CHAPTER 10
FIORELLA P.O.V.
I stare up at the damp ceiling of the bunker, my body humming with a terrifying, residual electricity.
The adrenaline from the gunshots outside has entirely faded, replaced by the heavy, oppressive reality of what I just allowed Angelo to do.
What I participated in. What I craved. I feel the grit of the concrete floor digging into my spine, a sharp, ugly contrast to the slick, burning heat of our joined bodies.
His heavy, scarred frame is still pinning me down, his breath warm and ragged against my temple.
I trace a thin, jagged crack in the concrete next to my head with my fingertip, trying to ground myself in the physical cold of the room.
I’m waiting for the shame to hit me. I’m waiting for the absolute, unhinged disgust of knowing I just gave myself to the man who slaughtered my guards and dragged me into the earth.
But the shame is being drowned out by the sheer, animal relief of being alive.
I should feel violated. Instead, I feel anchored.
"Is that all I am now?" I whisper, the words scraping out of my dry throat. "A debt you've finally collected?"
Angelo shifts his weight slightly, his oil-slick eyes locking onto mine with a dark, suffocating intensity. "Don't look at me like that."
As he pulls away, detaching himself from me, the sudden loss of his body heat hits like a physical blow.
The bunker air is frigid. It immediately turns my sweat-slicked skin to ice, raising goosebumps along my thighs and arms. I reach frantically for the remnants of my emerald gown, but the silk is completely shredded, reduced to a pathetic green rag that barely covers my chest. My physical exposure perfectly mirrors how utterly stripped down I am in my own head.
The Silvestri armor is gone. I try to pull the torn silk over my hips to salvage some shred of dignity, but my hands are shaking too hard to even grip the fabric.
The rustle of the ruined material sounds loud in the quiet, competing with the harsh scrape of Angelo’s heavy boots as he shifts on the floor.
"You’re shaking, Fiorella," he notes, his voice flat, devoid of the frantic edge it had ten minutes ago. He moves with the predatory, relaxed grace of a man who has completely reclaimed his territory.
"It’s just the cold, bastardo," I spit back, hating that my teeth are practically chattering. I hate even more that my body acutely misses his crushing weight the second he moves out of reach.
I try to push myself up into a sitting position, but the room violently spins.
The days of dehydration, the sheer terror of the abduction, and the brutal physical toll of our encounter catch up to me all at once in a massive wave of crushing vertigo.
My vision spots with black. I sag back against the damp concrete wall, my throat feeling as though it’s been lined with sandpaper and broken glass.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose, desperately trying to force the world to stop tilting on its axis.
My body is a failing vessel. It’s a terrifying, sobering reality check.
I literally cannot survive this bunker without him.
"Look at me. Don't go quiet on me now," Angelo demands, watching me with a clinical, dark intensity. He’s gauging my physical limits, measuring exactly how much more I can take.
"I’m fine," I wheeze, keeping my eyes squeezed shut. "Just... let me breathe."
He doesn't offer any bullshit words of comfort.
Instead, he turns toward his discarded tactical gear.
He moves with a terrifying efficiency, digging through his pack until he retrieves a battered stainless steel canteen.
He knows exactly how close I am to passing out.
He unscrews the cap with a sharp, mechanical click that echoes sharply in the small room.
The smell of nylon and gun oil radiates off him, mixing with the harsh metallic scent of old blood in my mouth.
He treats me like a prized weapon he needs to maintain, not a human being. Not a woman.
"You’re no use to me dead, princess," he says, stepping back into my space.
"Is that the only reason?" I ask, my voice cracking.
Angelo doesn't answer. He slides his thick, tattooed arm behind my neck to support my heavy head, lifting me with an effortless strength that sharply reminds me of the night he threw me over his shoulder and stole me. He presses the cool rim of the metal canteen against my bottom lip. He tips the water slowly, forcing me to pace myself so I don't choke. It’s the most intimate thing he’s done to me yet.
More than the sex. It’s an act of pure sustenance from the hands of my executioner.
The water is freezing and tastes faintly of cheap plastic, but it feels like liquid life sliding down my ruined throat.
