Chapter Fourteen
Anya
W hen we sit down to dinner, the smell of fresh bread that Mrs. Batton must have just baked fills the air. There’s something oddly domestic about it. Something I wouldn’t have expected to feel so... comfortable. I’ve been married for only a day, and here I am, sharing a meal like we’ve been doing this for years.
As Riccardo sits down, his dress shirt sits tight across his chest, and damn if I don’t like the way it looks. The doctor stopped by in the morning and I quizzed him on Plan B pills. Fortunately, he confirmed that with my period due in a couple of days my chances of being knocked up are close to nil. Still, when he left I immediately filled my new birth control prescription. On the phone. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to have Riccardo’s men tagging along, since they are apparently not just watching the door but me specifically.
The doc also ordered blood tests to check me for any diseases and the results will be in tomorrow. He also confirmed that his nurse visited Riccardo’s office at the same time to draw his blood, and for some reason knowing we’re all set to do it bare again has me all hot and bothered.
Or it’s just the way his shirt looks on him. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but think about what comes after dinner, about him pulling me into the bedroom, about the way he touches me like he knows exactly how to tear me apart and put me back together again.
But instead of making some flirtatious comment, he mentions, casually, as if it’s nothing at all, “I saw your brother today.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My fork pauses halfway to my mouth, and I stare at him. My brother? He met with Mikhail? Without me?
“Excuse me?” My voice is sharper and I can’t hold back the edge of fury creeping into it. To be fair, I don’t even try.
What the hell is he thinking?
Riccardo raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my reaction but not apologetic in the slightest. “Mikhail. At the meeting with Gianna today. We discussed Dmitri—”
I’m up from my chair so fast, it scrapes against the floor, the sound piercing through the calmness of the room that was previously only interrupted by the clanking of pots coming from the kitchen where Mrs. Batton is probably dealing with some dishes.
“You met with Mikhail? And you didn’t think to tell me?” My heart pounds in my chest, rage curling hot and tight in my gut. “You had a meeting about my family and our operations, and I wasn’t there? You didn’t think maybe I should have been the one to tell him about our marriage?”
Riccardo’s brow furrows. “Anya, calm down. It wasn’t—”
“I will not calm down.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can even process them. “How dare you go behind my back like that!” The heat spreads through me, and I can feel my pulse racing. I feel blindsided, excluded.
Once again.
Why does this always happen? Is there something about me that seems too fucking incapable?
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out where all this is coming from. “It wasn’t like that, Anya.”
But it was like that. It was exactly like that. And worse—why hadn’t I told Mikhail myself? Why hadn’t I been the one to control how that information came out? Damn it, I missed my chance, and now I’m scrambling. My thoughts race, filled with all the things I should have done, should have said.
I can feel my face burning as I lash out at Riccardo. “You didn’t think it was important to let me know you were meeting him? My brother finds out from you that I’m married? What the hell is wrong with you?” I know the anger is spilling over from more than just this moment. It’s not just Riccardo who’s earned my fury, but myself, too. I should’ve told Mikhail already. I should’ve been the one in control. But instead, I let this happen, and now I’m left to pick up the pieces.
Again.
Because I always react to what others do, never take the initiative before I’m forced to.
The realization stings.
Riccardo stays calm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he listens to me rage. “You think I don’t respect you enough to include you? Is that what you think?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t have a response to that. Why should he trust me? Why should he respect me? He has no good reason to. Besides the fact that he can get me off like no one else, we barely really know each other.
All I know is that I’m furious with him, with myself, with everyone. It feels like the ground is shifting beneath me, like I’m losing control, and all I want to do is lash out. At Riccardo, at Mikhail, at Dmitri, at my dead father.
“This is my family, Riccardo. My brother. My business.” I point to my chest, as if reminding him. “I should have been there.”
It’s easier to focus on the one thing he fucked up, then to address the shit-storm of thoughts attacking me.
