Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GIA
I’m going to be thinking about that race for a long, long time.
The water is too hot, steaming up the glass of the shower until the rest of the bathroom disappears.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile and let the spray hammer against my sore muscles.
My thighs ache from gripping Serafina’s sides, and my heart is still doing a slow, heavy thud-thud against my ribs.
He’s going to use that wish to ruin me.
The thought is a persistent hum in my skull.
Rafael is a man who plays for keeps, and I just handed him a blank check signed in my own blood.
I can still feel the way he looked under that oak tree—smug, predatory, and entirely too handsome for a man who skins people for a living.
I should be terrified. I should be planning my escape.
Instead, I’m wondering why he didn’t kiss me out there.
"Get it together, Gia," I mutter, splashing cold water on my face. "You’re a spy, not a groupie."
I dry off, slip into a silk robe that feels like a second skin, and remember I have a job to do. I told Carla I would get her the updated household inventory logs—or at least, that’s the excuse I gave her when she mentioned she would have to go to the study to get them.
It’s the perfect opening. A quick in-and-out, a glance at the desk, anything.
I make my way down the hall, my bare feet silent on the carpet. The house is quiet, the afternoon light fading into a bruised purple outside the windows. I reach the study and press my hand to the heavy oak door. It’s unlatched.
Lucky.
I slip inside, my eyes scanning the room for the inventory ledger. But the words die in my throat the moment I see him.
Rafael is standing by the window, his back to me.
He isn’t wearing a shirt. His black trousers are slung low on his hips, and he’s in the process of pulling a fresh shirt from the back of his chair.
He’s just returned from the shower as well, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that makes his muscles gleam like polished bronze in the twilight.
I should leave. I should turn around and walk out and pretend I didn't see the way his lats ripple as he moves. But I’m frozen.
Because I’ve never seen his back before.
It’s a map of a war I wasn't invited to. A jagged, silver scar runs from his shoulder blade down to his waist. There are smaller marks, too—pitted circles that look like old burns, a long, thin line across his lower back that looks like it came from a blade. It’s brutal. It’s horrifying.
And for some reason, I’m so turned on that I can’t stop looking.
He doesn't startle. He doesn't even turn around right away. He just stands there, his shoulders tensioning as he senses the change in the air. "The inventory logs are in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, Gia."
My voice is a dry rasp. "How did you—?"
"I know your scent. Jasmine and amber don't belong here." He turns around slowly, making no move to put the shirt on.
I swallow hard. Up close, the damage is even worse. There’s a scar on his chest, right over his heart, that looks like it was made by a bullet. He’s a walking ledger of every person who ever tried to put him in the ground.
He’s a monster. A beautiful, broken monster.
"Staring is rude. little Gia," he all but purrs and I bite my lips.
"I’ve never seen... I didn't know," I whisper, my eyes tracing the silver lines.
"Violence leaves marks. You of all people should know that." He doesn't move to cover himself. He just stands there, allowing me to look, his green eyes dark and unreadable. "Are you afraid?"
I think about it. I think about the basement. I think about the pliers and the blood. My nerves are screaming at me to run, but my heart? My heart is steady. "No. I’m not."
"Liar," he murmurs, though there’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
"I’m not," I say, finding my sass again. I take a step closer, my bare feet sinking into the rug. "Scars are just stories. I’m curious about the ending, that’s all."
"The ending is still being written." He watches me approach, his body perfectly still. "You’re free to approach, if you wish. I won't bite. Not unless you ask me to."
My heart does a violent somersault. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But my hand is already moving. I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly, and I touch the scar on his shoulder blade.
His skin is hot. Scorching. The muscle beneath is hard as stone, but he doesn't flinch. I trace the line down, my fingertips grazing the silver tissue. It feels different than the rest of him—smooth and tight.
"This one?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
"A knife in a Chicago alley. Fifteen years ago."
"And this?" I touch the mark over his heart.
"A parting gift from a man who didn't want to lose his territory. He missed by an inch."
The sexual tension in the room is so thick I could choke on it. He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my blood feel like it’s boiling. I’m tracing his history, and he’s watching me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
"Gia," he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"Yeah?"
