Chapter 43 Massimo #3
She arches, a low, broken sound humming through her as I work her open with my tongue.
She's swollen and sensitive, still throbbing from the last round.
I want to leave her raw from pleasure, ruined for anyone but me.
I take my time, savoring every gasp, every involuntary flutter of her stomach.
My fingers dig into her hips, holding her steady while I lap and tease, circling her clit slowly, never quite giving her what she wants until she's panting, nails carving crescents into my shoulders.
She tries to speak, to protest or beg, but all that comes out are little whimpers, the kind that make my chest ache with something savage and ancient.
I look up at her, and her eyes meet mine, dark, wild, pleading.
She's never looked at me like this, and the sight nearly undoes me.
This is the real her, the core of her, unguarded and desperate. I want to memorize it.
I slide a finger inside her, gentle and slow, and she chokes on a moan, thighs clamping tight around my head.
I keep going, patient and relentless, working her until she's shaking all over, sweat slicking her skin.
With every surge of pleasure, she calls my name, voice breaking, and I drink it in.
I want her to remember this, the way I touch her, the way I break her apart and hold her together at the same time.
I want this to be the standard she measures all other touch against, for the rest of her life.
She comes once, hard, her whole body curling tight as a bowstring. I don't stop. I keep licking, coaxing every last tremor out of her, pushing her higher and higher until she's sobbing with the force of it. I love her like this, unfiltered and raw, not hiding behind armor or anger. Just need.
When she can't take anymore, I crawl up her body, trailing kisses over her stomach, her rib cage, the tattoo twin of mine, her breasts, the fluttering pulse at her throat.
She's limp and shaking, a mess of tangled hair and flushed skin.
I crush my mouth to hers, letting her taste herself on my tongue, and she kisses me back with a kind of reckless gratitude that splits me open.
She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down until our bodies are flush, and I can feel every tremor of her aftershocks rippling through her.
My hands are everywhere—her hair, her jaw, her breasts—mapping her all over again, greedy for new territory.
She clings to me, nails raking down my back, urging me closer, deeper, more.
I line up against her, slow and deliberate, and push inside.
She's so slick and tight I nearly lose it right there, but I grit my teeth and force myself to go slow.
I want to remember this night for the rest of my life.
Her legs come up around my waist, and she pulls me in, hips rolling to meet mine.
It's different this time, less hunger, more ache.
The kind of ache that's almost unbearable, because it's not just about getting off; it's about giving her something she can't get anywhere else.
She comes twice more before I pull out, flip her over, and put her on her hands and knees, her face buried in a pillow to muffle the sounds.
I make it last as long as I can, but she's too tight, too hot, and I'm too far gone.
I finish hard, clutching her hips, grinding deep until I'm sure she knows who she belongs to.
After, I collapse next to her, pulling her onto my chest, kissing the sweat off her forehead. She laughs, breathless, and pushes at my shoulder.
"You're insatiable," she whispers.
"I've waited a decade for you," I say, and it's only half a joke.
She kisses me, slow and sweet, and then we both drift for a while, lost in the warm dark.
She sleeps. Curled into my chest, trusting in a way that feels almost violent after the day we've had. I keep my arm around her, fingers resting lightly at her waist, afraid that if I move too much, I'll wake her, or worse, discover this isn't real.
I don't close my eyes. My body is spent.
My mind is not. I listen to her breathe and think about how easily everything I've ever wanted fits into this one quiet moment.
Her. Our son, asleep down the hall. The illusion—no, the promise—of something like peace.
And the beginning of a new life inside her.
Inside the only woman I ever loved. It will be like I finally get something back from what was stolen from me.
I'll make every second up to Amauri. I swear. And her.
It's enough to make a man careless. So I don't let myself sink into it.
My thoughts slide backward instead, to the hum of engines and cold air rushing past an open hatch door in the compartment room of the jet—a room installed just for this purpose.
To Joaquín, bound and broken, no longer screaming. No longer bargaining.
That was when he finally talked. Not when the pain peaked. Not when fear did its usual work. But when he realized he was already dead and nothing he said could change that.
Right before we pushed him out, he lifted his head and laughed, a wet, disbelieving sound. "You think this ends with me. That's what he wants you to think."
I remember leaning in, close enough that he could see his reflection in my eyes.
"He?" I asked. I had an idea who he was talking about; he had already mentioned him, but I had to hear it again.
Joaquín swallowed. Hard. "El Recaudador."
The name tasted like ash.
"He knows about your family," Joaquín went on. "Not the ones you killed. The ones you made." His gaze flicked, pointed, knowing. "He's not interested in territory. He's interested in choice."
I told him he was stalling.
He shook his head. "No. I'm warning you."
The wind roared louder then, drowning out the rest, but not before he said one last thing, quiet, certain, almost reverent. "He doesn't collect the past. He collects what men would burn the world to protect."
The memory sits heavy in my chest now. I look down at Jenna, at the soft line of her mouth, the way her brow smooths when she sleeps. I think of Amauri, sprawled across his bed like the world has never hurt him and never will. I understand it then.