Riccardo’s expression darkens as I stand there, chest heaving, waiting for him to snap back. I don’t even know when I pushed my chair back and stood. Part of me expects him to yell, to remind me exactly who he is—Riccardo Angelo, boss of the Angelo syndicate, the man who could command a room full of killers with nothing but a look. Probably has done so a number of times. He’s not used to being questioned. His reputation precedes him. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience from anyone. But instead of shouting, instead of trying to overpower me, he just stares, his lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, I think I’ve pushed him too far. Maybe I’ve gone too far and this whole thing is going to blow up in my face.
But then, something shifts in his gaze, something darker, hotter. He gets up and steps forward, slow and deliberate, the intensity in his eyes making my heart pound for an entirely different reason. His eyes sweep over me, like he’s measuring the fire that’s coming out of me, taking it all in. The tension between us thickens, the air crackling with it. It’s like a goddamn movie.
“You’re angry,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. It’s not a question. He knows.
His fingers brush against the table as he leans in, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I went behind your back, and you’re not wrong to be mad, Anya.”
His words surprise me, but it’s not an apology. He takes another step, his presence dominating the space between us. My pulse quickens, but I refuse to back down.
“But let me remind you of something.” His voice drops lower, filled with the kind of authority that could make anyone else fold. “I do what needs to be done for us. For you.”
I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts me off, his fingers gripping my wrist, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space between us. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t know who you are. Don’t mistake me for my father.” The mention of his father doesn’t make sense, but Riccardo’s gaze only hardens, something fierce in it. “My mother never questioned him like this. She never challenged him.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, something raw, something painful. But then his grip tightens, and the heat between us shifts. “You’re not fragile, Anya. You’re not like her. And I like that. I fucking like that a lot.”
His words send a jolt through me, a mix of anger and something far more primal. Something needy. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his control is fraying. My breath hitches as his other hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“I’m not fragile,” I bite out, my voice sounding defiant even though I’m agreeing with him. I’m not some delicate woman who will sit on the sidelines and watch men make decisions about my life. Not anymore.
“No,” Riccardo murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re not.”
And then, before I can say another word, his lips crash down on mine, rough and demanding. The anger, the tension, the frustration between us—all of it explodes in that kiss. My hands instinctively grip his shirt, pulling him closer, as if I can’t get enough of him.
Because I can’t.
His hands roam over my body, fierce and possessive, and I meet his intensity, pouring every ounce of my anger and frustration into that kiss. I bite his lip, suck his tongue, do everything to show him that I can give as good as I can take. Desire makes my nipples harden and my pussy pulse with the need to be filled.
Riccardo lifts me effortlessly, pushing me onto the table, ignoring the glass that tips over and spills wine on the tablecloth. His mouth never leaves mine, his hands roaming down my waist to find the hem of my shirt. There’s no gentleness in the way he touches me—just raw, unrestrained need. I arch against him, matching his pace, my own body demanding more.
He pulls back for a moment, eyes dark and burning as he looks at me, his breath ragged. “You drive me crazy,” he growls, his hand cupping my face roughly.
“Good,” I whisper back, my voice breathless as my pulse races through my body.
And then, without another word, his mouth lands on mine again, and I forget everything except the way his body feels against mine. The fire between us burns hotter, consuming us in the heat of the moment, right there in the dining room, as if nothing else matters but this.
His hands don’t slide up my bare skin to explore. No, he grabs the hem of my shirt and rips it open so his mouth can claim my breasts and nipples as he pulls down my bra, exposing my tits.
Riccardo’s lips close around my nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, sending jolts of pleasure straight through me. I gasp, my head falling back, giving him more access as his teeth scrape against the delicate skin.
I should keep yelling at him, but damn , it feels so good.
My hands tangle in his hair, gripping hard enough to make him grunt. The sound sends another wave of heat through me, and I tug his head back, forcing him to look at me. His pupils are blown, his lips wet and slightly swollen.
“Is this your way of apologizing?”
Riccardo smirks as he grips my thighs and yanks me closer to the edge of the table, forcing my legs to wrap around his waist. “No, Cara . This is me proving a point.”
