Chapter 8
D onatello
The sun hasn’t burned off the mist yet when I button my shirt and shrug on my jacket. The air still tastes of night, cool and damp with salt. Beyond the grove, the helicopter waits, blades slack for now.
She’s already awake when I step into our suite’s sitting room, bringing my watch to my wrist. Paolina sits near the balcony, hair loose over her shoulders, a silk nightgown covering her belly.
Seven months pregnant, glowing with a softness that makes my chest ache.
She doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“How long will you be gone?” she asks quietly.
“A few days. ”
Her lips press together, eyes lowering to the swell of her belly. “I’ll manage.”
“You will,” I say as my thumb brushes her gorgeous face. “Nora will stay close. The doctor is on call. Security is the same. Swim only when the flags are green. Eat more in the morning. Rest after dinner. And text me when you want me. I’ll answer.”
“Bossing me from the sky now?”
“Yes. And because I want to kiss you before I go.”
She tastes of heaven and home. I hold back a hungry groan as she melts into me.
“Let me walk you,” she sighs as though the kiss means as much to her as it does to me.
I clasp her hand, never wanting to let it go.
As has become habit, we stop on the path to the helipad. I glance around, scanning for any threat, although none can reach her here. I turn to go, but her hand—small, warm—touches my arm. Light. Barely there. Enough to stop me cold.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
The words detonate inside me. Concern. For me. Not fear. Not anger. Concern.
It shouldn’t mean this much. I’ve been stabbed, shot, burned. I’ve had men pray for my death, beg for my mercy, curse my name. But never this—never a woman’s soft voice asking me to take care because she wants me to come back.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t have a name for .
I lean down, brush my lips across her forehead, inhaling her. “Always.”
Her eyes follow me as I go, a tether around my ribs.
“I’ll be back before you count too many sunsets.”
I can’t resist one more glance at the woman who’s captured my stony heart. She waves. The feelings in my heart reach my lips. I smile.
On the helipad, the rotor blades stir. My men file in, stone-faced, their silence the armor of soldiers who’ve seen too much. I nod to the pilot, climb aboard, leather groaning under my weight.
As the helicopter lifts, the island drops away—a jewel in a vast sea. I picture her standing on the balcony, kimono clutched tight, watching me disappear. It’s harder every day to leave her. Harder still not to bury myself inside her and never leave at all.
Because Madonna Santa Maria , it’s so fucking hard.
I want to fuck her into the mattress. Put her on her hands and knees, cushion her belly swollen with my baby, grip those hips, and take her from behind like the feral beast I am. Watch in the mirror as her full tits bounce and her gorgeous face twists with pleasure while she screams my name.
My cock thickens at the thought, stiffening against my trousers. I shift in the seat, jaw clenched. Every night holding her is torture. Feeling her warmth against me, her curves soft and yielding, her scent filling my lungs—she stirs a hunger I can barely leash.
I think back to that first night, taking her virginity. How tight her pussy was around my cock, how she gasped, clawed, clung. It’s burned into me. And it will never be enough.
But I’ve sworn a vow. I won’t touch her until she comes to me in need. Until she begs for me. Until she knows she’s mine because she chooses it, not because I forced it.
So every morning, I take care of it in the shower, pumping my cock until cum spills down the tile, grunting her name while she sleeps a few feet away.
This woman is going to be the end of me.
By the time we land in Catania, the heat is already climbing, the city alive with horns and shouts.
Black SUVs wait, engines purring. My men fan around me, invisible to the crowd but undeniable in their presence.
Marcello is already at Club Petali, lounging like a cat who knows he’s the most dangerous predator in the room. Faustino stands by the bar, sipping espresso.
We gather in the private office, walls padded in velvet, air heavy with the seriousness of the business handled within these walls.
Marcello leans back, eyes glinting. “Glad you made it, fratello. Time to see what the Bratva are selling.”
Faustino slides a black coffee my way. “Luca wants eyes on this. No commitments yet. You observe. Form your opinion. Report back.”
Marcello grins. “And maybe get your hands dirty. Always fun. ”
I sip, listening.
“Luca has no interest in human trafficking,” Faustino reminds us, voice calm, factual.
“Once he replaced your father as Boss, he began divesting from those… less savory involvements. Aside from a few high-end men’s clubs where the women work willingly—including this one—he sold the other establishments. ”
Marcello shrugs. “Doesn’t mean others don’t see profit.”
“Our primary focus is arms,” Faustino continues. “We provide the largest assortment in the world, top-quality. From pistols to missiles. Clients seek us out. Revenue increased even after Luca stripped away the flesh trade.”
Marcello’s grin sharpens. “But the Bratva are making inroads. These new auctions—they supply the girls. We provide the club. Profits split. In our favor, naturally.”
“And you want us to witness one.” My voice is flat.
Marcello’s eyes gleam. “Exactly. If we let them run unchecked, they get bold. If we partner, they bow. Luca and Ludovico want an informed opinion. Flavio will weigh in. But this is an opportunity, fratello. An opportunity for us to prove we’re as powerful, as feared, as they are.”
I lean back, balancing the coffee cup on my knee, thinking of Paolina’s soft hand on my arm this morning. “Then let’s see what our enemies bring to the table.”
Marcello smiles like a wolf. Faustino nods once, calm as always.
The deal may decide how the Family moves against the Bratva. But in my chest, another truth beats louder: I’ll raze the world before I let any of it touch Paolina or our daughter.
Faustino and Marcello continue planning our next move.
I listen. But my mind drifts to my universe—my woman and our daughter.
Because no matter what this Family chooses, no matter what profits line their books, she will never see this world. Not my wife. Not my child.
Madonna Santa Maria , the thought burns through me, raw and absolute.
No one will ever sell my daughter on a stage. Never shove her into a brothel. Never make her into a commodity for men like the Bratva to paw at. She will be safe. Hidden. Protected by walls no man can breach.
For years, I didn’t care who bled, who broke. I enforced the Family’s will because that was my role. A made-man with a gun in his hand and nothing to lose. But now—now I have something to lose. Someone.
Two someones.
Paolina softens me when she looks at me with those moss-green eyes, when her hand brushes my arm and tells me to be careful. But she also sharpens me, steels me, because I will kill the world before I let it harm her.
And our daughter… she’s already changed me. I feel it every night when I cradle Paolina’s belly while she sleeps. Every morning when I take care of the ache myself so I do n’t wake her. Every time I catch myself imagining a future I never believed I’d have.
Family isn’t just the Lucchese name anymore. It’s Paolina. It’s the child within her. And nothing—no business, no brother, no Bratva—will touch them.
Faustino breaks the silence. “How is she?” His tone is neutral, but I hear the weight behind it.
Marcello smirks. “How’s our runaway bride? And the little heir?”
My grip tightens on the glass. I sip before I answer, voice low, clipped. “Healthy. The baby kicks strong. The doctor says both are well.”
Faustino nods once. “Good. It’s been quiet. No word from her father. None from Aldo.”
My jaw clenches. “It stays that way.”
Marcello chuckles, leaning forward. “So, she’s softening you, fratello . Who would’ve thought Donatello Romano could be domesticated?”
My eyes cut to his, sharp enough to kill. “Don’t mistake softness for weakness. She is mine. And I’ll paint the streets red before I let anyone take her from me.”
Marcello’s grin widens, satisfied. Faustino only lifts his glass, toasting silently, as if he already knew I’d say it.
I drink, the whiskey burning down my throat, but nothing burns hotter than the vow carved into my bones: Paolina and our daughter will never bleed for this Family.
They’re mine to protect. Mine to worship. Mine to keep safe.
At all costs.