CHAPTER 13
Roxanne
Sleep refused to come.
I turned onto my side for what felt like the hundredth time, staring at the ceiling while the events of the afternoon replayed on a loop behind my eyes.
The crack of plaster.
His fist in the wall.
The look in his eyes afterwards.
I still couldn’t decide what unsettled me more.
The anger… or the way he’d looked right after, like he hated himself for losing control.
I was still wound tight with all the pent-up rage toward him.
My body felt too awake. Too loud.
It didn’t help that I was sharing the same space with the man who brought this side of me out.
I’m a patient woman. Calm. Calculated.
In control. Most of the time.
And every damn time I’m near him, I falter.
He brings out the fire I buried years ago. The kind that wants to burn him back. The kind that makes me forget composure and want to see red. Especially when it comes to him.
Calm down, Roxy. Clean thoughts.
After an hour of fighting it, I gave up.
I checked the time on my phone. 1:03 a.m.
Maybe I could call Marcello. But again he’d know something was wrong the moment I spoke. He always did.
Lately it had become harder to hide things from him. Marcello noticed everything. A pause. A breath that lasted too long. A word I didn’t say. He detected the slightest hesitation in my voice. Sometimes I felt he was more attuned to my emotions than I was.
I sighed and dropped the phone back onto the bedside table.
No.
He had enough to deal with, without worrying about me losing sleep over Santino’s temper.
My stomach growled. Stress always made me crave sugar.I slid out of bed and pulled the oversized t-shirt lower over my shorts before padding down the hallway. The cottage was dark, the kind of dark where every creak of the floorboards sounded louder than it should.
I opened the kitchen cabinet and found a Snickers bar behind the jar of olives.
Perfect.
The fireplace in the living room still burned low embers that cast an orange hue, just enough to paint the room in slow-moving shadows.
I settled into the armchair, tucking one leg beneath me and unwrapped the chocolate.
I took a bite and savoured the nuttiness; a quiet ‘mmm’ escaped me as the sugar hit my bloodstream like a small mercy. For a moment the noise dulled.
Then—a voice came from the doorway.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I jerked so hard the bar almost slipped from my hand.
“Jesus—fuck.”
My hand flew to my chest, heart thudding so fast as I turned toward the kitchen.
Santino stood at the counter, half in shadow.
“How long have you been there?” I asked, my pulse still racing.
“Long enough.”
Now that my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
And I almost forgot to breathe. He looked different than he had earlier in the day.
Broader. His shoulders looked heavier with muscle layered over muscle like he’d rebuilt himself out of anger and discipline, the kind that came from years of violence instead of a gym.
More dangerous. More… him.
Heat curled low in my stomach before I could stop it.
Ink covered most of his upper body now. More tattoos than the last time I’d seen him. I had never actually seen all of them before though.
The veins in his forearms stood out under the low firelight, dark ink wrapping around them. Some of the tattoos were from years ago. Others were new. The Trinacria on his arm was still there, but his ex-wife’s face was now replaced with a rose.
My eyes drifted to his chest before I could stop them.
His ribs moved slowly with each breath. My gaze caught on his left peck. Words in cursive script inked that I couldn’t really make out from where I sat.
Below it, the hard lines of his stomach disappeared into the sharp V of his hips, a faint trail of dark hair running down from his navel, disappearing into low-hanging grey sweats that clung to his hips like gravity was barely doing its job.
I swallowed hard. I could see the outline of his—Nope. Not going there.
“See something you like?” he asked.
My gaze snapped upward. My cheeks burned with warmth so fast it felt like I’d been slapped.
“I’ve seen better,” I said, plastering a fake smile.
Was I ogling? Maybe.
I quickly looked away and took another bite of the chocolate.Only then did it hit me that I wasn’t wearing a bra.
And he’d definitely noticed.
My nipples tightened instantly, the thin t-shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide it. I shifted in the armchair, suddenly very aware of my body and the way his eyes had dropped just long enough to notice.
He ran a hand through his hair. Once. Then again, slower this time, fingers gripping the top of it like he was trying to pull himself back under control.
He exhaled and leaned back slightly against the counter.
“Listen… about today,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I went a bit overboard.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. The memory of his fist slamming into the wall flashed through my head again.
“You think?” I said sharply. “You scared him.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “He’ll recover.”
“That’s not the point.”
His gaze slid to me again. “You let him get comfortable.”
“And you punched the wall like a caveman.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Fair.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. I looked away, but I could still feel his gaze heavy on my skin. The fire crackled softly behind me.
Finally he said, slower this time,
“What will it take for you to forgive me?”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
Santino Rossi had an ego the size of Mount Everest. His Sicilian pride alone could probably fuel half the Mediterranean.
I should have said something sharp. Something mean, cruel.But instead, before I could second-guess myself, the word left my mouth.
“Beg.”
His eyes lifted to mine. Dead calm.
I kept eye contact and I held his gaze.
“On your knees.”
I expected anger. Mockery. Maybe even another argument.Because Santino Rossi didn’t kneel for anyone.
Only except… he did.
His movement was slow, controlled, intentional.
One knee touched the floor, then the other—eyes never leaving mine. My breath stalled halfway in my chest.