There is no way that Joaquín or El Recaudador—what a ridiculous name—knew about them. Not yesterday. No, he was talking about my other family. The one that took a decade to build. With Enzo, Alessio, Gabe, and Damiano at the top.
This isn't about revenge. Or expansion. Or power.
This is about leverage.
I press a kiss into Jenna's hair, careful not to wake her.
El Recaudador will find out about her and my son.
Likely not today. Maybe not even tomorrow, but it will be sooner rather than later.
Let him come, I think, the resolve settling in cold and steady.
If El Recaudador wants what I'd burn the world for, he's welcome to try.
But there are lines you cross only once. And this time, I won't be the one paying for someone else's lies.
The sky is just beginning to pale when I step out onto the balcony.
Las Vegas stretches below me, restless even at dawn.
Neon still burns in places it shouldn't.
The city never truly sleeps; it just pretends to.
There is a lull right about this time, when normal people get up.
I rest my forearms on the railing, breathe in the desert air, and let the cool seep into my bones.
Once, this view meant dominion. Control.
A kingdom I built with blood and patience and an unshakable belief that I understood every moving piece.
Now it means something else. Behind me, Jenna sleeps. Down the hall, our son dreams. The city looks the same as it always has, but I don't. The phone vibrates in my hand before it rings. Gabe.
I answer without speaking.
"There's something you need to hear," he announces. No preamble. No wasted words.
I straighten slightly. "Go ahead."
"I got a call." His voice is tight. Alert. "Unknown number, probably from a burner, no ID."
I straighten slightly, premonition filling my bones. "And?"
"It was a man. The guy knew who he was calling. Knew who I worked for." A beat. "I've already got Alessio tracing it. He's pulling everything: latency, relay points, ghost servers. Whoever this is didn't come in sloppy."
"What did he want?" I demand, wishing Gabe would get to the point and dreading it at the same time.
Gabe exhales. "It wasn't a threat."
That makes my jaw tighten.
"It was an offer," he adds carefully.
I close my eyes.
"Let me guess."
"Join me," Gabe's voice drops, "and live. Stay with Manetti… and die."
The words settle over me like frost.
"He give a name?" I ask, though my pulse has already shifted.
A pause. Then, quieter, "Yeah."
I open my eyes and look back out over the city as the first line of sun cuts across the skyline. Already guessing his answer.
"El Recaudador."
Of course.
"When?" I ask.
"No deadline," Gabe replies. "Which feels intentional. Like he assumes you'll understand the urgency on your own."
I almost smile.
"He knows me," I wager.
"Yes," Gabe agrees. "That's one of the things that worries me."
"One of the things?" I repeat, dragging the words out.
There's a pause on the line. Too long. I shift my weight and lean back against the railing, the cool metal biting into my spine as the city wakes below me. Of course there's more.
"Gabe," I say quietly.
He exhales. "I wasn't the only one who got the call."
I close my eyes for a beat. "Who else?"
Another pause. Then, flat. Controlled. "Everyone."
My fingers tighten around the edge of the railing. "Define everyone."
"All four of us, Me, Enzo, Damiano, and Alessio," He fills me in. "From there, it kept going. Lieutenants. Runners. Dealers. As far down as we can trace it." My jaw locks. "Further," he adds. "Strippers. Hookers. Cocktail waitresses. Anyone even loosely tied to your operation."
I let out a short, humorless breath. Not a laugh. Not quite. "Jesus Christ."
Gabe lets out a nervous laugh. "Whoever this fucker is, he's thorough."
I open my eyes and stare out at the Strip, watching the sun climb higher, gilding the very thing someone is trying to shake apart.
"He's not just trying to get my attention," I conclude. "He's rattling the foundation of my empire, seeing what cracks first."
"Yes," Gabe agrees. "He wants you to look over your shoulder and not trust anyone."
I rake a hand through my hair. "Any idea who it is? Voice recognition? Accent? Anything?"
"If I had that," Gabe snaps, then catches himself. "If any of us did, I would've led with it."
I let the comment go. He's on edge. I have a feeling we all will be until this fuck is found. And we will find him.
"Alessio's still tracing?" I ask.
"He hasn't stopped."
I look back toward the glass behind me, where Jenna sleeps, where my son is dreaming, unaware that the ground beneath us just shifted.
This isn't about territory. It isn't even about me.
This is about destabilization. About planting doubt.
About making every single person under my roof wonder if loyalty is a death sentence. And fuck me—it's working.
"Listen to me," I order finally. "No one moves. No one responds. No one gets clever."
"Understood."
"He wants a choice," I continue. "I'm not giving him one."
I end the call and stay where I am, gripping the railing as the city fully wakes, bright and loud and deceptively intact.
The bastard isn't just coming for my kingdom.
He's trying to make it eat itself from the inside out.
As much as I hate to admit it, he picked the right pressure point.
But not for long. I turn back inside. War is coming.
And I have a feeling it's going to get ugly.