Chapter 24
SOFIYA
Montréal, Canadian Grand Prix – Friday, Late Afternoon
I stand by the pit wall, headset pressed to one ear, sunglasses shielding the exhaustion I can’t quite hide. My left shoulder twinges beneath my blazer. It’s still healing but tender from the gunshot.
I’ve learned to move like it doesn’t hurt, learned it long before my trainer snarled into my face that weakness means death.
As a man, he didn’t know, of course, that not showing weakness meant far more to me.
It meant the difference between being traded like a heifer or gaining fear-soaked respect.
Respect that included the higher goal of being left the fuck alone.
Today, though, every shift of muscle reminds me what I risked. What I almost lost.
What I’m still hiding.
I haven’t told my father yet about what happened with Bonafacio. Not a word. And with Agent DeLuca also going radio-silent on me, I don’t even know for sure if my grandfather is in Interpol custody or not.
He is. He has to be.
Which gives me, maybe, a few more days before the truth detonates in the family. Before Narciso finds out how close he came to being dragged into Nonno’s schemes.
Bonafacio had planned on snagging Narciso into signing over the millions of crypto he’d been cut off from with the lure of a shady legacy inheritance. We discovered the plot in the papers Rafaelle took.
If he’d gone through with it, Narciso would be locked up right next to him, for months, possibly years, before he could extricate himself from Bonafacio’s bullshit.
It turns my stomach.
More because while I was tucked away in Valle du Luce, happily losing my V-card, my baby brother nearly got caught in the blast radius. I exhale, thank God Bonafacio is off the board. For now.
But still – my nerves fray like wires in the rain.
And I know why.
Rafaelle.
I… miss him. We agreed to keep our distance here.
Rafa has Salvatore business; I have Mancinelli obligations. But distance feels like a joke when I swear I can feel him at the edges of the paddock. Just out of sight, just out of reach.
My gaze flicks to the crowd behind me. No sign of him. Nothing but sunglasses, lanyards, and corporate swagger.
Lap forty-eight.
I focus back on the screen. The Salvatore twins are lead and second now, as per fucking usual. I hear sector times relayed through the comms, strategy and counter-strategy to best an enemy that feels like enemy less and less.
And then I hear it.
His voice. ‘Hey, tigra.’ Low and rough, clipped, hot as fuck, barely audible over my mic. My breath stutters. I step back from the pit wall, pulse spiking. Scan the garages, the VIP balconies, the dense crowd.
Nothing.
He’s gone again. I didn’t imagine it. I know I didn’t.
Somehow he’s managed to hack my comms and I’m not even surprised.
What I am is hot. Desperate.
I sip from my water bottle, trying to calm the tremble in my fingers. At the checkered flag, Narciso crosses the line in P3. The team cheers. It stings but it could be worse. My brother could’ve not been here at all.
Small victories.
I step out of the garage and scan the sea of bodies for the man I can’t stop looking for.
The man who fucked me against a tree in Palermo like it was our last night on earth.
The man who isn’t here.
And yet I feel him. Always.
An immovable bullet just under my skin.
Hotel Suite – Saturday, 02:00
The hotel corridors are quiet except for the distant hum of partygoers winding down.
My bedroom door is cracked open; I slip inside, carefully easing the lock closed behind me.
The dark room is cool. My suitcase lies open, the fabric of my dress spilling onto the floor.
I should be sleeping, but rest is out of reach.
Moments later, the door murmurs open. I don’t need to turn to know the shape stepping inside. He closes the door so softly the walls barely register the shift in the air.
‘Rafa,’ I breathe, pulse hammering.
He crosses the room in three strides. His gaze is haunted, need sizzling at the base of his stare. ‘I should have told you earlier,’ he whispers, stepping close, too close for comfort, yet perfect. His arms clamp around me, the warmth of his body a magnet.
I press back against the bedpost. ‘Told me what?’ My voice trembles.
