Chapter 35
GIA
"You’re a lot prettier up close, Mrs. Caruso. I was beginning to think Rafael was keeping you locked away because he was afraid of the competition."
The voice is thick, smelling of expensive gin and a level of entitlement that only comes with a very large bank account and a very small amount of common sense.
I don’t recognize the man—some minor associate from the northern territories, no doubt—but I recognize the look in his eyes.
It’s the same predatory sheen I saw on Cosimo Arcuri right before he’d decide to remind me I was his property.
He’s been talking for five minutes and I’ve been trying to get rid of him. He either doesn’t care or he’s too stupid to realize I don’t want him near me. Or both.
Rafael went to talk to a business partner five minutes ago and this bastard won’t leave me alone.
"I’m not locked away," I say, my voice sliding into that cool, sharp register that usually acts as a deterrent. "I’m simply selective about the company I keep."
He doesn't take the hint. Instead, he laughs, a wet, sloppy sound, and steps closer into my personal space. "Selective? Or just waiting for someone who knows how to handle a woman with your... history? I heard you like it when the world gets a little chaotic."
Before I can retort, I feel it. His hand, heavy and damp, sliding from the small of my back down to the curve of my hip, his fingers digging into my dress as he tries to pull me flush against him.
The world snaps.
Suddenly, I’m not in a neon-lit club. I’m back in the library with Cosimo.
The air feels thin. The walls are closing in.
My heart isn't beating; it’s a frantic, jagged thing trying to tear its way out of my throat.
I freeze, my breath hitching, the phantom weight of a dead man’s hand suddenly feeling very, very real.
"Take your hand off her."
The voice is low, a vibrating rumble of pure, unadulterated lethal intent.
I blink, and the neon returns. Rafael is there. He isn't making a scene. He’s just standing two feet away, his green eyes turned into flat, dark voids of obsidian. The air around him seems to vibrate with a pressure that makes the music in the room feel like a distant whisper.
"Caruso," the man stammers, his hand dropping as if my dress has suddenly turned into white-hot iron. "I was just... we were just talking."
"You weren't talking. You were touching what belongs to me." Rafael steps forward, his movement so economical it’s terrifying. He grabs the man by the lapels of his suit, his good hand tightening until the man’s face begins to turn a mottled shade of purple.
"And I don't like other men touching my things. Especially when she looks like she’s seen a ghost."
"Rafael, don't," I whisper, my voice trembling.
He doesn't listen. He drives the man back against a marble pillar, the sound of the impact echoing over the bass. A short, sharp punch to the gut follows, a measured, clinical strike that leaves the man gasping on the floor. It isn't a brawl; it’s an execution of dignity.
Security is there in seconds—Luca and two of Dante’s men. They don't ask questions. They just scoop the man up and vanish into the shadows of the corridor.
Rafael doesn't look at them. He doesn't look at the crowd that has gone silent. He turns to me, his focus narrowing until I’m the only thing in his universe. His face is a mask of cold, terrifying authority, the 'Butcher' in full view, but when his eyes land on mine, the ice cracks.
"Gia," he says, his hand coming up to cup my face. His palm is hot, his thumb grazing my cheek. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"
"No," I rasp, my breath finally returning in a jagged rush. "No, I’m fine. I just... I wasn't expecting it."
"You're shaking," he mutters, his eyes scanning every inch of me, looking for marks, for bruises, for any sign of distress. He ignores the throbbing of his own wounded shoulder, ignores the fact that he just risked a public diplomatic incident for a grope. "Luca! Get the car. Now."
The drive back to the estate is silent.
The tension in the SUV is a physical thing, thick and suffocating.
Rafael is sitting next to me, his jaw tight, his right hand locked onto mine so hard I can feel the rhythm of his pulse through my skin.
He doesn't look at the window. He just stares ahead, his mind clearly working through the violence of the evening.
"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly, the sass I usually use as a shield feeling too heavy to lift. "It was just a drunk idiot."
"It wasn't just a drunk idiot," Rafael snaps, his voice raw. "He touched you. He made you go somewhere else in your head, Gia. I saw your eyes. You weren't in that club anymore."
