Chapter 10
Enzo
The kiss holds. Her mouth is a brand of fire against mine.
The clean, green taste of mint and sweet basil wipes out the lingering metallic tang of blood coating my tongue.
She said the ring stays on. She said the fake contract is dead.
The words echo in the silent, heavily fortified bedroom.
The fixer does not die here. The man who measures risks and runs probability matrices simply gets a new objective.
Every matrix in my head re-points at one variable.
Her. Everything I built to protect this family now reports to her.
I break the kiss. Her lips are swollen. Red.
Mine. I wrap my arms under her soft thighs and lift her off the floor.
She gasps, her hands scrambling for purchase, fingers grabbing my shoulders.
The silk robe rides up her thighs. I carry her toward the door.
I need her out of this bedroom. Out of the space where we played a game, where we pretended this was a mafia operation. I need absolute isolation.
I step into the hallway. The compound is graveyard quiet.
The ancient stone walls absorb the sound of my boots.
Shadows cling to the vaulted ceiling. Turi steps out of an alcove near the east wing stairwell.
His silver hair catches the dim security lights.
He stops. His kind eyes take in the blood on my combat pants, the wild look in my gaze, the woman clutched tight against me.
Turi turns his back. He resumes his patrol, walking the opposite direction.
He understands. The entire house is on lockdown.
We descend the stairs. Down into the depths of the restored limestone mansion. Deep into the basement. The air grows cold. The scent of ancient stone mixes with the sterile ozone of running electronics. The domain of war.
The reinforced steel door looms at the end of the corridor.
Four inches of solid metal retrofitted for a siege.
A biometric scanner glows red beside the heavy frame.
I press my thumb against the glass. A beat of silence.
Then, the metallic thud of deadbolts retracting.
The door swings open on silent hinges. I carry her inside.
I kick the door shut behind us. I punch the manual override on the keypad.
The deadbolts slam back into place. Lock after lock echoing in the cavernous space.
Four inches of steel trap us in the underground war room.
No windows. No signal from the outside world.
Total isolation. Only the retrofitted servers humming in the corner connect this room to the surface.
Monitors cover the walls from floor to ceiling, casting a stark, icy blue light across the massive mahogany tactical table occupying the center of the room.
I set her on her feet. Her bare toes curl against the cold concrete floor.
She walks the three steps to the war room table on her own and lifts herself onto the edge, bare feet swinging clear of the floor, nothing between her and the world but her own confidence.
The sight of her—unbothered, present, at home in the most dangerous room in the compound—cracks something open in me.
I step to the tactical table. Maps of the West Loop.
Blueprints of the transit hub. Laptops. Encrypted dossiers.
A lifetime of vengeance against the Bellantis stacked in neat, precise, calculated piles.
I sweep my arm across the wood.
Everything on the table crashes to the floor.
Maps slide over the edge. Dossiers scatter across the concrete.
A laptop skids hard enough to crack its casing, but I do not look down.
Months of work swept aside in a single violent motion.
The cost is real. I have already priced it.
The Costa family will rebuild, slower and from a worse position, and that is the trade I made the second Rourke said her name.
The only thing that matters in this room, in this city, in this fucking world, is the woman in front of me.
I grab her waist. My large hands span the curve of her hips. I grip her waist and pull her closer, seating her fully on the edge of the cleared mahogany table. The wood is cold. Her skin radiates heat through the thin silk of her robe. She looks at me. Defiance and surrender mix in her eyes.
Every time I looked at a ledger, I saw my father Carlo dead in an alley, bleeding out in the rain.
Every time I ran a probability matrix, I saw the coordinated Bellanti hit that erased our parents and my uncle Igor in a single night, Igor and his wife ambushed in their car a mile away.
I built my entire existence on iron-clad control.
If I controlled the variables, the monsters could never hurt my family again.
But Natalia Kim is a hurricane. She smashed my control.
She took the calculated fixer and rewrote his objective in a single night.
He blew a six-month operation because a dead man spoke her name.
