingly, and gloriously, and Vincenzo loved it.
He wanted more of it. Called me beautiful while I lost every shred of control I’d spent a lifetime perfecting.
“Better than okay,” I whisper against his skin. “That was perfect.”
We lie there for long minutes, just breathing, just being. His weight on me is comforting rather than crushing. Real. Solid. Here.
Eventually he rolls to the side, pulling me with him so I’m tucked against his chest.
“How do you feel?”
I trace lazy patterns on his skin. “I’m happy. Is that allowed? Am I allowed to be happy after what I did tonight?”
“You’re allowed to feel however you feel.” His fingers comb through my hair. “There’s no rule book for this, doe. You did what you had to do. And now you get to live with the consequences, which include being happy, being free, being loved.”
“I like those consequences.”
“Good. Because they’re permanent.” He tilts my face up to kiss me softly. “You’re stuck with me, remember? For better or worse.”
“I remember.” I smile against his lips. “I was there when we made the vows.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine and perfect. “My wife. My doe. Mine.”
“Yours,” I whisper.
And for the first time in my life, belonging to someone doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like freedom.
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
Then he shifts slightly, careful not to dislodge me. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Now?” I lift my head to look at him, smiling. “I thought you’d be exhausted.”
“Not that.” His lips quirk, but there’s something more serious in his eyes. “Something Sofia gave me today.”
He slides out of bed and crosses to where his suit jacket hangs on the back of a chair. From the inside pocket, he pulls out something small that catches the lamplight.
A ring.
My breath catches as he comes back to bed, sitting on the edge beside me. I push myself up, pulling the sheet with me, suddenly understanding this is important.
“Is that…?”
“My father’s ring.” His voice is quiet, reverent. He holds it out so I can see it properly. The Vici crest, a raven with its wings spread. “She thought today was the right time. My family would be proud. That I’d honored them. That it was time to stop living for the dead and start living for us.”
Tears prick my eyes. “She’s right.”
“I couldn’t wear it before.” He looks down at the ring in his palm. “But tonight, marrying you, having you in my arms, I realize this is how my family rests. Not through death, but through me finally living.”
“This is the future they wanted for you,” I whisper, understanding flooding through me.
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “You and me.”
I watch as he slides the ring onto his left hand, next to his wedding band. Two rings, two commitments. One to his past, and one to his future. Both sitting together like they were always meant to.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“Good.” He flexes his fingers, looking at the ring catching the light. “Better than good. Right.”
I take his hand, bringing it to my lips, kissing both rings. “They would be so proud of you and how you’ve honored them.”
“I hope so.” His free hand cups my face. “But I’m done living for them, doe. I’m living for us now. For whatever future we build together.”
I wrap myself around him, and I can feel the ring against my back where his hand splays between my shoulder blades. Solid, warm, and permanent.
The next morning, I wake wrapped in Vincenzo’s arms, sunlight streaming through the French doors, and for a blissful moment, I forget everything except the warmth of his skin against mine.
Then reality crashes back.
I killed my father. The police are investigating. And we still have to deal with Dashamir.
“I can hear you thinking,” Vincenzo murmurs against my hair. “Stop it.”
“We have to meet with Dashamir today.”
Matteo arranged it while we were spending our wedding night together. Vincenzo got the place and time in a text just before we fell asleep.
“I know.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “But that’s later. Right now, I want five more minutes in bed with my wife without the weight of the world pressing in.”
“Five minutes,” I agree, burrowing closer.
We take an hour, and most of that hour I’m gasping his name and clenching the sheets.
The meeting with Dashamir is set for noon at a warehouse that sits exactly on the border between Vici and Dervishi territory in northwestern Malus. Neutral ground, in theory, though nothing feels neutral with the Dervishis.
Vincenzo drives us there in his black Mercedes, one hand on the wheel, the other laced with mine. We don’t talk much. There’s not much to say that we haven’t already said.
The warehouse is as grim as I expected. Concrete and rust and the smell of motor oil. Dashamir is already there, leaning against a sleek black SUV with two of his men flanking him.
He looks cold. Unimpressed. Dangerous.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vici,” he says, and there’s something mocking in his voice. “Congratulations on your nuptials. I hear the reception was eventful.”
“We have what you asked for,” Vincenzo says, his voice clipped. He pulls out his phone and holds it up. “Don Agnello’s confession to killing Lira Dervishi.”
Dashamir takes the phone, and we wait in tense silence while he listens to the recording. His expression doesn’t change when Agnello admits to strangling Lira, or when he confesses to having his wife killed.
When it ends, he hands the phone back. “This is sufficient.”
“So we’re clear?” I ask, hope rising. “The debt is paid?”
“You may keep your lives.” His tone is flat. Cold. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”
Vincenzo goes very still beside me. “The deal was I’d get my guns back. The shipment that was stolen. That was the agreement.”
“The agreement,” Dashamir says icily, “was that you would deliver Agnello Montoni’s confession about my cousin’s murder, not kill him yourselves.”
“Didn’t you hear the recording?” I step forward, my voice shaking with anger. “He killed my mother. He also killed Vincenzo’s entire family. You can’t expect us to—”
“Agnello was mine to kill.” Dashamir’s voice drops to something deadly. “My revenge. My justice. You took that from me. So you don’t get your guns. You get to live. Be grateful.”
Vincenzo’s hand tightens on mine as he glares at the man.
