Chapter 28
RAFAELLE
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Sofiya killed half her bloodline and collapsed into my arms like she hadn’t just walked through hell and burned the fucking place down on the way out.
I give up trying not to stare at the wind teasing strands of her dark hair beneath the billowing canopy of our private box at the British Grand Prix. Her fingers curl loosely around mine, her body draped against my side, and yet I’m the one who feels anchored.
I try not to breathe her too deeply like a fucking lunatic and instead stare at the track. Out there, the world still spins fast… well, today, with Narciso refusing to give up his seat despite what Matteo nearly allowed to happen. Despite their grandfather’s mass murder threat.
Hell, the kid grinned when I asked him if he was insane. Said he’d take death at 220 mph before he cowered from an unhinged old man.
I kinda respect him for that.
But as much as I hate it, we’re back to living on tenter-fucking-hooks.
For race weekends, Sofiya and I are keeping an eye on the twins – who ditto snarled their own versions of fuck no and bring it at the news of El Topo’s threats – and on the baby brother she adores.
Cesare’s locked Maddie and Nico in Fallbrook. Tripled security. Hired more soldiers than the entire fucking military support of a small country. Reinforced every door with steel and prayer. So far, thank God, no movement from even the wounded Mancinellis.
Just tension so thick even the fucking air vibrates with it.
After the meeting at Fallbrook, my father called, a rarity that deserved the respect I gave it, if not the content of the conversation, not that I can blame him.
In a voice far more broken than I wanted to witness, he asked what the hell I was doing with a Mancinelli, much like I’d asked Cesare last year. At the back of my mind, I appreciated that I owed my brother an apology. Maybe.
Orazio keeps sending quiet warnings that I’m walking the same line Cesare did. And all I can say is this – they’re fucking right. I am. And I don’t care.
I don’t see an enemy when I look at her any more.
I see what’s mine. What I intend to keep.
Sofiya stands straighter as the engines scream on the start-finish straight below us, gives an excited yelp as Narciso passes Dante on track. I let her celebrate the win because she’s bouncing on the tips of her toes, her mile-wide smile digging in soft places inside me I didn’t know existed.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
Even more so in one of the sexy little numbers I dropped into her shopping bag in Monaco and coaxed her into wearing today. The material frames her tits and ass just right. The only thing I didn’t account for is how much I’d hate the attention she’s getting.
Exhibit fucking C.
She glances back, catches some suit in an orange McLaren polo leering at her ass. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but I’m already on it.
I don’t say a word – just shift enough to meet the fucker’s eyes and let my deranged expression do the talking. He pales and looks away fast.
‘You’re going to get us banned from every paddock in Europe,’ Sofiya mutters.
‘Good. Less competition.’ I kiss her temple, then her cheek, and because I’m fucking gone for this woman, I linger at the corner of her mouth.
Any more and I’ll need to find the nearest janitor’s closet to fuck her in.
Cristu, I’ve fucked her so much these past few weeks, I’m stunned I can still walk, never mind her.
But my girl has fallen into her sexual awakening era like a sinner discovering silk sheets and deciding confession can wait till Monday.
‘And fewer pricks looking at what’s mine. ’
She doesn’t answer right away, just curls her fingers through mine again. There’s softness there. Vulnerability. The kind she never shows anyone else.
It should scare me, how much I want to protect it.
Instead, it makes me crave more.
But it’s not all adrenaline and tenderness and living on the edge of our nerves.
The other thorn in my side is Nightowl’s incoherent messages – riddles dressed up like intel, always two steps from useful and three from sane until I work it out.
And either I’m losing my touch or the pussy-whipping has addled my brain because the latest ones have been ball-scratchers.
The last one came at 2 a.m. this morning.
Nightowl
Dove il vetro sanguina e i cipressi vegliano.
Where glass bleeds and the cypress keeps watch.
Another location for El Topo?
It has to be.
I’ve paid outrageous sums to the two MIT kids we keep on retainer and even more to shady individuals on the dark web to dig deeper. So far, nothing.
The question is, do I tell Sofiya any of it? She’s stopped asking about Aegis and I passed the last mission to someone else. But for the first time in my life, keeping secrets is beginning to feel… not fucking nice.
I know it’s because she’s not just some asset or enemy I need to keep an eye on any more.
She’s the woman I wake up craving. The one who haunts my thoughts when I should be focusing on anything else.
And yeah, she saved herself back in that safehouse. Wreaked sweet fucking carnage and came out blood-slicked and unbroken.