I am ruined for anyone else. I am permanently, violently obsessed.
I grip the silk tie at her waist. "Drop your arms," I command. My voice drops an octave lower than my usual smooth cadence—quieter, not rougher. Precision, sharpened.
She obeys. The sharp, cynical woman follows my order without a single word of protest.
I pull the tie loose. The silk robe falls open. I push it off her shoulders, dragging it down her arms until it pools on the floor behind her. I kick the silk aside. It lands in a dark puddle on the ruined map of Chicago.
She wears nothing but a tiny strip of black lace.
The blue light from the surveillance monitors catches the swell of her curves.
Tits full, nipples tight and peaking from the chill of the basement air.
A drop of my blood smears across her collarbone.
A remnant from the transit hub tunnels. My blood on her skin. A primitive mark of ownership.
I step between her spread thighs. The scent of her arousal hits the back of my throat. Mint, sweet basil, and the intoxicating, primal musk of wetness. My jaw locks. The metal zipper of my combat pants threatens to split from the raging pressure of my cock.
I drop to my knees.
The fixer kneels for no one. I bow to no boss.
I surrender to no enemy. But I drop down on the concrete without a single hesitation.
Submission to my own obsession—the one clause I cannot renegotiate.
My hands grip the back of her thighs. Her skin is dangerously soft.
I pull her forward. Dragging her hips right to the edge of the mahogany table.
My teeth catch the edge of the black lace.
I jerk my head back. Ripping the delicate fabric in half.
The sound of tearing lace is loud in the silent vault.
She is exposed. Slick, pink, swollen for me.
The wetness gleams in the low blue light.
A thick drop of slick pools at the bottom of her opening, threatening to spill over.
I bury my face between her thighs.
My tongue drags a long stripe up the slick heat of her.
She cries out. Her fingers tangle in my hair.
She pulls hard, her nails scraping my scalp, grounding me in the chaos.
I lap at her clit. Sucking the hyper-sensitive flesh into my mouth.
Tasting her. She tastes like absolute power.
Like ruin. Like the only line item in this city I refuse to renegotiate.
She thrashes on the table. Her heels hit my hips, trying to close her legs against the overwhelming sensation.
I refuse to let her hide. My hands wrap around her thighs, fingers pressing deep into the soft flesh, bruising the skin.
I want bruises. I want my fingerprints stained into her curves so every time she looks in a mirror, she remembers who owns her.
"Enzo," she gasps. Her armor is gone. The cynical woman who treated this fake engagement like a business contract is shattered. Only Natalia remains. My Natalia. My woman.
I flick my tongue over her clit. Fast. Relentless.
A punishing rhythm designed to break her down.
My fingers slip inside her. Two digits pushing deep into her scalding heat.
Stretching her walls. She is so tight. So incredibly wet.
The slick coats my knuckles, sliding effortlessly against her inner flesh.
I pump my fingers in and out, mimicking the thrust she is begging for.
Her hips buck off the wood. She chases my fingers.
Chases my mouth. The orgasm rips through her body in tight, rolling waves.
She screams my name. The sound bounces off the steel door, ringing in the vault.
Her inner walls spasm violently, clenching around my fingers in tight, rapid pulses.
Her juices flood my hand. I drink every drop, swallowing her sweet taste until her thighs stop trembling.
I stand up. My boots shift against the concrete. My ribs heave. Her eyes are glazed, lips parted, ribs rising and falling in erratic gasps.
I grip the metal buckle of my tactical belt. Snap it open. Pull down the zipper.
My cock springs free. Thick, dark, weeping with precum. It aches with a vicious, throbbing need. The thick head gleams in the monitor light. She stares at it. The haze in her eyes clears, replaced by a dark, helpless hunger. She reaches out. Her soft fingers wrap around the thick base of my shaft.
Fire shoots directly up my spine. My vision goes white at the edges.
"Do not touch it," I grind out, my voice dropping to a lethal octave. "I have no control left. None. You touch me, and this ends before it begins."