He tilts my chin up until I meet his eyes. His thumb brushes a tear I didn’t know had fallen. ‘You’re in my blood, bedda. Every fucking where. I can’t stay away.’
I press my lips together.
The sensible response is to push him away, to remind myself of duty, of boundaries, but his proximity erodes sense. I tilt my head, yielding, and he tugs my dress from my shoulders.
He’s gentle, an irony that twists my pulse. When he drops to his knees in front of me, he unzips my heels, trailing kisses down my legs, hips, abdomen, until I’m shivering, caught between fury and fever.
He looks up, dark eyes glinting. ‘Do you trust me?’
I close my eyes. Heaven help me but… ‘I do.’
He spins me around, pins my back to his front. ‘Tell me you’ve missed me too,’ he croons in my ear. His erection presses into the small of my back. His hand slips under my dress to cup my pussy.
I gasp, arching into him as every nerve ignites. ‘Yes. So much. Tonight,’ I whisper. ‘I need more.’
His mouth brushes my neck. ‘Good, my insatiable assassin. That’s a fucking good thing, because so do I.’
He pushes me onto the edge of the bed. My wrists brush the cool metal of the headboard. Eyes on me, he reaches into his leather jacket pocket and… gulp… produces silk-lined cuffs.
Oh fuck.
My breath flutters, heart pummelling. When I nod, he guides me so my palms rest alongside the metal, securing me in tight.
He kneels between my legs. ‘If at any point you want me to stop—’
I force out, ‘Never.’
Something flashes in his eyes. Smug male pleasure. Satisfaction. A touch of bewilderment?
His mouth descends, slow and worshipful down my torso, until every inch of me trembles. His tongue teases the most sensitive places, and I ache with a shudder that nearly breaks me.
It’s been only two days since Palermo, but if feels like a year. So I’m not surprised when I come in minutes, my fingernails digging into the headboard.
He rises, and I hear the snap of buttons, then feel his cock, already slick pressing against my entrance.
He leans down and captures my lips in a bruising kiss before guiding himself inside in one smooth thrust. My breath stutters as the room dissolves to the press of iron, the drag of silk cuffs, the rhythm of his hips.
He picks up a steady pace, so deep, so controlled, I see stars as each movement sends jolts through me. ‘So fucking beautiful when you’re so open for me. So wet and tight. Fuck,’ he rasps, his voice so thick, it’s near incoherent.
I arch into him, reclaiming each thrust with a surge of lactic-fire release. He grips my hips and drives even deeper, faster, until I cry out, and he launches me towards ecstasy.
Only to hold me at the edge, whispering ragged praise, teasing me. Edging me. Over and over, until I’m a sobbing mess.
Only then, together, do we tumble over the brink.
My world fractures into stars, and I cling to him as he shudders through his own release, filling me with the pulse of his need.
He collapses beside me, pressing my bound hands against his chest.
As he undoes the cuffs, I tuck trembling fingers into his hair, holding him close until our heartbeats settle into a shuddering calm.
I fall asleep with a relentless drum beating in my chest.
I’m a Mancinelli, falling under the spell of yet another Salvatore.
Sunday – Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, After the Race
The champagne has barely dried from the podium.
Dante took P1, Renzo P2 – and Narciso crossed the line third, jaw clenched tight enough to crack his own teeth. He refused to celebrate. Stormed into his trailer without a word. Not even a glance in my direction.
I shoulder past a few engineers, stepping out of the pit lane tunnel just as my uncle Stefano cuts across the tarmac.
His face is flushed from the sun, or maybe rage. I’d groan under my breath if he was worth it. My own teeth grit when he plants himself in front of me.
Does he even know I can choke him out in seconds and barely feel it? My fingers itch to do it. Jesus, I’m turning into Rafa. My unhinged lover.
And I don’t… hate it.
‘You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on,’ he snaps before I can speak.
I lift a brow. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Bonafacio. No one’s heard from him in weeks,’ he growls. ‘What are you doing to fix it? To bring him home?’
I stare him down, tone even. ‘I’m handling it.’
