Chapter Fifteen SANTINO
Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gray and muted from the storm that had finally exhausted itself sometime before dawn. I woke first, like always. Years of sleeping with one eye open had made sure of that. But this morning was different.
Aurora was in my bed.
Not tied up. Not crying. Not fighting me.
She’d stolen most of the fucking mattress.
The little troublemaker was curled on her side, tangled in my black silk sheets like she’d waged war on them in her sleep. One small hand was tucked beneath her cheek, the other flung out across the bed, fingers barely brushing my chest.
Her dark hair spilled everywhere, wild, messy, completely untamed, and covering half the pillow and half her face. She looked impossibly small in my massive bed, yet somehow took up eighty percent of it.
I should have been irritated.
Instead, I couldn’t stop staring.
My gaze traced the soft curve of her bare shoulder where the sheet had slipped down.
The faint bruises I’d left on her hips yesterday peeked out like badges of ownership.
Her lips were slightly parted, breathing slow and even.
Long lashes rested against her cheeks, and there was a tiny furrow between her brows, like even in sleep she was arguing with someone.
Probably me.
A lock of hair had fallen across her mouth. I reached out before I could stop myself and brushed it away with the back of my finger. My hand lingered. Her skin was warm. So fucking warm. And soft. Dangerously soft.
Christ.
I pulled my hand back like I’d been burned and forced myself to look away, staring at the rain-streaked windows instead. The city below was waking up, gray and sharp and unforgiving, exactly how the world was supposed to be. Exactly how I was supposed to be.
This woman was turning me into something unrecognizable.
I’d spent the entire night lying beside her, fully clothed while she slept naked and trusting in my arms. After she’d begged so prettily to see my cock, after I’d nearly lost control watching her eyes widen at the sight of me throbbing for her, I still hadn’t taken her completely.
I’d held her instead. Let her fall asleep with my hand cupping her freshly worshipped pussy like a possessive prayer.
And I’d liked it.
That was the worst part.
I liked the way she fit against me. Liked the soft sounds she made in her sleep.
Liked the way her fingers had curled into my shirt like she was afraid I’d disappear.
I, Santino Rossi, who had buried more men than most people had shaken hands with, was lying here like some lovesick fool watching a girl sleep.
Pathetic.
I shifted slightly, and she made a small noise, burrowing deeper into the sheets. One of her legs slid over mine, claiming more territory. A quiet huff of amusement almost escaped me before I swallowed it.
This was dangerous.
She was dangerous.
Not because she could kill me, though I had no doubt she’d try if I ever truly hurt her, but because she made me want. Want things I’d buried with Angelo. Want a future that didn’t end in blood. Want to keep her here, soft and safe and mine, until the end of fucking time.
I turned my head and looked at her again. Couldn’t help it.
The morning light caught on the faint marks I’d left on her neck. My teeth. My claim. Satisfaction rolled through me, dark and primal. She was mine now. In every way that mattered. Even if I hadn’t buried myself inside her yet, I’d already ruined her for anyone else.
And still... I wanted more than just her body.
I wanted her laughter in my kitchen. Her arguments at my dinner table. Her fire. Her softness. Her everything.
I dragged a hand down my face, jaw tight.
Christ.
I was becoming pathetic.
Breakfast was waiting like nothing had changed.
I was already at the head of the long marble table when Aurora finally wandered in, still half-asleep and wearing one of my black button-down shirts that swallowed her whole.
The hem brushed her bare thighs, and the sleeves hung past her fingertips.
She looked thoroughly fucked and completely innocent at the same time.
My cock twitched at the sight. Traitor.
She padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair messy from my pillows, and the entire room shifted.
Matteo looked up from his plate and broke into a shit-eating grin so wide I considered shooting him.
Marco, who rarely drank before noon, reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured a generous amount into his coffee.
The cook became extremely focused on flipping eggs that didn’t need flipping, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
They all knew.
Of course they knew.
Aurora had spent the night in my room. Not just in my bed, though God knows that was bad enough, but in my space. In my territory. She’d slept naked in my sheets while I held her like she was something precious instead of the weakness she was becoming.
And in this house, that was louder than if I’d fucked her on the dining table.
