Chapter 10
FRANCESCA
Ihear the elevator doors open and close.
I haven't moved from the edge of this bed in hours. Just sitting here, staring out at the city lights through windows that don't open. My eyes are raw from crying. My throat hurts. The same jeans and sweater I've been wearing since he brought me here feel like a second skin.
I hear footsteps in the hallway, getting closer.
The penthouse has been empty since he left the second time. He came back this afternoon covered in blood from whatever he did this morning, stood in my doorway watching me cry, then left again after getting that phone call.
Now my door opens.
He's standing in the doorway wearing clean clothes. Dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He changed somewhere between leaving and coming back.
My stomach drops. This afternoon his jeans were covered in blood. The fact that he changed means he had to. Which means between whatever he did this morning and whatever phone call sent him back out, he probably killed again.
"Did you kill someone else today?" The words come out flat. Hollow.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even pretend. "Yes."
I should scream. Throw something. Do anything except sit here asking follow-up questions like we're discussing his commute.
"How many?"
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know." I turn away, looking back at the window. At all those lights blazing across Manhattan. All those people living normal lives where their biggest problem isn't being held prisoner by a mob enforcer. "Maybe I'm keeping score."
"Several this morning. One tonight."
Multiple people. He's killed multiple people today and he's standing in my doorway like it's nothing. Like murder is just another item on his to-do list.
The worst part? Some sick, twisted corner of my brain whispers that he did it for me. That every violent thing, every terrible choice, it's all wrapped up in this obsession with keeping me safe.
As if killing people keeps anyone safe.
"You're insane," I say.
"Probably." He steps into the room. The door shuts behind him. "But I just started a war with the Bratva to keep you. So insane doesn't begin to cover what I am."
I stand up, turning to face him. Rage cuts through the exhaustion. "I don't want to be anywhere near a war. I want to go home. I want my life back. I want—"
"Your life back?" He laughs, and it's a harsh, ugly sound. "That shitty apartment where anyone could break in? That job where you work yourself to death for people who don't give a fuck if you live or die? That's the life you want back?"
"It's my life. Mine. Not yours."
"Wrong." He moves closer. "It stopped being yours the moment I decided you were mine. You belong to me. Your past, your present, your future—all mine."
"You can't just decide that!"
"I already did." His voice drops lower. "Months ago. You just didn't know it."
The certainty in his voice makes rage shake through me. I cross the room until I'm right in front of him. "This is insane. You've kidnapped me. You're keeping me a prisoner. You killed people today and you're standing here like it's normal—"
"It is normal. For me." He doesn't back away. Doesn't flinch. "I'm a killer, Francesca. I've been killing people since I was a teenager. That's what I am. That's what you saw in that ER when you didn’t report that gunshot wound."
"I didn't know—"
"Yes, you did." He moves fast, fingers wrapping around my wrist hard enough to bruise. "You knew exactly what I was and you saved me anyway. You protected me. You lied on the report… made sure the cops didn’t know anything. You made your choice back then. Now you have to live with it."
I try to pull away but his grip tightens. "Let go of me."
"No." He drags me closer until we're inches apart. "You don't get to run anymore. You don't get to pretend this isn't what you want. You don't get to lie to yourself about what you feel when you look at me."
"I hate you," I whisper, hoping I can at least convince myself that it's true.
"Liar." His other hand slides into my hair, twisting tight enough that my scalp burns. "You're terrified of how much you want this. Want me. The monster who kills for you. The killer who'd burn down the whole fucking city to keep you."
"You're delusional."
"Or maybe you are. Maybe you're lying to yourself. About what makes you wet when you look at me. About why you haven't screamed for help even once since I brought you here."
"I tried to escape—"
"Halfheartedly." He tightens the grip in my hair until water pricks my eyes.
"You tested the locks. You checked the windows.
But you never really tried to leave. Because deep down you know the truth.
You're safer in the monster's cage than you ever were in that apartment.
And you fucking love that I'm the monster keeping you. "
"That's not—"
"Yes, it is." He's right in my face now, close enough that I can smell smoke and gunpowder and blood underneath his cologne. "You want to be owned, claimed, kept. You're just too scared to admit it."
