Chapter 33
LORENZO
She chose me. The thought won’t leave. Occupying space that’s been vacant longer than I want to count. Her words still in the air.
I thought about it. For one second. And then I chose you.
My hands are on her face. Scarred palms against her cheekbones. Her eyes wet. Her mouth swollen from the kiss I gave her.
“Lorenzo.” Quiet. Certain. Like a fact she’s decided on.
I have killed more people than I can count and my hands have never shaken. They’re shaking now. Her fingers come up to my wrists. Not pulling. Holding. Steadying me.
“I know.”
“Kiss me again.”
I do. Slower this time. She makes a sound against my lips that settles low in my spine.
I stop. Force myself to look at her. Stay.
For years, I fucked in the dark. No names. No staying. Those rules kept me alive. Every one of them kept me from this.
“I want to see you.” Rough. “All of you.”
“Then look.”
I reach for her shirt. Slow. She lifts her arms. I pull the fabric and she unhooks the bra herself. Lets it fall. Collarbone. The fading bruise at her hip. Ribs expanding with each breath.
She reaches for my shirt. My hand catches her wrist. Instinct. A decade of reflex.
Her eyes find mine. She doesn’t pull. Doesn’t push. Just waits.
I let go. She lifts the shirt over my head.
I stand there. The knife scar across my ribs. The burn on my shoulder. The line under my collarbone. The ink. Family crest over my heart.
Her fingers find the knife scar. Light. She traces the ridge from start to end. I hold still because the sensation is foreign. Not pain. Not a threat. She moves to the burn. Maps it. Then the collarbone line. Each scar acknowledged.
I take her hand. Press it flat over the crest. Over my heart.
Her palm cups the beat. Steady. She presses harder. Like she’s counting. Like they belong to her.
They do.
I guide her to the bed. Her legs hit the edge. She sits. I stand between her knees. She reaches for my belt. Unbuckles it. The sound of leather. She pushes the pants down and I step out of them. She wraps around me, stroking, watching my face like she’s memorizing every reaction.
“You look at me like that and I won’t last.”
“That’s the idea.”
Her grip releases. She shifts back on the mattress.
I follow, sitting on the edge beside her.
She reaches to the nightstand drawer. She pulls out the blindfold.
The same strip of dark fabric I tied over her eyes in this room.
The one I used so she couldn’t watch me go gentle.
So she couldn’t see what I did when I thought she wasn’t looking.
“My turn.”
Her hand finds my chest. Pressing back. I let her.
The mattress catches me.
Every muscle locks.
“You put this on me so I couldn’t see you being so caring.” She holds the fabric between us. “Now I’m putting it on you.”
“Isabella.”
“Do you trust me?”
My own question. Dished back.
“Yes.” No hesitation. Not the pause she needed weeks ago when I asked her the same thing. Just the word.
“Close your eyes.”
I close them. The fabric settles. She ties it behind my head. Checking the tension the way I checked it on her.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
Everything goes dark. My teeth clench. My shoulders coil. Giving me the space to fight through what the dark does to a man who built his whole life around seeing the threat first.
She doesn’t touch me. She waits.
She’s in the room. The mattress shifting. Warmth close but not touching.
She takes my fist. Uncurls it. Lays my open hand against the warmth of her. Her heartbeat. Sure. The fixed point in a room I can’t see.
“I’m here.”
The fight drains out of my shoulders. Not all. Enough.
I hold onto the pulse under my palm. Her weight settles over my hips. Thighs on either side of me. She takes my cock, guides me into her, sinks down. Nothing between us.
“Fuck.” Wrenched out. Her pussy is tight and hot around me and I can’t see her face and every sensation runs at a voltage that should trip breakers.
“Patience.” She rolls her hips. Once. Twice. Sets a pace that’s hers. “You were in control every time.” Her voice above me. “Every night.”
“Whatever you want.”
She moves. Slow. Deep. I can feel everything and see nothing. Her warmth surrounding me. The shift of her weight when she leans forward. Her hair brushing my chest. Sandalwood from my sheets mixed with the scent of her skin. The grip of her when she clenches on the upstroke.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“You.” The only word. “Just you.”
She rides me with deliberation that borders on cruelty. Each roll dragging me closer. The pressure gathers at the base of my spine, the undertow pulling, and she senses it because she senses everything. She slows.
“I’m not done with you.” Her grip tightens on my wrist, pinning it to the mattress. “I’m not ready for you to be done.”
“Isabella.”
“Not yet.”
She brings me to the edge. Holds me there. I’m shaking with the effort of not letting go. Every reflex screaming to flip her, pin her, take control the way I’ve always taken it.
Pressure against my chest. Over my heart. Her anchor. Mine.
She moves again. Faster. She’s building too. The tension in her thighs. The hitch in her rhythm.
“Cazzo.“ Dragged out. My hips jerk. She stills.
“I said patience.”
“Please.” The word I’ve never said like this. Not in crisis. Not in prayer. Just need.
She stops. The room narrows to her heartbeat under my palm and mine under hers.
Then the knot loosening. The fabric slipping.
Light. Her face. Right there. Flushed. Fierce. Eyes wet. Looking at me with an expression that tears apart every defense I’ve ever built.
“I see you.”
Quieter than the ones I said to her in this bed with the lamplight on her skin and the blindfold pushed to her hairline. Now from her mouth.
