Chapter 13
Vivian
We didn’t go on a honeymoon. Instead, we stayed in the city and made a life out of little things: lazy breakfasts on the balcony, walks along the river, reading in bed while it rained.
Alejandro was as careful with me as he was with his suits.
He never raised his voice, never missed a birthday or anniversary, never forgot the way I liked my eggs or the soundtracks I listened to on bad days.
He bought a bigger coffee maker, “for your mornings,” and always left a mug steaming on my side of the bed. He let me pick the new kitchen paint color and pretended to like it, even when it turned out garishly bright. He called me “wife” with such pride that it made my heart hurt.
And then we did it! We made love after dinner, the windows open and all. He moved close to me and whispered.
“Take off your clothes darling I want you and only you!”
Holy freaking heck—
My intimate walls clenched with freaking need,
I did as he requested. He smiled looking at my body like a priceless piece of art. I was soaking wet for him all this while and let’s just Alejandro did not disappoint! He made me feel absolutely beautiful.
He was inside me so quickly that I had to brace my palm against the headboard.
My thighs trembled around his hips, straining for leverage as he worked deeper, the full length of him pressing a long, melting ache up through the deepest part of me.
I didn’t breathe, not at first. His cock filled me, stretching tightness into wet, and my body forgot the old scripts.
There was no polite entry, no strategic tease, just Alejandro driving himself into the root of me and holding, savoring the way I twitched around his thickness.
He waited—he was always deliberate, especially now, especially with my nails raking new lines down his back.
His hand slid under my derriere, yanking me higher so my knees framed his ribs and my ankles locked above his spine.
He pulsed there, heavy and alive, a barely-restrained piston.
He rocked, once, and I gasped, and his mouth found my throat, open and hungry.
He bit—not gently, never gently—right below my jaw, and the shock of it made me arch and grab at his shoulders to keep from shattering.
“Fuck,” I whispered, and he grinned against my neck.
His rhythm started rough and stayed there.
He was never the type to work up from tender, not when he knew how I liked it: the push, the threat, the absolute certainty that I wanted every inch, every time.
My body was always readier for him than I expected, soaked and clutching and hot enough that the friction hit that edge between pleasure and pain by the third thrust.
He made love to me with a tempo that made everything else irrelevant: my job, Ryan’s madness, the hungover sunlight through the window.
I was a vessel for his force, built only for this, and the awareness of that—how my body softened and clenched in perfect submission—made me desperate.
I clamped on him, digging in heels and fingers, riding every piston stroke as if it could weld us together.
He made a noise in his throat and thrust deeper, slamming so hard my pelvis tipped and my hands flew up to the iron bars for ballast.
I heard the headboard strike the wall. I heard the slap of skin and his breathless muttering—half Spanish, half fucks and damns—and the constant liquid shuffle of him splitting me open.
I was soaked; I could feel the spill of me down my thighs, wetting his thickness, and the way he groaned every time I clenched just to hear him break.
He pulled back, slow, dragging out of me until only the tip stayed in, then slammed home again, making the mattress shriek.
I lost count of the rhythm and just took it, letting myself moan, letting him hear how completely he’d wrecked me.
He shifted, bracing one knee against the bed frame, and angled up, hitting the spot that made me see stars behind my eyelids.
I tried to tell him, tried to say there, don’t stop, but all that came out was a grunt, a long animal noise that set him off.
He went harder, impossibly harder, fucking straight through my words until I couldn’t tell if the tears on my cheek were from pleasure or simply too much sensation at once.
My hands slipped on the bars, but he pinned me with his arms, caging me under his weight, and he fucked me like he was determined to plant a part of himself inside that would never come out.
His thickness throbbed inside me. I felt every vein, every twitch, the thick and the slick of it, the way it forced me open just a little further with every thrust. It was brutal, it was perfect, and I wanted it to last forever and to end right now, simultaneously, because the build at my center was too much, too sharp.
My clit ached, and every time his body ground into me I nearly convulsed, but I held back, wanting the torture, wanting to wait until I was absolutely certain he would come with me.
