Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Lucia
Gloomy weather, skyscrapers that block the sky by day and swallow the stars at night, endless traffic and noise. That’s Chicago.
It’s nothing like Rome. Everything here is steel and stone, even the people.
Even with the car window rolled down, I can’t breathe. The blaring sounds of traffic only make it worse. When my guard silently rolls the window back up, I don’t argue.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t risk being recognized.”
His apology doesn’t matter. I don’t even look at him.
The moment we get home, I head straight to the shower. I turn on the hot water and sit on the white marble floor beneath the stream.
There’s no peace here either. I don’t know which idiot designed this place, but I feel trapped in a glass prison. Every corner, even the bathroom, opens to a view of Chicago’s cold, soulless skyline.
The entire penthouse is floor-to-ceiling glass. I’m completely exposed. There’s no privacy. I feel like I’m always being watched, like the whole world can see me.
It’s past midnight, and I’m still tossing and turning in bed. It’s been two weeks since I left Italy with Tony. Two weeks since I left behind a land I’m not sure I’ll ever set foot on again.
The longing for my homeland sits heavy in my chest, like the grief of losing a beloved family member. I’ve left everything behind—my country, my brother, my husband—everything. I’ve put everyone in danger, all for my own sake.
I’m sick with worry for all of them, and Tony won’t tell me anything. He’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t know when he comes or goes, or if he comes at all. The only time I’ve seen him was early one morning when he walked into the apartment. That’s it.
Finally, the anxiety gets the better of me. I slip on my robe and head barefoot toward Tony’s room. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen carefully. The sound of running water tells me he’s home.
I knock softly a few times, and when there’s no response, I hesitantly open the door. The moment I step into his room, the water shuts off. A second later, Tony walks out of the bathroom and looks straight at me.
He’s fully dressed. Water drips from his dark hair onto his neck, and his eyes are bloodshot. My gaze drifts to his shirt, which is splattered with blood and torn at the cuff.
The full-length glass window behind him frames his silhouette against the city skyline, filled with towering skyscrapers. He looks like a villain—a dark, ruthless antihero of this iron city.
He averts his gaze and walks to the bedside cabinet. From the drawer, he pulls out a blister pack of pills, pops one into his mouth, and tosses the pack onto the table before sitting on the edge of the bed.
As he begins unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt, I step into the bathroom and return with a dry towel. Standing directly in front of him, I gently rub the towel over his wet hair.
He doesn’t protest my actions, silently continuing to undo his buttons. He shrugs off the shirt and tosses it aimlessly into a corner.
Perhaps any other woman in my place would have been terrified and demanded answers. But the similarities between our families unite Tony and me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen my father or brothers come home covered in blood.
“How was the baby?”
His voice pulls me from my thoughts. I pull the towel away and meet his tired eyes. “The doctor was happy with everything. He prescribed some pills and vitamins for my nausea and gave me a long lecture about eliminating stress from my life.”
He loosens my robe and kisses the small curve of my stomach through the lace.
“It’s growing,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “Not moving yet?”
I toss the towel onto the bed, and run my fingers through his damp hair. “No, it’s still too early. But the next time I go for a checkup, I’ll find out the gender.”
“Good. This time, I’ll make sure I’m there.”
His strong arms coil around me like a serpent, pulling me close before settling me onto his lap. One hand slides up, weaving through my long hair, coming to rest against the base of my skull. He applies gentle pressure, tilting my head downward so he can kiss me.
I wrap one arm around his shoulder and the other around his neck, returning his kiss. His fingers press into my skin and scalp, grounding me in the moment. His kiss is soft, filled with emotion.
I close my eyes and surrender myself to the pleasure. For all his roughness, his lack of emotion, and his cruelty, this man is the only love I’ve ever known.
We fall into an easy rhythm, like we’ve done this a hundred times. We take turns savoring each other’s lips, tasting each other’s mouths.
He tightens his grip on my waist, pulling me flush against his groin. The hardness of his arousal pressing against mine draws a moan from both of us, swallowed by each other’s mouths.
Months have passed since the last time we were together, yet I want him with the same passion and intensity.