Oh.
Oh no.
He didn’t stop there. He lowered further. One hand, then the other, placing his palms on the floor. Then slowly—very slowly—he lowered himself onto all fours.
He stayed there for a beat, letting the image sink in. My lips parted and my throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. Dry. Desert dry.
Fuck. Me.
I took my foot out and now sat upright, clenching my thighs hard, trying to hide the damp heat gathering between them.
The corner of his mouth lifted up.
Then, he started moving toward me. Crawling.
Every muscle in his back shifted under his skin. Shoulders rolling. Spine flexing. Power contained instead of released. Light from the fireplace catching his face and side, making him look like a predator, slowly stalking toward his prey.
It was primal.
Goosebumps spread across my skin. I clenched my thighs tighter as a small bead of sweat slipped from my temple down my neck.
His movements were slow, deliberate. Like every step towards me was calculated and not rushed or embarrassed. I would swear he seemed more than happy to do it.
He claimed the space between us inch by inch.
The firelight painted him in bronze and shadow, turning him into something less human. More instinct. More hunger. More dangerous than anything that should have existed in my living room.
Blood rushed through my body so fast it made me dizzy.My breaths came out uneven, chest rising in shallow bursts as my dry throat worked hard to swallow.
Mistake one: no bra.
The thin fabric of my tee did nothing to hide what the cold and adrenaline and him were doing to me. My nipples were painfully hard beneath my tee and I couldn’t seem to peel my eyes off the beast of a man that was crawling toward me.
I was sure he could see every reaction I was so painfully trying to control, but my traitorous body refused to hide. I think he may have enjoyed watching me unravel.
His eyes flicked toward my chest once. Slow. Knowing.The corner of his mouth twitched and his grey eyes darkened.
They were no longer the cool colour of winter. They looked dark as night.
The asshole knew exactly what he was doing.
Don’t break. Don’t fold.
Mistake two: tiny fucking sleep shorts with nothing underneath. And the sudden, humiliating awareness of how damp they felt.
God.
My grip tightened around the Snickers bar. The wrapper crinkled loudly in silence.
He didn’t stop, kept crawling.
Closer.
And closer until he was right in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the heat from him. Close enough that if I moved my foot an inch, I would touch him. Neither of us moved for a second.
My breath turned shallow and unsteady. My chest was heaving now like I had run a fucking marathon.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I swallowed and sat up straighter. He leaned forward and slowly dragged his nose across my knee and inhaled.
Could he smell my arousal?
I clenched my thighs tighter. My body felt like a volcano, about to blow up with heat. My stomach dropped, my mind went blank.
What was happening to me?
This was Santino, god dammit.
Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his head and took a slow bite from the Snickers bar. His mouth briefly brushed my fingers and my whole body tingled.
The contact was barely there, but it still felt like a spark under my skin. My traitorous body let out the tiniest, most helpless sound.
Fuck.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and slowly whispered:
“I’m sorry, Volpi.”
And my resolve folded like fucking paper.
“For leaving you,” he took another bite. “For hurting you.”
And then—he stood and walked toward the hallway.Just like that. Like he hadn’t just detonated something inside my chest. Like he hadn’t just crawled across a room and set my nerves on fire.
Then just before disappearing into his room, he said with a cocky edge in his voice, “Goodnight, Volpi.”
I sat there, alone, long after the fire died.
My body still felt… wrong. Too aware. Too alive in places I didn’t want to name.
My knee still tingled where his nose had brushed it. My stomach dipped remembering the slow drag of his gaze.
My pulse refused to settle into anything resembling normal.
I hated it.
Hated that some part of me had gone soft watching him kneel. Hated that some part of me had felt powerful. Wanted. Seen in a way that had nothing to do with competence or control or being needed. Just… wanted.
That was dangerous. That was how women like me got broken. I forced myself up and walked back to my room. Forced myself under the blanket. Pulled it up to my chin like armour.Closed my eyes. Sleep came slowly.
Uneven. And then—
Dark hallway.
A door that wouldn’t open.
My fingers slipping on the handle.
Someone breathing behind me. Too close.
The smell hit first. Sharp. Almost chemical. Something sour that burned the back of my throat.
My body wouldn’t move.
I tried to shout. Nothing came out.
The pressure of fingers digging into my jaw—
I woke choking on air.
My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out. The sheets were twisted around my legs, damp with sweat.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was.
Ireland. The cottage. The quiet house.
Not that hallway. Not that door.
I dragged a shaky breath and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind them.
The nightmares had started again the year he disappeared.
Not every night. But enough.
Enough to remind me what abandonment felt like in my bones.Enough to remind me that people who promised they wouldn’t leave always did.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
He crawled for you and you almost melted. My throat burned.
Because the truth was worse. For one second—one stupid, dangerous second—I had wanted to reach out and touch him.
That was what terrified me. That I still wanted the man who could make me laugh while doing something reckless.
And the man who could break me without even trying.
Anger returned like oxygen filling my lungs, twisting together under my skin until I couldn’t separate them and I clung to it. Anger was safe. Anger meant I still had control.
Eventually I slept again. Shallow. Restless. Guarded.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, the image of Santino Rossi on his knees refused to disappear.