Chapter Five
Jealousy
Stefano
I’ve killed men for less than the way that dress hugged Andrea’s body tonight.
I told myself not to look. Not to notice. But when she came down the stairs, her hair shining, lips glossed, legs endless in those heels, I couldn’t stop. My eyes dragged over her like a starving man denied food.
She was radiant. Untouchable. And she wasn’t dressed for me.
The bastard waiting for her was going to see what I saw. He was going to sit across from her, hear her laugh, watch her blush. Maybe even get close enough to touch her. Kiss her.
The thought makes my teeth grind.
“Who’s the guy?” Mancuso had asked, his smirk too sharp. He was pushing my fucking buttons.
Her answer—“just someone I met”—was a knife to the ribs.
Someone she met. Someone she smiled at through a screen. Someone she’s choosing over me.
I wanted to demand a name. An address. A reason he thought he could breathe the same air as her. Instead, I stood frozen, my fists clenching, my jaw locked tight as she walked out the door.
The click of her heels echoed like gunshots.
And I didn’t stop her.
The lounge is loud, Mancuso laughing too hard, Callie teasing him, Alceu and Guilia murmuring about something, but I hear none of it. My gaze is fixed on the door she walked through, my blood pounding as I wait for her to return.
I light a cigarette, inhale deep, and still can’t get the scent of her perfume out of my lungs.
“Careful,” Severu drawls from the bar, pouring himself another whiskey. “You keep glaring at that door like you want to kill it, and people are going notice.”
“Fuck off.”
He chuckles, unbothered. “What’s the plan, brother? Sit here and stew while some asshole puts his hands on her? Or admit you’re already halfway in love with Guilia’s little sister and do something about it?”
I spin, my voice low and lethal. “Watch your fucking mouth.” I feel like that is all I say to him lately.
For once, he doesn’t grin. He just studies me, sharp and quiet, like he’s holding back words he knows I won’t want to hear.
I stub out the cigarette, my chest burning hotter than the ember.
Hours crawl like years. I can’t sit still. I pace the compound like a ghost, every sound setting my teeth on edge.
Every minute she’s gone, my imagination paints darker pictures. Him leaning across the table, making her laugh. His hand brushing hers, lingering. His palm sliding over her thigh. Her lips parting when he leans in.
Rage coils tight in my chest.
I’ve slit throats for smaller insults. I’ve broken men for looking at me wrong. What do you think I’d do to the bastard who dares to touch her?
The worst part is I have no right. She’s a free woman. She’s not mine. I’ve never made her mine.
But my body doesn’t give a damn about rights. My cock is hard, throbbing with a mix of fury and hunger.
When I finally return to my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. I can’t chase away the images. Andrea’s lips curving into a smile for someone else. Her soft moan whispered into another man’s ear.
“Fuck,” I snarl, yanking my zipper down.
My hand wraps around my cock just like every night, stroking fast, furious, desperate. My eyes shut, and I see her. Not with him, but with me.
On her knees between my thighs, lips wrapped around me, eyes wide and innocent as she takes me deeper. Her tongue teasing, her little whimper vibrating against my cock.
“Mine,” I growl, my hips jerking up into my fist.
I flip the fantasy, dragging her under me, pinning her wrists above her head. Her legs spread, her body trembling as I thrust into her, hard, deep, making her scream my name.
‘Stefano. Please.’
I come with a roar, hot and brutal, spilling across my slacks and the shirt I didn’t bother to remove. My chest heaves, sweat slick on my skin. But the release doesn’t ease the fury. Doesn’t ease the ache.
Because while I’m in here losing my mind, she’s still out there with him. And something in my gut tells me this won’t end the way she thinks it will. Because the world I live in doesn’t give happy endings to women like Andrea Rossi.