I look down at our joined hands. "I haven't... I haven't felt safe like that in a long time. Since before Cosimo."
He pulls the car into the driveway of the estate, the gravel crunching under the tires like breaking bone.
He doesn't wait for the driver to open the door. He’s out and around, pulling me from the seat and leading me into the house.
The guards melt away as we pass, sensing the storm brewing in the Master’s wake.
We reach the bedroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind us. The room is dim, lit only by the moon and the faint glow of the garden lights. Rafael turns to me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me flush against him.
"I need to know you're here," he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. "I need to know he didn't take anything from you."
"He didn't," I say, my hands finding the lapels of his jacket, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world made of smoke. "You’re the first person... the only person, Rafael... who has ever made me feel like I wasn't just a prize to be defended. You made me feel safe. Truly safe."
He freezes.
The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy with the things we haven't said. I can feel his heart thudding against my chest—slow, powerful, and utterly terrifying. He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his green gaze searching mine for the lie.
"I love you, Gia."
The words land like a grenade. I freeze, my breath stopping in my lungs. My mind frantically tries to find a sassy comeback, a stubborn refusal, a way to laugh it off. But the look in his eyes... it’s unguarded.
"Rafael..."
"I didn't want to," he continues, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. "I spent years building a wall so high I thought nothing could get over it. I thought I was done with this shit. And then you walked into my life and you just... you took it all down. Piece by goddamn piece."
I love him.
The realization is a scream in my head.
I love the man I’m supposed to be killing. I love the Butcher who just told me I’m his quiet space.
I don't say it back. I can't. The words are trapped behind the silver wolf charm and the countdown clock.
But I don't retreat. I step toward him instead, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.
I pull his head down, my mouth meeting his in a kiss that isn't about lust or power. It’s about a desperate, starving need for connection.
"Please, Rafael. Just... keep me here," I whisper against his lips.
He groans, a low, primal sound, and lifts me off my feet. He’s still wounded, his shoulder still bandaged, but he doesn't seem to care. He carries me to the bed, laying me down with a tenderness that makes my throat ache.
"I want to feel you. All of you. I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” I say.
The zip yields. The dress falls open, a pool of fabric around my hips. His eyes drink me in, dark and hungry and full of something I can’t name—something softer than possession, sharper than lust. He leans down, his mouth finding mine again.
This kiss starts slow. A soft press of lips.
A tasting. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, and I open for him.
Our tongues meet, a hot, wet slide that sends a shudder straight through my center.
I moan into him, my hands clutching his hair, pulling him deeper.
The kiss turns urgent, messy. We’re breathing each other’s air, sharing saliva, losing ourselves in the wet, frantic connection.
His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, down my neck.
He sucks there, a sharp, delicious pressure that makes me moan.
“Gia,” he rasps, his mouth moving lower.
He kisses my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. His hands push the dress away completely, leaving me bare. He looks at me, his gaze a physical touch. “You’re fucking stunning,” he says, the words rough and honest.
Then his mouth is on my breast. Not just a kiss.
He takes my nipple into his mouth, suckling hard, his tongue circling the tight peak.
The sensation is a lightning strike. A sharp, sweet ache that radiates out, making my stomach clench and my thighs tremble.
I cry out, a ragged sound. “Fuck, Rafael… right there.”
He moves to the other breast, same treatment, same devastating effect. His hands aren’t idle. One palm skims down my ribs, over my hip, to the outside of my thigh. His fingers dig into my flesh, holding me open for him. The other hand strokes my stomach, lower, lower, until his thumb finds my clit.
He doesn’t just brush it. He presses. A firm, deliberate circle that makes my whole body jerk. “You’re so wet for me,” he growls, his mouth still working my breast. “I can feel it. I want to taste it.”
He shifts, sliding down my body. His kisses become a trail—my stomach, the sensitive skin just above my hip bone, the inside of my thigh. Each kiss is a brand. Each one makes me gasp. He’s mapping me, claiming me with his mouth.
Then he’s there. Between my legs. He looks up at me, his eyes black with want. “Tell me what you want, Gia.”
“I want your mouth on me,” I pant. “I want you to lick my clit until I scream. I want you to fuck me with your tongue.”
A dark smile touches his lips. “Good.”