‘Does your father know that?’ he bites out. ‘Because he’s been calling all weekend. You’ve been avoiding him.’
I say nothing, and he pulls out his phone and thrusts it at me.
‘Time’s up, ragazza. Talk to him.’
I take the phone with a dry swallow, the ache in my shoulder flaring. ‘Papà,’ I say, tone steady despite the nausea.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he snarls.
‘Doing the necessary, as always.’
‘Well, the necessary isn’t working. I haven’t heard from your grandfather. Have you?’
‘Not…’ I pause, hating the outright lie. ‘He’s moving around.’ Yeah, at the back of an Interpol van. Hopefully. ‘I’ll brief you when I get back home.’
‘When?’ he snaps. ‘Have you forgotten that there are obligations for you to carry out?’
I bite my tongue from saying not tonight.
Bite my tongue from screaming my pain and fury.
From screaming that I know obligations always mean blood or sacrifice when you’re a woman in this family.
That being useful is the only way they know how to love you.
If they even know what love fucking means. ‘Soon,’ I hedge. ‘A day or two.’
He exhales sharply but accepts it. For now. ‘Don’t keep me waiting, Sofiya.’
I hang up, shame curdling low in my gut. Stefano’s smirk is poisonous.
‘You lied to him.’
‘I don’t report to you,’ I snap, fire sparking in my chest.
‘No,’ he says coolly. ‘But you report to him. And you’re slipping.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’ I seethe.
‘I outrank you, ragazza. You will do as your seniors command, or suffer the consequences – I will not—’
I lean in, the tip of my nose brushing his. ‘I will not be dictated to. I remain loyal to this family, but I am not a child. I protect them, yes, but on my terms. Understood?’
He blinks, once, twice, barely registering the rebellion in my tone. Then he straightens, turning away as if the conversation is over. ‘Keep up with that and you’ll—’ He stops. Freezes.
The air shifts with savagery.
Rafaelle appears, silent and lethal, like he stepped out of shadow.
He closes the space between us and before I can utter a word, his hand closes on the back of Stefano’s neck. My uncle yelps in surprise as he’s yanked backwards, into Rafa’s body.
Rapt and breath held, I watch Rafa murmur something low in Stefano’s ear – too quiet for me to hear, but lethal enough to make my uncle go white. Stefano stumbles back a pace, mouth gaping. He mutters something unintelligible and hurries away.
Rafa turns to me, expression unreadable. ‘You okay?’
I bristle. ‘I didn’t need saving.’
‘I know.’ His gaze lingers on mine, thumb brushing just under my elbow where my jacket covers the slow-healing wound. ‘But you’re bleeding through the seams. Let me help you.’
I hate how much I want to let him. So I fall back on old habits and I scoff, low and bitter. ‘Help me? What, patch me up so I can be useful again? That’s all I’ve ever been good for – being the sharp end of someone else’s agenda.’
His jaw tightens. ‘You think that’s all I see when I look at you?’
I blink, thrown off balance by the heat in his voice. The promise in it but also the edge of hurt. ‘I see someone who’s survived what should’ve broken her. That’s not utility. That’s power.’
For a second – just one goddamn second – I let myself believe him. And it soothes every single ache, present and past.
Rafa notices, the damn clever Enforcer.
His hand brushes mine again, a slow, grounding touch, like he’s trying to steady the tremor in my chest he shouldn’t know is there.
I step away. ‘People are watching.’
He smirks. ‘Let them.’
I take two steps before his hand closes lightly around my wrist. I resist. Far too feebly. ‘I need to go and pack.’
‘I know. I’ll come with you. We can head to the airport together.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’ I scoff. Even feebler.
He smirks. ‘You know why, bedda. You’re coming on my plane,’ he says, voice low, certain. ‘So I can fuck you mile high, like you deserve.’
I swallow. And God help me, I nod.
It’s all unravelling. And I don’t know if we’re headed towards victory or the abyss.
But I do know this – I’m not going into it alone.