Chapter 23 Sophie
Sophie
The kitchen makes my apartment smell like heaven, I made sure of it. Roasted garlic, fresh rosemary, the rich olive oil heating on the stove. I’m threading kitchen twine through a needle when Vin’s voice cuts through my concentration and makes my heart rate surge.
“I don’t want you wearing clothes when you cook.”
My hands still on the chicken breast I’m about to suture shut around its filling of prosciutto and fontina, I glance over my shoulder to see him leaning against the door frame like he owns the place.
“I know that’s usually the rule, but I kind of need to. I mean, there’s oil. And it’s not sanitary.”
He pushes off the frame, prowling toward me, predatory.
“Not sanitary?” His voice drops to that gravelly register that turns my knees to water.
“I’ve eaten your pussy, your ass, and your food, princess.
I don’t give a fuck if you’re naked while you cook.
Unless you’re saying you’re cooking for other people,” he adds, eyes narrowing.
“Not at the moment. But if you’re making a general rule, then—”
“No clothes.” The command lands like a gavel. “Other than an apron.”
The air between us crackles. I could argue, but the part of me that blooms under his attention wants to give him this, wants to give him anything he wants.
I maintain eye contact as I reach for the hem of my shirt. The fabric whispers over my skin, and I watch his pupils dilate as I pull it over my head. My leggings follow, pooling at my feet. I’m bare in my kitchen, goosebumps all over that have nothing to do with temperature.
“Apron,” I murmur, moving to the hook where my oversized work apron hangs.
“No.” His voice stops me mid-reach. “Something else.”
I find the vintage apron my nonna gave me, the one with delicate embroidery along the edges. It ties at the neck and waist, covering my front while leaving my entire back exposed. When I put it on, Vin’s sharp intake of breath is my reward.
“Better,” he growls.
I turn back to the chicken, hyper-aware of his gaze on every inch of my exposed skin. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. I pick up the needle again, threading it through the raw meat with practiced precision.
“Tell me what you’re doing.” He’s directly behind me now, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“I’m touching raw chicken.” My voice comes out breathier than I intend. “This is not something you want to mess with, Vin. It’s not safe to move to other parts of the kitchen or touch anything without extensive cleaning.”
“So what you’re saying is,” His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing the dimples at the base of my spine. “since you’re touching the chicken, you can’t touch me.”
Oh. Oh no. My pulse thunders in my ears. “That’s one of the things I’m saying, yes.”
“Then don’t touch me.”
His hands slide over my ass, kneading, exploring. I drag in a shaky breath and try to focus on what I’m doing. The chicken breast needs to be sewn shut carefully, the twine tight enough to hold the filling but not so tight it tears the meat.
Vin’s fingers trail lower, teasing, and I feel him hard against my back. “Keep going,” he orders. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
A breathless laugh escapes me. “That’s not easy, Vin.”
“You don’t ever come with me anyway, right?” The words have an edge I don’t understand. “So it shouldn’t be that hard.”
“I don’t come with anyone,” I correct him softly, pulling another stitch through. “It’s not about you.”
He shifts behind me, and suddenly he’s pushing inside me with no warning, the overwhelming fullness of him stretching me open. I gasp, the needle slipping from my fingers.
“Keep. Going.” Each word is punctuated by a slow, deliberate thrust.
My hands shake as I retrieve the needle. This is impossible. How am I supposed to concentrate when he’s—
“Focus, Sophia.” His voice is harsh against my ear. “You’re nothing but my fuckhole, aren’t you? My dirty little cumslut who’s not allowed to stop cooking while I use her.”
I feel like his goal is to humiliate me but instead, heat floods through me, settling low and fiery. “Yes,” I whisper, pulling another stitch, then gasping as he thrusts inside me. “I love being your dirty little fuckhole, padrone. Make me your whore.”
He growls, his rhythm faltering. I can feel his frustration.
He’s trying so hard to break me, but he doesn’t understand: this is what I want.
It’s what I’ve always wanted. His roughness, his dominance, the way he takes without asking.
Submitting to him makes me feel alive in a way nothing else does.
I finish suturing the chicken with trembling hands and set it aside. He pulls out and shoves me toward the sink. “Clean up. Wash your hands, this counter, anything that touched the chicken.”
I do as he says, scrubbing until it’s pristine.
When I turn to him, he grabs me and throws me up on the counter I just cleaned and throws the bottom of the apron up over my face so I can’t see.
I gasp when he shoves my legs open wide, lifting them up over his shoulders so that my hands scrabble across the counter trying to hold myself up before I fall.
I’m folded in half, my face covered, when I feel wet liquid poured over my exposed pussy and back entrance, and he pushes his cock into my ass.
“VIN!!”
Wrapping his strong arms around my legs and torso, pinning my arms to my sides, he squeezes me so tight it almost stops my breathing, my ass full of his cock as he pounds into me. When I start to see stars, I weakly tap his side until he relents, ripping the apron off my face.
“WHAT.”
I can only gasp for breath, my chest heaving, my mouth hanging open. His cock still inside me, he smirks, his eyes dark, eyelids heavy.
“You want something in your mouth? Open wide.”
There are two bowls of cannoli filling on the counter, one almost full and ready for a special dessert later and one only partially filled. He grabs the one with less filling in it and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a special recipe, and I cannot wait to share it with Vin later.
“Wider.”
I obey without thinking, and he smears the rich cream across my lips, my chin, my cheeks.
It drips down my neck, degradation in its sweetest form as he rubs it into my breasts, pinching and pulling my nipples.