His mouth found mine. He bit my lower lip, then plunged his tongue in to claim it.
I tasted blood, salt, sweat, and the edge of something that would not be denied.
He slammed home again, and again, and I felt him swell inside me, thickening, and I knew the dam was about to burst. I wrapped my legs tighter, squeezing him, pulling him deeper, demanding the finish.
He was whispering now, a mantra of my name and filthy orders: “Come for me. Do it. Now. Show me.” I heard nothing else.
I shook, the orgasm building and then overtaking me so fast I nearly blacked out.
I screamed. There was no other word for it.
The wave ripped through me, muscles clamping down on him, and he bucked, once, twice, then let go with a feral groan, spilling into me.
I felt the heat of it, the sudden flood, and it only made me come harder.
He didn’t slow. He pumped into me through the aftershocks, grinding out every last spasm, until I was wrung out, shuddering, held against his chest as he slumped over me and finally, finally stopped moving.
For a moment, there was nothing but the smell: salt, sweat, the faint bitter note of sex raw in the air.
I was still split around him, full and leaking, and all I could do was cling to his shoulders and try to catch my breath, riding the last vibrations of the storm.
He stayed inside me, pulsing, as if neither of us was willing to let the world back in just yet.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to be loved.
A few days later.
The security got tighter.
Sometimes, when we walked in the park, I’d spot a man in a leather jacket just out of range. I knew he was Bellandi’s, and I didn’t mind. It meant I was safe.
One afternoon, Alejandro came home early.
“Pack a bag,” he said. “We’re going to the country.”
I thought he meant a winery or a spa. Instead, we drove three hours north, into green hills and wildflowers.
The estate was enormous: stone gates, fountains, gardens that went on forever. Inside, the rooms were filled with old oil paintings, heavy wood, and a sense of history that made me feel small.
Alejandro walked me through every corridor, every garden, telling stories about his parents, his childhood, the family that built this place brick by brick.
At sunset, he led me to a room lined with books.
“This is my truth,” he said, hands shaking a little. “My family built an empire, but we kept secrets to keep it alive. Some of those secrets are… complicated.”
He told me everything: the old alliances, the power plays, the rivalries that never died. The things the newspapers never wrote, the things people only whispered about after midnight.
I asked, “Are you a bad man, Alejandro?”
He looked at me, open and wounded. “I try not to be.”
I held his hand. “You’ve only ever been good to me.”
He smiled, tears in his eyes.
“Then I’ll keep trying,” he said.
Ryan’s private eye finally found a lead—a man in a casino who claimed to have seen Bellandi handle a problem with ruthless efficiency. The PI went to verify the story and never came back.
Ryan called, texted, and emailed for days. Nothing.
He grew convinced that Bellandi had buried the man, and if he kept digging, he’d end up next.
He decided to use what he had: a folder of rumors, half-truths, and grainy photos.
He arranged to confront Alejandro at the courthouse. I only found out after the fact.
Alejandro told me about the confrontation that night, over dinner.
“He tried to blackmail me,” he said. “He threatened to go public if I didn’t leave you.”
I felt a cold fury burn in my chest. “What did you do?”
Alejandro shrugged. “I explained that some doors, once opened, can’t be closed. I told him to go home and try to be a good father.”
He paused, then looked at me. “He’s lost, Vivian. I almost feel sorry for him.”
I didn’t. Not one bit.
That night, I woke to find Alejandro on the phone, speaking quietly in Italian. His voice was sharp, nothing like the gentle man I knew.
When he saw me in the doorway, he smiled. “Just business,” he said.
I believed him, but I wondered what lines he’d cross to keep me safe.
The next morning, Ryan found a package on his porch.
Inside: a stack of photographs, every place he’d been for the past month. Every street. Every bar. Every meeting.
At the bottom: a photo of him asleep in his own bed.
No note, no threat.
Just proof that he was never alone.
Holy. Freaking. Heck.
And for the first time, Ryan wondered if he’d live to see his son’s first birthday.