Chapter 8
BEA
I try to focus on the Martinez file.
My hand drifts to my chest instead.
I catch myself doing it—pressing my palm against the spot where his hand was, like I’m checking if the sensation is still there.
It is. Warmth radiating through the silk, phantom pressure where his fingers cupped me, the ghost of his thumb brushing across my nipple.
The memory of it tightening under his touch.
Stop touching yourself.
I drop my hand. Pick up a pen. Stare at the witness statement without seeing it.
Where did he go?
The thought arrives uninvited. He walked out without a word, without explanation, and now I’m sitting here in this empty office, thighs pressed together, wondering when he’s coming back. If he’s coming back. Like some desperate girl waiting for a man to come and—
No. That’s not what this is.
But my body doesn’t seem to agree. It keeps replaying the moment: his hand slipping beneath the fabric, the heat of his skin against mine, the way my breath caught and my back arched and I leaned into it instead of pulling away.
The ache between my legs that started when he touched me and hasn’t gone away since.
Why didn’t I pull away?
He’s the man who kidnapped me from my own life and told me I belonged to him.
Of course he was going to do this eventually.
Of course, the mafia lord in the expensive suit was going to put his hands wherever he wanted—was going to touch me, claim me, make me wet with nothing but his fingers and that voice.
Did I actually convince myself this was normal?
I stand up. Sit back down. My legs won’t stay still. The silk slides against my thighs and even that feels like too much right now.
The office feels too quiet. Too empty. He’s somewhere in this building—down the hall, in the conference room, wherever he disappeared to—and I’m sitting here like an idiot, slick and wanting, waiting.
Waiting for what?
For him to come back and finish what he started.
I could go find him. March down that hallway, tell him exactly how much I did not appreciate what he just did, watch him listen to my outrage with that infuriating calm. And then watch him push me against the wall and take what we both know he’s going to take eventually.
Because that’s how this works. We both know how it ends—with me underneath him, or on top of him, or bent over his desk, whatever he decides.
My hands are steady. That’s the part that scares me most. I’m alone in the office of a man who just had his hand inside my bra, and I’m not shaking. Not crying. Not planning an escape.
Fuck.
The Martinez file sits open in front of me. Witness statements. Contradictions. Evidence of crimes I’m helping cover up.
I flip a page. Try to read. Squeeze my thighs tighter.
A knock at the door.
I go still.
Too firm. Too intentional.
Raffaele doesn’t knock. He walks in like doors are suggestions.
Another knock. Louder.
“Mr. D’Amico isn’t available,” I call out. “The office is closed.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart. We’re not here for him.”
Cold settles in my chest.
The door opens before I can react. Two men step inside.
Big. Rough. Familiar in the worst way. I’ve seen their kind in files—never names, just roles. The ones who handle what doesn’t make it onto paper.
“Office is closed,” I say again, already on my feet, the desk between us. “You need to leave.”
“We just want to talk.” The first one moves in, slow, taking in the room like he’s evaluating it. “Nice setup. D’Amico’s doing alright.”
“I said leave.”
“Heard about you.” The second drifts sideways, cutting off the door without making a show of it. “New girl. Pretty, too.”
“Who sent you?”
“Does it matter?”
The first one closes the distance another step. “We’re here to pass along a message. About knowing where you stand. About what happens when people forget.”
I step back.
My back hits the wall.
No more space.
“Someone like you,” he continues, “should understand when she’s in over her head. Some families don’t like outsiders getting comfortable.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A smile. “Sure you don’t. Pretty dress, private time with the boss while everyone else is busy playing charity. People notice.”
The second one reaches for me—
The door slams open.
Raffaele.
Everything stops for half a second.
Then it doesn’t.
He’s already moving.
The first man doesn’t get a chance to react. Raffaele’s fist drives into his throat—sharp, precise—followed by another hit that folds him in on himself. He drops, choking.
The second one spins, hand going for his jacket.
Raffaele catches him first, grabbing him by the collar and sending him into the wall. The impact hard enough to shake the frame.
A forearm across his throat pins him in place.
“Who sent you?”
The man tries to speak but can’t.
Raffaele eases the pressure just enough. “I’ll ask again.”
“F-fuck—”
The next hits are quick.