I barely have time to register his words before he’s kissing me again, all heat and possession. His hands find the waistband of my pants, tugging them down with no concern for buttons or zippers. The fabric catches against my hips, and I can feel the roughness of his palms as he pulls them lower, exposing my skin inch by inch.
“You don’t get to demand a place at the table when I meet with my allies,” he growls against my mouth, his fingers sliding under the edge of my panties. “You need to earn that.”
I dig my fingernails into his scalp, pulling his head so I can stare into his eyes. “And how do you propose I do that? By fucking you?” The disgust in my voice should make him feel guilty. Instead, he looks amused.
“No, Tesoro. We fuck, because you’re mine. We’ll deal with business later.”
The possessiveness in his tone should piss me off, but instead, it sends a thrill through me, and I grab his face, pulling him closer until I can feel his cock press against me through his pants.
“Then stop talking,” I snap, my nails digging into his shoulders. I’m still mad, but that doesn’t mean I have to skip out on the sex, right?
Riccardo’s answering growl reverberates against my chest as his hands move with purpose, tugging my panties aside and slipping between my thighs. His fingers find my slick heat, and I arch into him, every nerve ending in my body lighting up at his touch.
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “Careful what you wish for, Tesoro . You might just get more than you can handle.”
But the wicked gleam in his eyes promises he’s at least going to try.
I’m done talking, though, so I reach for his zipper and open his pants. His dick springs free and I wrap my hand around him, moving up and down, while his fingers continue to circle my clit and dip into my pussy. It feels fucking amazing.
Leaning against Riccardo, I nuzzle my face in the soft spot between his neck and shoulder, letting him work his magic while making sure his cock doesn’t feel left out. Except, Riccardo doesn’t seem to have any patience, because suddenly he pushes me backwards onto the table, grabbing my knees and pulling my legs up.
“I’m lying on a fork or something,” I protest, rudely pulled out of my horny frenzy by a hard object poking into my back.
Riccardo pauses, his brow furrowing as he looks down at me sprawled out on the table. His lips twitch like he’s fighting a laugh, and I glare up at him, the heat of the moment interrupted by some stupid cutlery digging into my back.
“Am I supposed to believe this is part of your grand seduction plan?” I snap, wiggling to dislodge whatever utensil is currently stabbing me.
He leans down, brushing his lips against mine with an infuriating softness. “Consider it a test of your resilience,” he murmurs, his voice barely containing his laughter.
I groan, shoving at his chest. “I swear, Riccardo, if I end up with a salad fork permanently embedded in my spine, you’re explaining it to the ER staff.”
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that sends a ripple of heat through me despite my annoyance. “Don’t worry, Cara . I’ll be gentle.”
“Gentle? You just threw me onto a fully set dining table like a barbarian.”
Riccardo straightens, smirking as he casually sweeps his arm across the table, sending plates, glasses, and utensils crashing to the floor in a cacophony of noise.
“Better?” he asks, his tone mockingly polite as he grabs my knees again, pulling me to the edge of the now-cleared surface.
I blink up at him, torn between frustration and begrudging amusement. “You’re paying for the damages.”
He leans down, his breath hot against my lips. “Worth every penny,” he says before capturing my mouth in a searing kiss that instantly erases any lingering annoyance. Or, at least, the annoyance over the stabbing. The rest of my anger is merely being restrained in favor of my more immediate needs.
Riccardo’s hands grip my thighs, spreading me wide, and I shiver at the way his gaze devours me.
“Now,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he positions himself at my entrance. “Let’s see if you can handle me.”
I smirk, defiant even as my body trembles with anticipation. “I’ve been handling men like you my whole life.”
“Men like me?” he asks, pressing just enough to make me gasp but holding back, teasing.
“Cocky, overconfident, and entirely too good-looking for your own good,” I reply, my nails digging into his arms.
Riccardo laughs, the noise sounding more dangerous than amused, as he finally thrusts into me, making me cry out in surprise and pleasure. “You’ve never met anyone like me, Anya,” he growls, and I can’t even argue because, in this moment, he’s absolutely right.
And then he fucks me until I shatter on that dining room table.