My stomach growls.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm fine."
"You're hungry. When did you last eat?"
"Breakfast."
"That was this morning." Tension coils in his jaw. "Why didn't you eat?"
"Because you weren't here to feed me like a good little pet." The words come out sharp, angry. "What was I supposed to do, help myself? Make myself at home in my cage?"
He releases my hair and cups my face instead. The touch is almost gentle but there's steel underneath it. "This is your home now. All of it is mine. Including you. And I take care of what's mine."
"I don't want—"
The exhaustion, the hunger, the way he's standing here talking about killing people like it's nothing and I should be terrified—it all fractures. The careful distance I've been trying to maintain shatters.
I grab his shirt and pull him to me. I press my mouth against his.
He goes still. Then he makes a low, dangerous sound and takes over.
He tangles his hand in my hair again, wrenching my head back at an angle that sends pain shooting through my scalp. His mouth slams against mine and it's vicious. He kisses me like he's trying to consume me whole.
His tongue forces past my lips and I gasp. He swallows the sound, kissing me harder, one hand still twisted in my hair while the other grips my hip with bruising force.
This isn't romantic. This isn't sweet. This is a man who's been obsessing over me for months finally getting what he's decided belongs to him.
His teeth catch my bottom lip and bite down. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to make me whimper. He soothes it with his tongue and the contrast makes my knees weak.
He walks me backward. My shoulders hit the wall and he pins me there. Every inch of him is pressed against me and I can feel exactly how much he wants this. The thick length of him grinding against my stomach through his jeans.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse. "You started this. Now you're going to finish it."
He kisses me again, rougher this time. His hands are everywhere, touching, gripping, taking. He grabs the hem of my sweater and drags it over my head, tosses it aside.
Then his hands are on my bare skin. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly.
"We need to talk. Before this goes any further."
I blink at him. My thoughts scatter, refuse to form properly. "What?"
"Birth control. Testing. I need to know you're protected." His thumbs press into my hipbones. "I won't use a condom. I need to feel every inch of you around me with nothing between us. But not if there's any risk."
The blunt words jolt through me. "I’ve been on the pill since I was in my teens. I was tested a few months ago. Clean."
"Good." His thumb strokes over my skin. "Recently for me. Clean. I've been with no one since I decided you were mine." He leans in, mouth against my ear. "I've been waiting to claim you, tesoro. Every part of you belongs to me now."
The confession makes something clench low in my belly.
"This is a bad idea," I whisper.
"The best ones usually are." His mouth moves down my neck to my collarbone. "Say you want this."
"I want this."
"Want what?" He bites down on the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. "Be specific, Francesca. What do you want?"
"You. I want you."
"Not good enough." He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with one hand, pulls it off and throws it aside. Then his hands are on my breasts. "What do you want me to do to you?"
His thumb brushes over my nipple. "Answer me, or I'll edge you all night and give you nothing. You'll service me with that pretty mouth and I won't let you come at all."
"Touch me." The words come out desperate. "Please."
"Where?" He rolls my nipple between his fingers, just this side of too rough. "Here?"
"Yes."
"What else?" His other hand slides down my stomach to the button of my jeans. "Where else do you need my hands?"
"Everywhere. I need your hands everywhere."
He makes a satisfied sound and pops the button on my jeans, drags the zipper down. "Now I'm going to show you what it means to be mine."
He slides his hand inside my jeans, inside my underwear. His fingers find me wet and ready. He pushes two fingers inside me without warning.
"Fucking soaked." He pulls his hand away and brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact. "You taste like you belong to me."
He steps back and reaches for his belt. "On your knees."
I blink at him. "What?"
"I don't want to repeat myself, Francesca. On your knees. Now."
The command in his voice makes my legs give out. I sink down onto the floor.
He strips off his belt, pops the button on his jeans, drags down the zipper. When he pushes his jeans and boxer briefs down, I see him for the first time.
He's big. Thick and flushed, already hard and ready.
"Open your mouth."
I hesitate and he grabs my hair, wrenching my head back. Not gently.
"When I give you an order, you obey. Open. Your. Mouth."