Chapter 21
GIOVANNI
The tie tightens cleanly at my collar, but I barely feel it.
My mind is elsewhere. Down the hall, in the bedroom I left ten minutes ago, Liliana is getting dressed.
I should be reviewing the final guest list or scanning the estate feed for weak points.
I should be checking in with Tomasso or making sure the caterers haven't fucked something up.
Instead, I’m standing in front of a mirror, thinking about how the curve of her mouth looked when she smiled at me this morning.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn. I don't have to. I feel her before I see her.
She comes up slowly, her steps soft, careful, but there’s nothing unsure about them. She stops just behind me. I let my eyes meet hers in the mirror.
She’s stunning.
The dress is deep emerald, fitted, with thin straps that leave her shoulders bare. Her hair is swept up, loose tendrils falling around her face, and her eyes—God, her eyes—are locked on mine like she already knows exactly what I’m thinking. I turn.
“You’re going to kill someone tonight,” I murmur.
Her lips curve into the smallest smirk. She lifts her hands and signs, Just one.
My hands find her waist, and I pull her in before I lose my restraint.
Her body fits against mine like she was made for it, and when I lower my head to kiss her, she doesn’t hesitate.
Her mouth opens to mine, soft and warm and already familiar.
I kiss her deeply, slowly, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, the other pressing to the small of her back.
She responds in kind, her fingers tightening against my chest, her breath coming faster.
It’s meant to be quick. It isn't.
By the time I break the kiss, my blood is thrumming and I know if I don’t stop now, I won’t be leaving this room any time soon. I press my forehead to hers, catching my breath.
“You look dangerous,” I whisper.
She signs, Good.
I kiss her one more time, sharp and claiming. Then I take her hand and lead her out.
The main ballroom is already filling when we arrive.
Light pours in from the chandeliers overhead, casting gold over everything.
I kept the guest list tight, but every name here matters.
Allies. Rivals. Men who owe me, and men who want what’s mine.
They all look up when I walk in with Liliana on my arm.
She doesn’t shrink.
She holds her head high, her posture straight, her fingers steady where they rest against my forearm.
I keep her close. We move through the crowd like the eye of a storm.
Polite nods. Short greetings. Empty pleasantries that mean less than nothing.
I smile when I need to. She doesn’t need to smile at all.
Tomasso meets us by the west alcove, dressed to the teeth, but still carrying the weight of his usual sharpness. He leans in toward Liliana first. “You look incredible tonight,” he says. He lifts his hand and signs a slow, deliberate version of it again. “Gio’s not gonna survive this.”
Liliana smiles slightly, tilting her head in acknowledgment. There’s a glint in her eyes. A quiet confidence. She signs back, Thank you, Tomasso.
He grins, then leans toward me. “We’ve got eyes on Martelli.”
My jaw tightens. “Vittorio’s guy?”
He nods. “Not hiding, either. Walked in like he owns the place. Word is that he and Greco fell out.”
He wasn’t invited.
I turn my head slightly and find him almost instantly. Giacomo Martelli. Slick, snake-like. Suit pressed. Smile false. His eyes land on me the moment I see him. There’s no flinch. No shift. Just a slow, deliberate lift of his drink in mock salute.
Liliana’s hand touches my forearm. She signs quickly. Problem?
I nod once. “Handled.”
But it isn’t. Not yet.
The tension coils tighter as the hour slips past. Polite laughter masks cold calculations. Old loyalties rub shoulders with new threats. Rival groups split into corners of the room, watching, waiting. I know this rhythm. I’ve lived it for years. But tonight, I’m not just watching for myself.
I watch for her.
Liliana is unreadable, poised, and magnetic. Her posture perfect, her gaze steady. She doesn’t lean into me like she needs protection. She walks beside me like she belongs.
I make my way to the center of the room, with her still at my side. I let them come to us. Let them bow their heads. Offer their greetings. Pretend they aren’t assessing her every move. Let them see.
Then, with my hand firm at the small of her back, I lift my voice just enough for the closest group to hear. “Allow me to introduce my wife.”
There’s a pause. A beat that stretches longer than it should. Then heads turn. Expressions shift. Some eyes widen. Some jaws clench. Others school their features quickly, but it’s too late.
Liliana glances up at me, surprised. Her eyes search mine, full of something sharp and trembling and lit from within. Then she looks back at the crowd and lifts her chin. She doesn’t sign a word, but she doesn’t need to. She looks every inch the queen I’ve named her.
Whispers spread. The news will travel fast. Let it.
Martelli starts drifting. Not toward me, but through the room, weaving through conversation circles, brushing shoulders with men who shouldn’t be letting him near. He’s measuring the room. Testing boundaries. Watching who watches him back. And I don’t look away.
Tomasso leans in. “Want me to move him out?”
“Not yet.”
Let him think he’s got room to move.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room changes. I feel it in the way voices pitch slightly higher, in the way laughter lingers a beat too long. Tension, low and thick, crawling along the edges.
It doesn’t take long. One of Greco’s old guards says something loud. Something careless. And one of Martelli’s men hears it.
There’s a shove. Then another. A shrill curse. Drinks spill. A chair scrapes sharply across the marble floor.
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. I move through the gap like water, Tomasso at my back, two of my men closing in from the sides. I step between them, my presence alone enough to snap heads around.
“Enough.”
The word lands hard. Weighted. The men freeze. They know my voice. They know what happens when it reaches that edge.
Martelli himself steps forward, hands raised, pretending diplomacy. “Giovanni, forgive the disruption. My associate is young. He meant no disrespect."
“Then he’ll apologize. Now.”
The man grits his teeth but mutters something close enough. I stare at him a moment longer, then turn back.