A single drop of water escapes the corner of my mouth.
I watch his dark eyes track its path down my chin and throat.
I’m drinking from his hand like a stray dog, and I am deadass grateful for it. Stronzo.
"Slowly," he murmurs, his forearm rough against my nape. "You’ll make yourself sick."
"More," I gasp against the metal. "Please."
He lets me take two more swallows before pulling it away.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my amber eyes meeting his.
He doesn't pull away. He lingers far too close, his large hand staying on my jaw.
His thumb catches a stray droplet of water on my chin, tracing the line of my bone with a possessiveness that is suffocating.
I see the distinct shift in his gaze. The cold iron of the enforcer has softened into something much more predatory, a dark, primal hunger that definitely wasn't satisfied by our first frantic clash.
Instinctively, I lean into his palm for a fraction of a second, craving the heat, before catching myself and going rigid.
"Your brother doesn't deserve you," he says softly.
"He doesn't even want me. He wants me gone," I reply, my voice bitter. Angelo sees the absolute truth of my deeply fucked-up family better than I do. That’s the real torture here.
I look down at my wrists, where the red, angry welts from the silk restraints are beginning to puff and blister.
The throbbing pain is a sharp reminder of my actual status in this room.
I try to pull my arms back to hide the damage, but Angelo is significantly faster.
He catches my hands out of the air. His large, calloused fingers wrap securely around my delicate joints.
He turns my hands over, his brow furrowing in a frown as he inspects the brutal rope burn.
He gently blows on the raw skin, the cool air sending a completely different kind of shiver through my system.
"I’ll find something for the skin," he mutters, his thumbs tracing the edges of the red marks.
"Don't pretend you care about the damage you did," I snap, though the bite in my tone is weak. His sudden gentleness is just another weapon. He's actively trying to scramble my brain, making me forget exactly why I should want him dead.
Angelo doesn't let go of my wrists. He grips them tighter, pulling my hands firmly toward his chest and forcing me to lean into his space.
The distance between us vanishes entirely.
I can feel the low vibration of his voice in my own chest when he speaks.
The air in the bunker instantly feels thick and oxygen-starved again, the heavy, volatile tension rebuilding into something explicitly sexual.
I curl my fingers into his dark shirt, my knuckles turning white against the fabric. My pulse jumps wildly under his thumb.
"You’re still my prisoner, Fiorella. Don't forget that," he warns, his grip tightening just enough to remind me of his overwhelming physical superiority.
"How could I?" I breathe, my eyes locked on his mouth. "You've branded me with every touch."
I should bite him. I should scream for help. Instead, I’m literally waiting for him to kiss me again.
Angelo pulls me fully into his lap, my bare legs draping heavily over his powerful, denim-clad thighs.
He doesn't rush this time. He leans in and begins to trail his hot mouth along the sensitive column of my throat, his rough stubble grazing and scraping my skin.
He inhales deeply, breathing in my scent, marking the territory of my neck with slow, deliberate, open-mouthed presses of his lips.
He hooks his thick fingers into the waistband of his tactical pants, gripping the fabric to leverage himself closer, pulling me flush against his body until there is absolutely no light between us.
"You smell like me now," he rumbles against my collarbone.
"Cazzo, Angelo," I gasp, my head falling back to give him better access. He’s claiming me. Not like a man taking a lover, but like an owner tagging his property.
His massive hands move down to grip my hips, his fingers digging possessively into my soft flesh.
He lifts me slightly, adjusting my position on his lap so I can feel the hard, thick line of his arousal pressing directly against my center through his jeans.
He stays there, completely unmoving, letting the heavy anticipation build and build until my brain shorts out.
I’m the one who breaks the stillness. I start moving, rocking my hips against his rigid length in a silent, desperate plea for friction.
He tilts his head back, watching me through dark, half-lidded eyes as I grind against him, totally unbothered, enjoying the show.
"Ask for it, Fiorella," he commands, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Tell me what a Silvestri wants from an Ferraro dog."
"I want..." I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed by the aching throb between my legs. "I need you to stop talking."