Salvatore
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’m never getting married.”
That’s what I said.
To myself. To my brothers. To any woman who ever tried to fall in love with me.
Marriage was never part of the plan.
Not for a man like me.
It wasn’t that I was incapable of love, at least, that’s what I told myself. The truth was simpler than that.
Love was a weakness.
A liability.
In my world, the second someone owned a piece of your heart, they owned a weapon they could use against you. And I had spent my entire life making sure no one ever had that kind of leverage over me.
So I built my life carefully. Methodically. Like a fortress.
Women were for pleasure. A distraction, nothing more.
They came and went, beautiful faces, expensive perfume, soft laughter echoing through rooms paid for with Vitale money. But none of them ever stayed long enough to matter. I never let them.
And if I’m honest… not sure any of them ever really wanted to.
They didn’t want the man.
They wanted the danger.
The power.
The money.
The weight the Vitale name carries when it’s spoken in the right rooms.
They wanted the thrill of standing next to a man the world fears.
They wanted the empire.
None of them ever really saw the man holding it together.
None of them ever looked past the reputation… past the blood… past the crown that came with the name Vitale.
Until Valentina.
At first, I told myself it was just attraction. Possession. The kind of dark hunger men like me are known for.
I wanted her.
That was all.
But somewhere between the arguments, the sharp looks, and the moments when she forgot to guard her heart around me… something shifted.
Quietly.
Dangerously.
Now I find myself doing something I never planned to do.
Something I swore I never would.
Because the truth is… Valentina didn’t fall for the power or the name.
She saw the man behind it.
And now that she has him…
I’ll burn this entire world down before I let anyone take her from me.
And the most dangerous part?
For the first time in my life…
I want it all with her.
* * *
She’s still upset over the dinner with the prosecutor.
I walked out of the car towards the door and she followed me.
Through the front door, up the stairs, down the hall. Raging about gumball machine rings and macho men and Cristo the whole way, she was magnificent. Every step I took, she matched. Every silence I gave her, she filled with fire.
The whole time, I had one thought: don't look back. If you look back, it's over.
I didn't look back.
I just kept walking, thinking she would surrender and head to her room.
I should have known she wouldn't give up until she felt heard, but I kept walking anyway until I reached my bedroom.
I didn't think she'd be bold enough to follow me in here.
Not knowing how badly I want her, not knowing how dangerous I could be, not knowing just how badly I could ruin her.
I walk in, and I don't look back, but most importantly, I don't close the door either.
I left the door open intentionally, a silent invitation… or maybe a challenge. Either way, I knew exactly what I was doing.
And I should have known better than to think she’d ignore a challenge, especially one I put in front of her.
She is as defiant as she is mine.
It is clearer now than it has ever been.
The way she challenges me without flinching.
The way she refuses to lower her chin, even when every instinct she has should be telling her to.
Valentina is no longer afraid of me. Maybe she should be.
But she isn't, and that absence of fear doesn't soften me.
It sharpens me. It makes me want to ruin her slowly and completely.
I turn to face her now.
She is standing in the middle of my bedroom like she owns it. Chin lifted. Dress slightly wrinkled.
I want the dress off of her.
The control I've maintained for weeks. The cold strategy. The careful distance. The calculated performance of a man who has everything under command is gone.
I take one step toward her. Then another.
She doesn't move.
Good. If she'd taken a single step back, some fragment of control might have held. Might have kept me from doing what I am about to do. But she holds her ground the way she always holds her ground. Chin up. Green eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
I stop in front of her. Close enough to feel the warmth off her skin.
I frame her face in my hands.
She is so beautiful it's almost hard to look at her directly.
Dark hair falling loose. That pretty little smart mouth waiting to be claimed.
I have obsessed over that mouth for weeks with a specificity that embarrasses a don.
The precise shape of it. The way it parts when she's angry. The way it pressed tight when she was trying not to cry in the library, and didn’t think I was watching.
There are things I want to say. There is a version of this where I am eloquent.
Where I tell her everything I've been building behind every careful word and strategic silence.
Where I explain what she has done to a man who believed he was past this.
Past falling, past caring, past wanting someone so bad it fucking hurts.
What it meant when she put her hand on my leg, and my body went quiet for the first time in years. Completely, strangely quiet.
I don't say any of it.
Instead I look at her, and she knows. She can see that I'm hungry. I want her surrender, and I want it now.
"Take off your clothes, Valentina."
* * *
She says no. Of course she does.
Just that. One word, flat and clean.
"No?"
"You don't get to give me orders, Salvatore."
She says it with a confidence I've never seen in her before. A steadiness that isn't bravado and isn't performance. It is simply her, standing in my bedroom, refusing me.
I am enjoying every second of it.
"You know what you can give me?" she continues.
"Name it." I hold her gaze, unable to look away.
"A ring. A real one. I deserve a real one."
I bring her hand to my lips and press a slow kiss to her knuckles.
"Yes," I say against her skin. "You do."
"And freedom." Her voice doesn't waver. "I want to feel free, even if we're together. I want my life to still be mine."
Hmm. I consider that for a moment. Freedom. What does freedom mean to Valentina?