Aurora, bless her oblivious heart, had no idea. She rubbed one eye with her fist and yawned softly as she slid into the chair to my right, the chair that had somehow become hers without anyone discussing it.
“Morning,” she mumbled, voice still husky from sleep.
“Morning, sis,” Matteo said, far too cheerfully. He waggled his eyebrows at me behind her back.
I shot him a look that promised violence later. He just grinned wider.
Marco took a long sip of his spiked coffee, eyeing me over the rim.
“Sleep well?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.
“Fine,” I answered flatly.
Aurora reached for the fresh fruit and yogurt like nothing was wrong. “Why is everyone being weird this morning?”
Matteo choked on his laughter. Marco found the ceiling fascinating. The cook muttered something about needing more basil and practically fled to the pantry.
I leaned back in my chair, resting my arm along the back of Aurora’s seat. My fingers brushed her shoulder possessively. She leaned into the touch without thinking, and something dangerously warm settled in my chest.
“No one’s being weird,” I said, voice calm. “They’re just nosy bastards who need to mind their own fucking business.”
Aurora blinked at me, then at her brother. “Did something happen?”
Matteo opened his mouth. I pinned him with a stare that could freeze hell. He wisely closed it.
“Nothing happened,” I told her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb lingered on the shell of her ear, remembering how she’d trembled and begged last night. “You slept in my room. That’s all.”
Her cheeks flushed as the memory clearly hit her. The way she’d begged to see my cock. The way I’d stood over her, stroking myself while she watched with desperate, hungry eyes. The way I’d denied us both because I wanted her completely broken for me when I finally took her.
“Oh,” she whispered, very interested in her yogurt.
Marco coughed into his fist. Matteo looked like Christmas had come early.
I leaned down until my lips brushed her temple.
“And you’ll sleep there again tonight,” I murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Every night. Naked. In my bed. Where you belong.”
She shivered visibly. Her thighs pressed together under the table.
Matteo made a dramatic gagging sound. “Can you two at least wait until after I eat? I’m traumatized enough.”
“You’ll survive,” I said dryly, never taking my eyes off Aurora.
She was biting her lip now, cheeks pink, looking thoroughly embarrassed and turned on at the same time. I loved it. Loved that they all knew she was mine. Loved that she was starting to accept it too.
The cook finally returned with fresh plates, still avoiding eye contact. Smart man.
I watched Aurora eat, small and perfect at my table, wearing my shirt, marked by my hands, and something dark and possessive roared to life inside me.
Let them know. Let the whole goddamn world know.
Aurora Ventura was no longer just a hostage or a complication. She was becoming my home.
And I would burn everything down before I let anyone take her from me.
Aurora, being Aurora, refused to just sit still and be served.
“I want to help,” she announced after a few bites of yogurt, already sliding off her chair. “I can make the fruit salad.”
Before I could tell her she didn’t need to lift a finger in this house, she was already at the counter beside the cook, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt.
She looked ridiculous and perfect at the same time, drowning in black fabric, bare legs, messy hair, and that determined little expression that made me want to both kiss her and lock her in my room for the rest of her life.
I watched her from the table, unable to look away. She reached for a knife, a perfectly ordinary chef’s knife, and started slicing strawberries.
Then it happened.
A small hiss of breath. A single drop of blood welled up on her palm.
“Oops,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just spilled blood in front of me.
The entire kitchen went dead silent.
I was out of my chair before the word fully left her mouth. The chair crashed backward onto the marble floor with a loud bang. In three strides I was across the kitchen, grabbing her wrist with a grip that was probably too tight.
I turned her hand over, eyes locked on the tiny cut. It was barely anything, a shallow slice, one small bead of blood. But all I could see was red. All I could feel was the memory of blood on my hands. Angelo’s blood. Too much blood. Always too much.
I checked it again. Then again. Brushing my thumb beside the cut, watching another microscopic drop appear.
“Santino…” Aurora started.
“Marco,” I barked, voice sharp as a blade.
Marco started laughing, the bastard. Deep, genuine laughter that echoed through the kitchen.
“Don’t start,” I growled without looking at him.
He raised both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Good.”
“It’s a paper cut,” he added anyway.
I shot him a lethal glare. “Get the medic.”
Aurora blinked up at me, stunned. “For a paper cut?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she said firmly, trying to pull her hand back. I didn’t let her.