"I know what my wish is."
I stop moving my hand. I look up at him, my breath catching. "You do?"
"I want you to come for me."
The words land like a blow to my stomach. I blink, my brain trying to process the command. "What?"
"The wager," he says, his eyes dropping to my mouth. "I won the race. I get a wish. And right now, I want to watch you come. For me. Alone."
Oh gods.
My face is an absolute inferno. "Rafael, you can't be serious. Right here? Now?"
"Are you refusing a debt, little Gia?" He steps closer, forcing me back against the edge of his heavy mahogany desk.
He doesn't touch me, but his heat is everywhere.
"I want to see what you look like when you lose control.
I want to see if the Ghost Heiress makes the same sounds as the woman who kissed me in the basement. "
"You're crazy," I hiss, but my body is already betraying me. I'm so wet I can feel the slickness against my thighs.
"I’m a man who won a bet." He gestures to the desk. "Strip for me."
I want to say no but I pull the tie of my robe without realizing what I’m doing. It falls open, sliding off my shoulders, leaving me completely bare in the dim light of the study. I feel exposed. Vulnerable.
"Sit," he commands. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide until there’s only a thin ring of green left.
I glare at him, my stubbornness fighting a losing battle against the sheer, animal magnetism of the man. Slowly, I sit on the edge of the desk. The wood is cool against my bare skin, a jarring contrast to the fire in my core.
"Push your legs up," he murmurs. "Open for me, Gia."
I glare at him and try to keep my knees together, to maintain some shred of my dignity, but Rafael isn't having it.
"I didn't say hide. I said open for me." He leans in closer, his face inches from mine. I can smell the cedar, the soap, and the dark, intoxicating scent of his arousal. "Hands behind you. Lean back. Push your legs up and show me exactly what I won."
I bite my lips and do it. I have to. My breath comes in shallow hitches as I spread my legs wide, exposing the dark, wet curls of my center to his unblinking stare. I feel a frantic, liquid pulse between my thighs, a needy throb that matches the beat of my heart.
"You're so fucking beautiful when you're being obedient," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the pink, swollen folds of my sex.
He stays back, hands still braced on the desk, his self-control a terrifying display of power.
"Touch yourself, Gia. I want to see how you do it when you think no one is looking.
I want to see how much you want me to replace your fingers with mine. "
I reach down. My fingers are slick the moment they touch me. I find the little bud of my clit and circle it, a low, broken sound escaping my throat.
"Faster," he growls. "Look at me, Gia. I want to see your eyes when the feeling takes over."
I look up. His eyes are two pits of dark, predatory green. He’s watching my hand move with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m being dismantled.
"L-Like this?" I pant, my hips starting to tilt up, seeking the friction.
"Yeah. Just like that. Tell me what it feels like, Gia. Tell me how it feels to have the Butcher watch you fall apart."
"I h-hate you," I moan, my head falling back, my hair spilling across the documents and maps I was supposed to be stealing. "I hate how much I... oh god..."
"Tell me who you're doing this for," he commands, his voice a low, dirty rasp that hits me like a physical caress. "Say my name."
"For you," I sob, my fingers working frantically now. I slide two fingers inside myself, my internal muscles clamping down on them instantly. I’m so tight, so full of him even without him touching me. "For you, Rafael!"
"Good girl. Now finish. Give me my wish."
I increase the pace, my thumb rubbing my clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.
I’m hovering on the edge, the tension coiled so tight in my lower belly it’s a physical pain.
I see him shift, his own jaw tightening, his breathing becoming a heavy, jagged echo of mine.
He looks wrecked, but he doesn't break. He doesn't touch me. He makes me earn it.
Then it hits.
A violent, liquid explosion that starts in my toes and slams through my entire body. I scream, my back arching off the desk, my internal muscles pulsing in a desperate, rhythmic sequence. I cum so hard I can’t see, the world turning into a blurred haze of pleasure and crushing shame.
I slump back against the desk, gasping for air, my hand falling away, slick and trembling.