I suppose that’s a conversation we’ll have to have.
Because I won’t leave her unprotected. I won’t leave her without surveillance. And I damn sure won’t let her out of my sight for long.
“Anything else?”
She pauses.
Her eyes find mine and hold.
“Yes. There is one more thing.”
She doesn’t look away, and neither do I. The room falls quiet around us, the air tightening, heat simmering between us. I wait for her to make her third demand.
“I want to be loved.”
Her voice is softer now, stripped of its armor.
“Not as a prize. Not as an obligation.” She swallows, but she doesn’t break my gaze. “I want someone to truly love me.”
A beat passes between us.
Then she says it.
“I want you to love me, Salvatore.”
The room goes still.
I have stood in every kind of room. I have made demands of senators, of capos, of men who wept and begged me for their lives. Not one of them has ever made me want to be on the receiving end of anything.
She is the only one.
"Say something," she whispers.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." I look into her eyes and I let her see it. All of it. Everything I've been keeping behind glass. "Now, Valentina. Will you please take off your fucking clothes?"
"No, Salvatore."
My name is in her mouth. Not a plea. Not a question.
A declaration.
"I want you," she says, stepping toward me, closing the distance I made. Her hands press flat against my chest. "To take off your clothes."
I go completely still.
"What?"
"You heard me."
I’ve spent years of being the man that every other man answers to, and this woman is standing in front of me like she built the room. Like she owns everything in it. My heartbeat gives me away under her palms, and there is nothing I can do about that.
I almost want to laugh.
I don't.
My hands go to my collar. I unbutton the shirt slowly, watching her face.
One button, then the next, my eyes never leaving hers.
I want to see every flicker. Every tell.
Every moment her composure costs her something.
I want to know exactly what I do to her the way she has always known, without trying, what she does to me.
The shirt falls.
She looks at me with open hunger and doesn't bother to hide it.
That look. The heat in it, the want. I have never been undone by a fucking look.
I am undone by this one.
This isn't just sex.
I don't say it yet. I'll say it when I have to, when we're standing at the edge of something irreversible and the words need to exist between us. But I am thinking it now with every part of me that has never been patient about anything.
I am done being careful.
I step into her space, close enough to feel her breath hitch. My hands come up, framing her face, holding her exactly where I want her.
I don’t rush it. I take my time… Then I claim her mouth with mine.
She meets me with everything she has. Nails raking down my back, her body arching into mine like she has been waiting for this as long as I have. I lift her up and carry her to the bed. My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the soft skin behind her ear.
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, I pull back just enough to look at her.
I have thought about this. What she'd look like in my bed. I built the image piece by piece over weeks of wanting, with nowhere to put it. The curve of her throat. The flush at her chest. The way her eyes would look when she finally let me have her.
The reality of her is better than anything I imagined.
Because she wants this. Wants me. And that knowledge does something to me that I am not prepared for.
"I've thought about this," I tell her, my voice stripped of everything careful. "Every night since you came here. What you'd look like. What you'd sound like. What you'd taste like."
"You've already tasted me in the garden," she whispers, her hips lifting just enough to press against my hand.
I take my time with her. My fingers trace her center, slowly, and I feel the exact moment her breath hitches when I brush too close to the heat between her thighs. She's already wet.
I slide her underwear aside, then drag my thumb up the seam of her, parting her folds just enough to let the cool air kiss her swollen flesh. "That?" I murmur against her skin. "That was just an appetizer."
She shivers. I take my time with her. My lips brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, my hands slide beneath her ass to tilt her up and her clit is already throbbing, already begging, and something feral tightens in my chest at the sight of her like this. Open. Wanting. Mine.
I press my nose against her and inhale. A growl moves through me before I can stop it. " My tongue flicks out, just the tip, tracing the outline of her entrance before dragging up to circle her clit. Once. Twice. Her back arches, and I hear that broken sound tear from her throat, and I stop.
I don't give her what she's chasing. Not yet.
I spread her open with my thumbs, slowly, until she's fully exposed to the cool air. I feel her twitch beneath my hands, and then I seal my mouth over her. My tongue is flat and broad as I lap from her entrance to her clit in one long, unhurried stroke.
I hum against her, feeling her hips jerk. I let my tongue delve deeper, spearing inside her in slow, deliberate thrusts, curling against her walls before pulling back to swirl around her clit. Relentless. Measured. She cries out, sharp and broken, and I feel the sound in my chest.
I can feel how close she is. Her thighs are trembling, her muscles locking. She's right there.
I pull back.
She whimpers, her hips still rocking, chasing friction I've withdrawn. The sound she makes goes straight through me, but I don't let her see that.
"No," I tell her.
I slide two fingers inside her with ease and she takes them perfectly. I feel her walls clench around me when I press my thumb against her clit. Not moving, just holding.
"You don't come until I tell you."
She grabs both sides of my face, forcing my eyes to hers. No hesitation. No shame. Just her, flushed and breathless and completely undone. Her eyes lock on mine like I’m the center of her entire world, the same way she’s become the center of mine.
"Salvatore."
"Yes, baby."
Her lips part. One beat. Two.
"I want you to fuck me."