“Okay—okay—” The man gasps, struggling for air. “Nico. Nico sent us. Said to scare her. Rough her up. Just a message.”
Quiet.
Raffaele doesn’t react immediately.
He just looks at him.
“Nico,” he says, like the name means something else now.
“We didn’t know—he said she was just—”
“She’s under my protection.” The calmness in his voice is more unsettling than the violence. “And you put your hands on her.”
The grip tightens.
The man’s face darkens. His feet scrape uselessly against the floor.
“Raffaele,” I say.
No reaction.
“Raffaele. Please.”
I push away from the wall, take a step forward.
“Don’t kill him.”
A beat.
Another.
Then he lets go.
The man collapses, dragging in air like he’s been underwater too long.
Raffaele steps back, already composed again.
“Tell Nico his message was received,” he says. “And if he sends anyone near her again, I’ll return the favor. Piece by piece. Understood?”
A frantic nod.
They don’t waste time. One hauling the other, both stumble toward the door.
Then they’re gone.
I’m shaking. I don’t realize it until I look down at my hands.
Raffaele turns to me. His expression is unreadable. Not a hair out of place.
There’s blood on his knuckles. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did they touch you?”
“He grabbed my arm. That’s it.”
But it could have been so much worse. If you hadn’t shown up in time. The thought makes my stomach turn.
“Now Nico’s men know about you.” He moves to his desk. “Which means I might as well make it official. You’re under my protection. Anyone who touches you answers to me.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means what it sounds like.”
“Why do you care?”
“We’re going home.” He shrugs on his jacket. “Now.”
I blink. “I—you don’t even know where I live.”
“I was hoping you’d guide me.” A slight smile. “Unless you’d prefer to take the bus.”
I stare at him. At the blood on his knuckles. I try to process the calm in his voice. The way he said home like it meant something.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice.” He holds the door open. “But some choices are smarter than others.”
I walk past him and don’t look back.
Outside, a black Rolls-Royce is waiting at the curb.
A driver holds the door open. Raffaele gestures for me to get in.
I hesitate. The street is empty. The building looms behind us, dark except for the lobby lights. Somewhere out there, Nico’s men are stumbling home to report their failure.
Some choices are smarter than others.
I get in.
Raffaele slides in beside me. The door closes with a solid thunk.
The city starts to move past the tinted windows.
I watch the streets blur, trying to process the last hour. The violence. The blood. The way he said under my protection like it was fact.
My mind keeps circling back to the moment before the knock. His hand on my breast. The heat of his skin. And then the violence. The casual brutality of a man who knows exactly how to hurt people and doesn’t hesitate to do it.
These two things should not coexist. The lover and the killer. The caress and the blood.
But they do. In him, they do.
I’m so caught up in these thoughts that it takes me some time to notice.
“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”
“No.”
“Where are we going?”
“My penthouse.”
I turn to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He’s still looking straight ahead.
“I’m not going to your penthouse.”
“You are.”
“You can’t just decide—”
“After tonight? Nico knows where you live. His men know your face. They know you matter to me—or at least, they’ll assume you do after what just happened.” Finally, he turns. “You think they won’t come back?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” His eyes drop to my hands. Still trembling. “You were backed against a wall when I walked in. No weapon. No way out. If I’d been five minutes later—”
He’s echoing my exact thought from earlier, but I won’t let him win.
“You weren’t.”
“This time.” He looks away again. “You’re staying where I can keep you safe.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“I don’t recall asking.”
I keep my mouth shut and my gaze trained on the window for the rest of the drive.
The elevator to his penthouse is all glass and chrome.
Each wall is a mirror, reflecting us into infinity. Me in my red dress, him in his red-stained shirt, the two of us standing in a box of light ascending through the dark.
He stands too close.
I step to the side.
He follows, closing the gap.
I move again. My back hits the corner.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Crowding me.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t move away either. Just watches me with those dark eyes.
The elevator hums. The floors tick by in silence. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.
Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“I don’t know. But tomorrow, we figure out what to do about Nico.”
“And us?”
The word slips out. Us. Like, on some level, we’re connected.
He shrugs. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you want.”
I don’t have an answer to that. Don’t trust myself to give one.
The elevator hums. Forty. Forty-one.
Forty-four. Forty-five.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open, allowing me to step deeper into Raffaele D’Amico’s world.