Rafael stays there for a long moment, staring. He looks like a man who just watched a star collapse. Slowly, he stands up, his movements stiff. He reaches for his shirt on the chair, pulling it on with a deliberate, cold composure that makes the distance between us feel like an ocean.
"The logs are in the drawer," he says, his voice flat once more.
He turns to leave, and that’s when I see it.
His trousers are straining, the heavy, aggressive length of him putting a brutal tension on the fabric.
He’s stone-hard, his movements stiff and forced as he fights the urge to turn back and bury himself in me.
He walks with the measured, agonizing gait of a man holding back an avalanche.
He doesn't look back. Not once. He just reaches the door, his frame filling the entrance for a heartbeat, and then he’s gone, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
I stay there, naked and shivering on his desk, the scent of cedar and my own release heavy in the air.
What the fuck just happened?
The next evening, the high of the encounter is gone, replaced by the cold, biting reality of my life.
I’m in the small sitting room off the bedroom, trying to focus on anything that isn't the memory of my own moans echoing in Rafael’s study. A routine floral delivery arrived an hour ago—a massive, lavish arrangement of white lilies and roses.
"A congratulations on the wedding, Mrs. Caruso," Carla had said as she placed them on the side table.
I stare at the flowers. They’re beautiful. They’re also wrong. I recognize the way the stems are tied—the specific, intricate knot used by the florist my father has used for thirty years.
I wait until Carla is gone. I wait until the hallway is silent. Then, I approach the arrangement.
My fingers find the ribbon. Tucked beneath the silk is a small, metallic charm. It’s a silver wolf—the De Luca symbol.
Oh god.
My heart starts to hammer a frantic rhythm. I’m hyperventilating, the air feeling thin and sharp in my lungs. This isn't a gift. This is a threat.
I pull the charm free. It’s heavy. I notice a small seam along the wolf’s belly. I use my nail to pry it open, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it.
Inside is a tiny, folded slip of paper.
I unfold it with cold fingers. It’s a message, my father is losing his patience.
“If you refuse to answer the phone, I will be forced to motivate you. Laura misses you.”
I collapse into the armchair, the paper fluttering to the floor. Motivate me. He means he’ll hurt her. He’ll take the one thing in the world I love and use her to break me.
"I have to get back in there," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I have to find something. Now."
I stand up, my vision swimming. I head for the study, my mind a blur of panic and desperation. I reach the door and pull.
It’s locked.
The digital keypad is dark. I try to punch in the code I think it might be—Rafael’s birth year, the date of his first wife’s birth year—nothing.
"Damn it! Open, you piece of junk!" I hiss, pulling at the handle.
I’m looking for a tool, anything to pick the lock, when I hear footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Rafael.
I freeze. I have approximately three seconds to look like a normal human being and not a spy caught at a locked door. I spin around just as he rounds the corner.
"Gia? What are you doing out here?" He stops, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my flushed face and my trembling hands.
"I... I was looking for you," I blurt out.
"You were looking for me at my locked study door?" He steps into my space, his presence a physical weight.
"I thought you were inside. I wanted to... I wanted to talk about last night." I give him a shy, sassy half-smile, hoping the dim light hides the terror in my eyes. "I realized I never thanked you for the wish. It was... memorable."
Rafael’s expression softens, just a fraction. The predator retreats, replaced by the man who watched me cum on his desk. He reaches out, his thumb grazing my cheek. "You don't need to thank me for that, little Gia. I enjoyed the view."
"I bet you did," I say, my heart still trying to leap out of my chest. "Are you going back to work?"
“Not really. Why?"
"Oh nothing." I reach out, my fingers curling into his shirt. "I’m bored. And I think I need someone to talk to."
He looks at me for a long moment, searching my face. I hold his gaze, my stubbornness acting as a shield for the panic underneath.
"Fine," he says, his voice low. "Let’s go."
"Let’s," I grin, pulling him toward the bedroom.
He follows me, but I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. I’ve bought myself an hour. Maybe two.
I will try again, I promise myself as I lead him away from the secrets that could kill me. I will find a way. For Laura.