But that doesn’t mean I want her anywhere near another goddamn ambush.
She’s my fucking tigra. But even tigers bleed.
So maybe keeping a few secrets isn’t the end of the damn world? I’m protecting her. Like I’ve done my whole life for those I lo—
Cristu.
Yeah, like fucking hell I’m admitting that thought. I clamp my jaw so tight I’m stunned it doesn’t crack. Because I’m terrified it’s a thought I won’t be able to unthink if unleashed.
Pussy ass and pussy whipped.
Maybe, but still, I back the fuck away.
Then I glance at Sofiya again, wondering… hoping she didn’t catch any of that.
So why am I not relieved she’s watching the track? Maybe it’s because I know her well enough now to see the tension in her jaw, the flicker of unease she thinks she’s hiding.
She’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because we both know it will.
I pull her tighter against me. Let the roar of engines mask the shift in my pulse.
For now, I don’t tell her.
But I will.
Soon.
Maybe.
The race is over but the roar of Silverstone hasn’t yet faded, the air still thick with the tang of rubber and gasoline. The podium glints under British summer haze – what little sun managed to survive the cloud cover – and Dante lifts his trophy like a man born to dominate.
Narciso, all smug grin and camera charm, flashes a wink from second place, and Renzo glares daggers from third, jaw clenched so tight I bet his molars crack before the after-party.
Good. It doesn’t hurt to be knocked down a notch or two on occasion. Keeps a man on his toes.
Speaking of which, I’m not here for the fucking show.
I’m watching Sofiya’s lush body and lips I’ve already tasted three times since the checkered flag dropped.
She’s biting back a smirk as my sister Bibi and the race engineers flank her, watching the celebration. Yeah, she’s in the Salvatore camp now.
Narciso steps over, brushing past a crew member, wiping at sweat with his branded towel. ‘Do I need to be seeing this?’ he mutters, nodding at me and Sofiya as I tug her close, unapologetically brushing my lips against the hinge of her jaw.
I smirk, flicking him a glance like a blade. ‘Close your eyes then, cucciolo. Or I’ll start describing it.’
‘Christ,’ he mutters. But his chuckle is genuine. Almost. I don’t miss the flicker of something else – last year’s ghost, Vegas and the shitty antics he pulled that almost got Cesare killed – still drifting between us. I let it sit. A reminder. His jaw clenches but he pales a little.
Message received.
Later, over a toast and a round of cheers in the private suite with Bibi and a few loyal crew, I catch Sofiya watching me. That sharp, assessing gleam in her eye that says she’s cataloguing every tension in the room.
She knows something’s coming. I do too.
We slip out just before sundown, roaring down the M1 into the sticky quiet of a London summer night. My Furia supercar growls low and sexy as it invades the leafy streets, engine purring under my palm like it knows we’re both trying not to explode.
Sofiya slides a hand to my thigh as I shift gears, eyes glinting under the streetlights. ‘You know England has the highest CCTV coverage in the world?’
I grin, tugging her closer with one arm. I thoroughly devour her mouth when I stop at a red light. ‘So they’ll get good footage when we get arrested for indecent exposure.’
She laughs, breath warm. ‘And then what?’
I lean in, nipping at her bottom lip. ‘Then I fuck a girl with a rap sheet in a prison cell before we bust our way out, Bonnie and Clyde style. My kind of fairy tale.’
Her hand splays on my chest and she parts her lips for another filthy kiss. When we part, she looks horny and fucking beautiful. ‘You say the nicest things, Enforcer.’
I’m laughing when I floor the gas.
I’m definitely not laughing fifteen minutes later.
De Luca looks like shit.
They always do when the mask slips and he had fuck all to be working with in the first place. I lean against the wall of the abandoned flat we’ve blacked out, lit only by a lamp that hums with an old bulb and the anticipation of what’s about to happen.
Sofiya walks in behind me, quiet as a knife unsheathed. Her eyes never leave the bastard’s face.
He spits blood, then forces a smile. ‘Sofiya. You look radiant.’
‘I’d look better with a little less betrayal in the room,’ she replies.
His laugh is thin, mouth leaking red. ‘It was just intel. Nothing personal.’
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Except it was deeply personal. It unravelled a shitty set of motions that put some… admittedly deserving men in the ground. But it also put a few people I love in danger. So tell me, what do I do about that?’
Fuck, she’s breathtaking. Her eyes don’t flash. They don’t need to. The cold tundra is worse.