They hit harder than anything I’ve ever heard.
I cup her jaw. Against her cheekbone.
“I’ve never—” The sentence won’t finish. Because what I mean is: I’ve never let someone take the one thing I don’t give up.
“I know.” Forehead to forehead. “Me too.”
Decision in her expression. Sure.
“I want all of you.” Her voice steady. “Everything you’ve kept from me.”
I search her face. The same way I’ve searched her body for months. And I understand what she’s asking.
“You’re sure?”
“I trust you. Show me.”
I kiss her. Slow. Tasting the permission. Her fingers slide through my hair and hold.
Then I flip her. Deliberate. Not rough. She gave permission. I take it.
Her back on the mattress, then her stomach, then up on her knees. My chest against her back. My mouth at her ear.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I reach for the nightstand. Lube. Take my time. One finger first. Circling. Letting her adjust.
“Respira, bella.“ Against her shoulder. Breathe, beautiful. The Italian coming because gentleness lives in my mother’s language, not the one I use for the rest of my life.
She exhales. Long. Steady. She opens for me.
“Okay?”
“More.”
I press inside. Slow. She tenses. I stop. Wait. She decides when to continue, not me.
“Così brava.“ Against her spine. ”Così coraggiosa.“ So good. So brave. Italian praise because English can’t hold what she’s giving me.
A second finger. She presses toward me. Trembling but not from pain.
“You’re taking me so well.” My voice awed. Barely there. “Every part of you.”
I reach around her. Find her clit. The dual stimulation makes her gasp. Her spine arching.
“Don’t be careful.” Her voice low. “Not tonight.”
I position myself. Slick. Steady. The head pressing against her.
“Ready?”
“Please.”
My cock pushes forward. She opens for me inch by inch. Trembling. I stop every time she tenses. Wait. Continue when she does.
“Non ho mai avuto questo.“ Whispered against her back. I’ve never had this. Not the act. The trust.
I pull her up. Her back against my chest. Both on knees. The angle deeper. She makes a sound that comes from somewhere primal. I reach around her. Find her clit again. Work it in time with the roll of my hips.
Her head drops against my shoulder. Shaking.
“Mine?” Not a claim. A question. The man who used to take, asking.
“Yours.” Her voice breaking. “Always.”
“Yours.” Given back. Because she owns me. Has owned me since she put her palm on my bare chest and didn’t pull away.
“Now.”
She comes. Her pussy gripping my cock in waves, my name torn from her throat. Shattered.
The trust of her. The sight of her undone. All of it.
I come. Hard. A groan dragged from the deepest part of me.
“Sei tutto.“ Against her neck. ”Sei tutto per me.“ You are everything to me.
Weeks of earning those words. Every scar. Every silent night. Every time I chose to stay instead of run. They belong here. Now.
Careful. Everything after is careful.
I pull free. Watching her face. She winces. My hands still.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”
The bathroom is three steps. I run the cloth under warm water.
Warm cloth between her thighs. Careful. She lets me.
Water from the mini fridge. Two bottles.
“Take these.” I set two ibuprofen on the nightstand beside her water.
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m taking care of you. Shut up.”
Her expression softens. I note it.
Sheets folded down. I adjust the pillow between her knees. She watches me do it with an expression I can’t read.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just. The pillow thing.”
“What about it.”
“It’s very. Thorough.”
“Go to sleep, Isabella.”
She doesn’t go to sleep. She lies on her side and I settle behind her. Arm around her waist. Careful of where she’s sore.
“Stai bene?“ Against her hair. Are you okay?
Silence. Then.
“You didn’t hurt me.” She turns her head. Finds my eyes. “You gave me everything. I gave you everything.”
My forehead presses to the back of her neck. The shaking stops. I hold her. She holds the arm I’ve wrapped around her.
“I was thinking,” she says.
“About?”
“My options.” Flat. Measured. The way she talks when she’s been weighing something heavy behind those eyes.
My pulse spikes. My arm tightens around her. Involuntary. A reflex.
“I could leave.” Quiet. “Sofia’s safe. The Benedettis are gone.
I could take her back to the Marigny. Rent a new apartment.
Finish my degree. Build a life that doesn’t involve a crime family and a man who kills people for a living.
” She traces a circle on my forearm. Over the ink.
“I ran the numbers. All of them. Every scenario.”
“And?”
She lifts her head. Looks at me. Her gaze is clear and certain. No defense left.
“I stay.” The words settle like stone. “Not because I owe you. Not because Sofia needs the compound. Not because I’m scared of what happens if I leave.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Because I choose this. You. This life. All of it.”
“Which is insane. For the record.” Her voice shifts. Still certain, but lighter. The edge coming back. “I had a five-year plan. It involved a degree and a legitimate salary and absolutely zero men who own more firearms than furniture.”
I find her nape. Pull her forehead to mine. Hold it there. My throat won’t work.
“You’re sure.”
“Lorenzo.” She says my name like it’s the answer. “I’m sure.”
She settles against my chest. Goes heavy against me. I hold her. The first real light of morning reaches through the curtains.
She chose me. Not in the desperate heat of a raid or the panic of captivity. Not because she had to. In the quiet, with every option open, she chose to stay.
I press my mouth against her hair.
She’s already asleep.