6. Alessio #2
She opens her eyes. They’re dark, swimming with emotion. There’s no more sassy armor, no more forensic distance. Just her.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” I whisper, my forehead against hers.
I thrust.
I’m slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of her as I sink into her heat. She’s even tighter than I imagined. She takes all of me, her body drawing me deeper with every breath. She lets out a long, low groan, her legs locking around my waist, pulling me deeper.
“Oh god, Alessio.”
I bottom out, my balls slapping against her.
I stay there for a moment, buried to the hilt, just breathing her in.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s not just the physical pleasure; it’s the sense of completion.
For eleven years, I’ve been defined by what I lost. Right now, holding her, I remember I am still alive.
I start to move. Slow, heavy thrusts that grind my pelvis against hers. I want her to feel the weight of me. I want her to understand that this isn’t casual. Nothing about her has been casual from the second she opened my clinic door.
I grunt it with every downward stroke: “My woman. My life.”
She’s moaning now, a constant, melodic sound that fuels the fire in my blood. She moves with me, her hips meeting mine, her hands wandering over my back, her nails digging into my skin. I welcome the pain. It’s proof that this is real.
I pick up the pace, my thrusts becoming more frantic, more feral. I’m losing control. The vault is breaking wide open, everything I’ve kept buried spilling out into the way I’m taking her. I’m not a surgeon anymore. I’m not a protector. I’m just a man who needs this woman like he needs oxygen.
“Faster,” she whimpers. “Please, Alessio. Harder.”
I grab her hips, my fingers bruising her skin, and I hammer into her. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room, a wet, rhythmic slapping that drowns out the world. I can feel her clenching around me, her second climax building.
“Tell me,” I roar, my voice breaking. “Tell me this is what you want.”
“You,” she cries out, her eyes rolling back. “Right now, Alessio. I’m here.”
She hits her peak again, her internal muscles clamping down on my cock so hard I nearly come right then. I hold on, pushing through the blinding pleasure, giving her three more deep, soul-shattering thrusts before I let go.
I roar as I spill into the condom, my entire body convulsing. I bury my face in her shoulder, my teeth grazing her skin, as the world dissolves into white light and the thundering of my own heart.
I check the bandage on her arm before I let myself move her, and only then do we stay tangled together for a long moment. The steam has cleared, the air cooling against our sweat-slicked skin. I don’t want to move. I want to live in this moment forever.
Eventually, I pull back, though I keep my arms around her. I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. She looks soft. Vulnerable. It’s a look I know she doesn’t show anyone else, and the knowledge of that is a victory greater than any I’ve won in this war.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice still thick.
“Yeah,” she breathes, a small, tired smile playing on her lips. “I think… I think I might have to unpack a few more things.”
I chuckle, the sound low in my chest. “Good. I’ll make room for them.”
I help her down, my hands lingering on her skin. I lead her to the bed, the large, dark-wood frame that has felt like a tomb for so long. Tonight, it feels like a sanctuary. I pull the covers over us, tucking her against my side. Her head rests on my chest, her hand splayed over my heart.
After my life, the silence doesn’t feel lonely.
But the peace doesn’t last. It never does in this house.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I’m reaching for it before the second vibration. A specific rhythm. An emergency alert from the family’s encrypted network.
I reach for it, my jaw tightening. Amara shifts, sensing the change in my energy.
“What is it?” she asks, sitting up, the sheet falling to her waist.
I read the message. It’s from Vincenzo, the brother who handles our tech and surveillance.
Targeted hit on the transport convoy near the South Side docks averted. Anonymous tip on the burner line, 43rd Street route, five minutes before the ambush—same line as the last two. Our guys are safe. No casualties.
I stare at the screen, the words blurring. This is the third time this month. I’ve been tracking these anonymous tips for weeks—each one perfect, delivered at the eleventh hour, saving Costa lives.
My mind flashes to the dinner table. To the warm, crinkled eyes of Turi, the man who held the family together after the massacre. The man I have needed to believe was the anchor of this family for twenty years.
An anonymous tip.
I think about the digital footprint Amara found. The traffic originating from inside the compound. The hidden switch on Vane’s network that only someone with intimate knowledge of our history could have helped build.
The savior and the traitor may be wearing the same face.
I look at Amara, and I see the reflection of my own suspicion in her eyes. She’s a forensic accountant; she knows that patterns don’t lie.
“Another tip?” she asks, reading the message over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say, my grip on the phone tightening until the casing creaks. “Someone inside this house knew about the ambush. And they decided to save my brothers.”
“But they’re also feeding information to Vane,” she reminds me.
“They’re playing both sides,” I mutter. “Feeding Vane with one hand and dragging my brothers out of the line of fire with the other.”
The weight of the secret settles back onto my shoulders, heavier than ever. But this time, I’m not carrying it alone. I look at the woman beside me—the woman who stayed with me in a bathroom while the war waited outside the door.
I pull her back into my arms, burying my face in her hair. I can feel the traitor’s presence in the house like a cold draft under a door. I don’t know who it is yet. But the doctor in me has started running the differential, and I hate every name on the list.
The pattern only fits one way, and I will burn the pattern before I let it fit.