I tilt my head to deepen the kiss, and the sound of our wet kisses fills the room. His fingers tangle in my hair as his lips claim mine with more force. I clutch his damp hair in my hand, my nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.
Without breaking the kiss, he slides the robe off my body and gently lifts me.
He turns me around and lays me down on my back against the bed. His trail of kisses moves toward my neck, his fingers slipping under the straps of my lace nightgown.
As his lips explore my body, trailing lower with every kiss, he pulls the short gown off me. Now, with nothing but a lace thong between us, I’m writhing beneath him.
His hands settle just below my hips, and through the delicate lace, he presses a wet kiss against the soft flesh between my thighs. My legs go weak. I press my hand against his head and call his name.
He moves up my body, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of me, one hand braced beside my head. The other slips beneath the delicate lace of my panties, starting a sweet, torturous rhythm against my clit.
I run my hand over his chiseled chest, tracing down to the V-shaped line at his lower abdomen. He nips at my bottom lip, and I arch my hips into his hand, desperate for more.
I want him. With everything I have, I want him.
I want his heavy weight pressing me down. I want to feel him, to be filled by him. I want to journey to a city of sin and pleasure and lose myself in desire.
But first I need to get this question out of my head.
Cupping his face in my hands, I kiss him deeply, letting my lips linger against his. I suck on his warm lips one after the other, losing myself in the moment.
But as I gasp for breath, consumed by lust, the stupidest question I could possibly ask escapes my lips. “Tony, what happened in Italy after we left? Is Carlo okay?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know how stupid they were. But it’s too late—the arrow’s already left the bow, the bomb already triggered, now detonating inside him.
At first his hand freezes on my body. The vein in his neck bulges. His jaw clenches so tightly I can hear the grinding of his teeth.
The storm of anger and hatred in his eyes churns my heart, twisting it painfully. I can’t bear the coldness of his gaze, so I look away.
I stumble over my words, trying to fix the mess I just made. “Tony, I just…I need to free my mind, to lift this weight off my shoulders.”
He exhales heavily, slowly pulls his hand out of my panties, and gets off the bed without a word. Without looking at me, he lights a cigarette, walks to the balcony door, and opens it.
Turning back toward me, he takes a long drag, then exhales a thick cloud of smoke, his face partially obscured by the haze.
“Off your shoulders…or off your heart?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.
His whole body radiates threat. Being completely naked only makes me feel more vulnerable.
I sit up and reach for my robe on the floor. I try to stay calm, but my heart races like a bird trapped in a hunter’s net. Gripping the collar of my robe tightly, I murmur, “I know I didn’t choose the best time to ask. I’m sorry, but—”
“You’re right.” He cuts me off, the mask of composure still firmly in place. “Asking about your dear husband’s well-being while you’re fucking my fingers doesn’t make much sense, does it? If there was an award for the most tactless woman alive, you’d win it hands down, princess.”
Even though his words cut deep, I swallow the insult because I know I brought this on myself. Still, I make a desperate attempt to explain.
“Try to understand, Tony. For the past two weeks, I’ve been eaten alive by the consequences of what I did.
I can’t stop thinking that innocent people might’ve gotten hurt because of me, and it’s killing me.
I just need to know if Carlo and Emily are okay, not because I care about them, but because of the guilt I can’t shake.
Even asking about them now is selfish, I know.
I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I never see you.
I don’t know when you’re home or when you’re gone.
You come back late at night; we don’t even share a room. ”
He exhales a thick cloud of smoke, a mocking grin curling at the corner of his lips. “Would you have preferred sleeping in my bed, sweetheart?”
His gaze and voice drip with so much contempt that I can only stare at him in despair. Holding his cigarette between two fingers, he gestures toward his king-sized bed and says,
“I’ve fucked plenty of women in this bed.
Women from all walks of life—models, actresses, politicians, businesswomen.
The one thing they all had in common was that whatever they were outside this room, they left it at the door.
Once they stepped inside, they had only one role, Antonio Bruni’s whore.
They’d please me in this bed, get dressed, pick up the personas they’d left behind, and walk out. None of them had the privilege of spending the night in my bed. No one was ever granted that honor.”