But when I open my mouth wider and moan, “More, please, padrone,” his answering groan tells me I’ve won this round.
He fucks my ass harder, one hand fisted in my hair while feeding me cannoli filling with the other like I’m his personal fucktoy.
My legs are shaking, so wet that I’m dripping down my thighs, my hips sore from the counter and the way he has my ankles practically by my ears.
Vin yanks at the apron ties around my neck until they come untied, my breasts spilling out, then slaps my breast so hard I gasp.
“Little cumsluts don’t get treated nicely.
They get slapped,” he slaps my other breast, the sting shooting straight to my clit.
“They get fucked.” He pounds into me, my ass bruising against the counter.
“They get treated the way they deserve.” He spits in my mouth and on my face, then smears it all over, mixing it with the cannoli cream.
“Like a worthless hole only good for fucking.”
I groan, snaking my hand in between us, and rubbing my clit hard and fast.
He slaps my hand away then slaps my face grabbing my jaw and jerking me toward him. “I didn’t fucking tell you to do that. This isn’t about your pleasure, remember? This is about me fucking any hole I want, coming anywhere I want, using you like the whore you are. Understood?”
“Sí, padrone.” I can barely get the words out before he squeezes my face so tight that it forces my mouth open and he spits down my throat then slams his palm into the side of my face, forcing me to look away from him while he fucks me.
As he’s railing me, pounding me, I can’t even think. I’m gone. My body is nothing but his, my brain is just… bliss.
Time blurs. Sweat drips down my body, mixing with the sticky sweet cream and his spit and sweat. His insults rain down on me with his slaps and feel like praise. I’ve never felt more beautiful.
He pulls out and strokes his cock fast, leaving me to practically melt onto the counter. My legs fall from his shoulders down around him and I have to lean back on my shaky arms trying to hold myself up.
Vin shoves the other bowl of my cannoli cream, the one that’s almost full, into my lap before I can process what’s happening.
“Hold this. I need somewhere to come.”
I blink, dazed, trying to find my bearings, to find words, to protest, but it’s too late.
Vin jerks off into the bowl of cannoli cream, thick spurts of cum, emptying himself until there is nothing left.
For a moment, I don’t move. I stare at the bowl, at my nonna’s recipe, at the cream that was supposed to be something amazing—
“CHE CAZZO!”
The scream tears out of me before I can stop it. I never curse but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
I grab the bowl and fling the entire thing at his head. Ricotta and sugar and his cum splatters across his face, his chest, dripping down to the floor.
His expression goes from shocked to furious instantly. Wiping his face, he advances on me with murder in his eyes.
I lean away from him, my hand closing around the handle of my chef’s knife. When he reaches for me, I bring it up between us, absolutely fucking furious.
He stops and stares at the blade, then laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “What are you gonna do with that, princess?”
The knife is an extension of my hand, balanced perfectly, honed to a razor edge. I’ve held knives since I was old enough to stand on a stool beside my nonna. They’re my tools, my livelihood, my art.
And once, they were my salvation.
“I scarred your father’s face when I was 12,” I say quietly. “The first time I picked up a knife in anger. Imagine what I’ll do to you after 23 years of practice.”
The laughter dies on his lips. His eyes go wide, then narrow, searching my face for any hint that what I just said was a lie. He won’t find it.
“What did you just say?”
I don’t lower the knife. “The scar. The jagged one that runs from his neck, over his chin, across his cheek to the bridge of his nose.” My voice is steady now, cold. “Everyone always wondered where it came from. Now you know.”
Vin has gone completely still, a statue of shock. “You,” he breathes. “You did that to Aurelio? When you were 12?”
“He came to my house.” The memory is as sharp as the blade in my hand. “Right after he killed my uncle, Siena’s father. My father had promised to stay out of Demonio business, to protect me and my mother. But Aurelio didn’t care about that promise.”
I can still see the way Aurelio filled our doorway, massive and menacing, his cold eyes cutting right through my father.
“He grabbed my mother by the throat, said he didn’t trust my father to keep his word. I was hiding with my nonna in the kitchen, when I heard her scream.”
Vin is listening with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I’ve never told anyone this story. Not even Siena knows.
“I picked up my nonna’s kitchen knife, and I walked up behind him.
” My hand tightens on the handle of my own knife.
“I wanted to slit his throat from behind, but I jumped and missed. I was 12. I didn’t know what I was doing.
The blade caught his neck and dragged, from here,” I touch my neck, “to here.” I trace the path up to my nose.
“Holy fuck,” Vin whispers.
“He screamed and dropped my mother. Blood was everywhere, on him, on my mother, on me. My nonna pulled me back into the kitchen as they fought. I don’t remember what was said.
My nonna told me to wash my hands and act like nothing happened, so I did.
When Aurelio was gone, my father made me promise to never tell anyone.
” I lower the knife slowly. “I’ve kept that promise for 22 years. Until now.”
Vin stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Why tell me?”
“Because you’ve finally succeeded in doing what you’ve been trying to do for the past week: hurt me.” I gesture at the ruined cannoli filling. “And it’s time you know what I’m capable of. I chose to submit to you, Vincenzo. I’m not choosing it anymore.”
His jaw works. “Sophie—”
“Get out of my kitchen.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he backs toward the door, his eyes never leaving mine.
When he’s gone, I sink to the floor, the knife still clutched in my hand, and let myself shake.
I’ve just told Vincenzo Demonio, the future boss of the Demonio family, that I scarred his father’s face.
And I have no idea what he’s going to do about it.