Liliana hasn’t moved from where I left her. Her spine is straight, her expression calm, her dress shimmering like it belongs on a throne. When our eyes meet again, something inside me settles.
The rest of the night continues in fragments. A blur of shifting voices, half-smiles, empty gestures. The weight of eyes always hovering just behind my shoulder. But nothing else breaks.
By the time the last guest leaves, I feel the pull of her like a current, a quiet force drawing me to her.
I guide her upstairs in silence, my hand resting on the small of her back, warm through the fabric of her dress.
My other hand holds the door open as she steps through, her movements slow, deliberate, a grace that’s entirely her own, unstudied and magnetic.
Her heels fall to the floor with soft thuds, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
She turns away from me, unfastening her earrings with care, then reaches behind her to unzip her dress.
I cross the room before she can finish, my hands replacing hers, dragging the zipper down with a slow, deliberate pull until the silk parts fall.
She doesn’t look over her shoulder. She steps out of the dress, leaving it in a puddle at her feet, and walks to the bed in a slip so thin it clings to her curves, translucent in the low light.
She turns, her eyes sharp, her lips slightly parted, a silent invitation that sets my blood on fire.
Her hands lift, signing with steady certainty. I want you.
The words intensify the want raging in me, and I close the space in two strides. My mouth finds hers. The kiss is fierce but tender, a collision of need and devotion. She meets me with equal hunger, her lips soft and yielding, her tongue curling against mine in a dance that feels like a vow.
Her fingers tug at my shirt, urgent, and I help her, ripping it over my head, the fabric catching briefly before falling away. My belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft clink, and she pulls me closer, her nails biting into my back, a sweet sting that makes my cock twitch.
I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her mouth never leaving mine. The kiss is fire, breathless need, but there’s a softness beneath it, a trust that makes my chest ache.
She arches into me, her hips grinding against my hardening length, and my vision blurs, desire pooling low in my gut. We fall onto the bed together, tangled and urgent, her body warm and pliant beneath me.
There’s no hesitation, only the raw pull of wanting her, of needing to be closer, deeper, until nothing separates us.
I slide her slip up and over her head, tossing it aside, revealing her bare skin, flushed and glowing in the dim light.
Her breasts are full, nipples tight and begging for my touch, and I lean down, kissing the soft curve of her collarbone, trailing my lips to one peak.
I suck gently, my tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, and she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
Her thighs part wider, inviting me, and I shift, my hands sliding down her sides, tracing the curve of her hips as I settle between her legs. Her pussy is already wet, glistening, and the sight of her, open and ready, sends a jolt of heat through me, my cock throbbing against my trousers.
I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, my cock springing free, thick and heavy with need. Her eyes darken, drinking me in, and I can’t wait any longer.
I position myself at her entrance, my hands framing her hips, and I thrust into her, slow and deep, filling her in one smooth stroke. She moans, a soft, throaty sound that vibrates through me, her walls clenching around me, warm and impossibly tight.
The sensation is overwhelming, her pussy gripping me like it was made for me, and I groan, my lips finding hers again, kissing her with a tenderness that belies the fire in my blood.
I move, each thrust deliberate, dragging against her walls, savoring the way she pulses around me. Her breasts sway with each motion, and I cup one, my thumb brushing her nipple, making her arch beneath me, her moan low and sweet.
Her hands clutch my shoulders, nails digging in, and I lean down, kissing her throat, tasting the rapid pulse beneath her skin. I thrust deeper, my pace steady but firm, each stroke a promise, a claim, but soft enough to show her I’m here, with her, in every way that matters.
Her thighs tighten around my hips, pulling me closer, and I feel her warmth, her wetness, coating me, making every movement slick and perfect.
My hand slides between us, my fingers finding her clit, swollen and slick, and I rub in slow, gentle circles, watching her face as her eyes flutter shut, her lips parting in a silent cry.
She’s so responsive, her pussy clenching tighter around me, and I groan, my breath hot against her neck. I thrust harder, still tender, each movement hitting that spot inside her that makes her gasp, her body trembling beneath me.
Her hands slide down my back, nails scraping softly, leaving trails of warmth, and I kiss her again, my lips lingering on hers, tasting her sweetness, her trust.
She’s close, her pussy fluttering, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I rub her clit faster, my fingers gentle but relentless, and she moans, her body arching, her walls convulsing around my cock as her orgasm crashes through her.
Her juice coats me, warm and wet, and the sight of her coming undone—flushed, glowing, mine—sends me over the edge.
I thrust deep, one last time, and my release hits, a low groan escaping me as I spill into her, hot and thick, filling her with my warmth.
The pleasure is blinding, tender and all-consuming, and I keep moving, slow and deep, drawing it out, my body trembling with hers.
I collapse beside her, my breath ragged, sweat cooling between us. She’s flushed, her lips swollen, her body bare and stretched across the sheets like a goddess claiming her throne.
I brush my fingers down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, and sign, You’re not the woman I saw in her father's study that first time.
Her eyes soften, and she signs back, Good. She signs again, against my chest, her fingers lazy. Was I too bold?
I smile. “You were perfect.”
She lifts her head, watching me. I meet her gaze.
“I’m proud of you, cara.”
Her fingers curl lightly into my skin, and I feel her exhale, deep and even.
“More than you know,” I say.
I pull her into my arms, my lips brushing her forehead. Her fingers rest over my heart, feeling its steady beat. The room is quiet.
I don’t think about the fights waiting on the edge of tomorrow. I just think about her. And the way she looked tonight, walking through a room full of wolves like she belonged there.
Because she does. She’s mine. And there’s not a man alive I’ll let forget that.