Dashamir straightens, and his men move closer. “The matter is closed. If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of my way going forward. If you’re not…” His eyes hold a cold warning. “You will see.”
He gets in the SUV and drives away, leaving us standing in the warehouse with nothing but rage and frustration.
“Fuck,” Vincenzo says quietly. Then louder, “FUCK.”
He kicks a nearby crate, sending it skidding across the concrete.
I don’t say anything. What is there to say? We did everything right, and we still lost.
“We need those guns,” Vincenzo says. “Without them, the Lucanias are vulnerable. They’re relying on me.”
“I know.”
“And Dashamir just—” He breaks off, too angry to continue.
I move to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. “We’re alive,” I say quietly. “We have each other. That’s not nothing.”
He covers my hands with his, holding them against his chest. “I’m sorry, doe. I should have seen this coming.”
“You did everything you could.” I press my cheek against his back. “This is my fault. I’m the one who killed my father.”
He turns in my arms, pulling me close, watching Dashamir’s SUV disappear down the road. “That man needs to get laid,” he mutters darkly. “Maybe then he wouldn’t be such an insufferable bastard.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “That’s your takeaway from this?”
“It’s a valid observation.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. Let’s go see Rafiel. I have to break the bad news.”
The equestrian center is on the outskirts of southern Malus, all rolling hills, white fences, and horses grazing in green paddocks.
It’s beautiful and peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal after the tension of the warehouse.
Horses thunder along the gallops, preparing for the racecourse, and there are several dressage arenas where horses with their manes in neat knots are being trained.
We find the stables easily enough, following the sound of voices and horse hooves. One of the livery workers points us toward where we can find Rafiel.
It’s a long, snug room, lined with individual pens, and enormous horses with glossy coats gazing curiously at us, ears pricked forward, as we pass.
Rafiel Lucania in a shadowed corner of the stable, one hand braced against a wall, leaning close to a woman.
His jeans are old and scuffed. His hair is blond and shaved at the sides, and his arms are covered in tattoos.
The Lucanias are blue-collar and rough, and they have never embraced luxury.
Probably because they’ve never had the chance.
Except, apparently, for the woman in his arms, who’s sleek and expensive in her riding gear. He’s looking down at her with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
It takes me a moment to recognize her, and when I do, I can’t believe my eyes.
Ariana Barone, my friend Lucy’s perfect, dutiful, and off-limits older sister.
Off-limits to a man like Rafiel Lucania, that’s for sure.
She’s dressed immaculately for dressage in cream jodhpurs that hug her peachy behind and a tailored jacket fitted to her slender waist. Her dark hair is pulled back in a perfect bun. She has her face tilted up to Rafiel’s, and the space between them is crackling with tension.
Intimacy? Anger? Both?
Ariana sees us approaching, and her expression transforms instantly into cool, haughty control.
“And I told you that I have nothing more to say on the matter, Mr. Lucania.” Her voice is ice. “How dare someone like you corner me like this? Would you like me to speak to my father about you?”
Rafiel drops his arm and steps back immediately, his jaw clenched tight.
Ariana sweeps past him without another glance, her chin high, every inch the mafia princess. She ignores Vincenzo completely, but gives me a polite nod, the only person here she considers her equal.
“Adora. Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you, Ariana.” I watch her go, noting the rigid set of her shoulders. The way she doesn’t look back even once.
Rafiel stares past us until she’s out of sight.
“Everything okay?” I ask carefully.
“Fine. Just a disagreement about a horse sale. Nothing important.”
“We have news,” Vincenzo says. “About the guns.”
Rafiel’s expression sharpens. “You got them back?”
“No.” Vincenzo’s jaw clenches. “Dashamir Dervishi decided that allowing us to live was payment enough. The guns are gone.”
“Fuck.” Rafiel leans back against the wall, his frustration evident. “I needed those. The Lucanias needed those.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
For a long moment, Rafiel just looks at us. Then he sighs. “I’ve crossed paths with Dashamir once or twice, and he’s a cold fucking bastard. I’m sure you did what you could.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I heard what happened at the wedding. Your father, Mrs. Vici.”
“Call me Adora, please. Yes, he’s dead,” I finish quietly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I killed him myself. He had it coming a long time.”
If that surprises him, he doesn’t show it.
“Then good riddance to him.” He pushes off the wall, some of his natural good humor returning. “Look, the guns are gone. It’s a setback, but we’ll manage. The Lucanias always do. We’re used to hardship.”
“I appreciate that,” Vincenzo says.
“Just…” Rafiel’s expression turns serious. “Watch yourselves, okay? The troubles between the Italians and Albanians aren’t over. Not by a long shot.”
“We’ll be careful,” I promise. “You as well.”
“Always.” Rafiel’s smile returns, warm and genuine. “Now get out of here. Go enjoy your honeymoon or whatever newlyweds do. You’ve both earned some peace.”
As we walk back to the car, I glance at Vincenzo. “He’s nice.”
“He is.” Vincenzo opens my door for me. “And he’s right. We have earned some peace. How about I take my woman out on the town tonight?”
My heart lightens. I’ve been running on survival mode for so many years that I’ve forgotten that people do things for fun. “Really? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He kisses me before I can slide into the passenger seat. “We fought for this, doe. We bled for this. We killed for this. Now we get to enjoy it.”
I kiss him back, tasting the promise on his lips.
“Then let’s go out and show everyone who we are.”