REBECCA
I take a long, luxurious shower, letting the hot water soothe every sore muscle and the faint sting on my arm.
The gentleness in Alessio’s hands as he cleaned and bandaged the cut earlier surprised me more than I wanted to admit.
He'd been so careful, almost tender. Then he left without explaining where he was going, mouth tight and eyes distant.
I'm still wondering about that when boredom finally drives me into the kitchen.
The fridge is ridiculously stocked. I end up making a simple but hearty meal, pasta with fresh herbs and grilled chicken, and a quick salad.
I even manage a batch of chocolate chip cookies.
It feels good to cook again. I hardly ever have the time or the ingredients back home.
By the time the apartment fills with the warm, comforting smell of fresh cookies, the door opens. Alessio steps in.
"Oh, what's that smell?" he says, voice low and appreciative. "That's delicious."
I feel an unexpected rush of giddiness. "I made a little something," I say, almost shy.
God, I could get used to this life. The designer jeans I'm wearing feel like butter against my skin, so much softer and more comfortable than anything I own. The shirt is pure heaven, light and expensive.
Alessio walks into the kitchen, and I notice it immediately: the blood on his shirt.
My eyes narrow. "What happened to you?"
He glances down like he just remembered. "Oh, nothing. That's not mine. I should take a shower."
I pull my brows together and glare at him. I can put two and two together. He took care of the Mexican.
"You tortured Juan," I state flatly.
He nods once. "I needed information."
"Damn you," I hiss, stepping forward and slapping at his arm, then his chest.
"Hey, hey—easy," he catches my wrists, gripping them firmly but not painfully.
"Don't tell me to take it easy!" I flare, trying to yank free. "That man might know where Rachel is—"
"He doesn't," Alessio interrupts quietly.
I glare up at him, chest heaving. "How do you know?"
With a sigh, he lets go of my wrists and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen a few times, then turns it toward me. "I found a box of Polaroids at the clubhouse. In the storage room."
I take the phone with shaking hands. The photo hits me like a punch to the gut. It's Rachel. She looks exactly like the day she vanished, same face, same bright eyes, but now there's fear in them. Real, raw terror. She's holding a sign with a date and a number like she's inventory.
My knees fold. All my darkest fears rise back to the surface. I feel physically sick. Alessio catches me before I hit the floor, his strong arms wrapping around me as the phone slips from my fingers.
"I'm sorry, Beccs," he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough and filled with regret. "This is not how I wanted to tell you."
Tears burn hot down my cheeks. Four years of searching, hoping, dreading… and here she is. Alive. At least four years ago.
I clutch his shirt, burying my face in his chest as the sobs finally break free.
I don't know how long I cry. It feels like forever and no time at all.
The kind of sobbing that rips out of your chest and leaves you hollow.
Alessio holds me the whole time, strong arms wrapped around me like he can keep the world from breaking me any further.
I clutch his shirt like a lifeline, face buried against his chest, tears soaking through the fabric.
Rachel. My baby sister. Still out there. Scared. Hurt. Used. The worst nightmare I've carried for four years is real. I don't even know if she's alive or dead.
Eventually the sobs slow. My body feels wrung out, empty. I pull back just enough to wipe my face with shaking hands.
"I want to see him," I whisper, my voice hoarse from all the crying. "I want to talk to that animal."
Alessio shakes his head immediately. "He doesn't know anything more. He didn't even recognize her face."
Something inside me snaps. I turn on him, eyes blazing. "And it didn't occur to you that I might want to be there? That this is my sister?"
He reaches for my face, trying to soothe me. "Beccs—"
I slap his hands away hard. "Don't touch me."
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Beccs, I had to torture him. I didn't want you to see that. I—"
"Have you met me?" I cut him off, voice rising.
"Trust me, there is nothing— nothing—you could do to that man that would scare me off.
Nothing. I've had four years to imagine the kind of pain I'm going to inflict on the people who took her.
" I'm shaking with rage now, years of grief and helplessness finally boiling over. "I. Can. Take. It."
Alessio looks stunned for a second. He rubs his chin, studies me like he's seeing me for the first time.
"Beccs… imagining things and seeing them—participating in them—are two different kinds of shoes. You don't know what you're asking."
"Don't you dare patronize me, Alessio Vitali. You don't know anything about me," I snap.
He nods slowly. "I don't. But I want to." His voice softens, almost vulnerable. "Beccs, I want that so much."
"Then don't fucking shut me out!" I explode. "This is my life. My decisions. Don't you dare make them for me!"
His jaw clenches. The possessiveness I've seen glimpses of flares hot in his eyes.
"I'm not going to allow you to put yourself in danger like that."
"Allow me?" I snarl, stepping right into his space. "You have absolutely no right over me. None. You're nothing but my fake boyfriend. That's it."
Something in him snaps too. The fight turns loud, ugly, and raw.
"You think I'm going to stand by and watch you walk into more danger after everything I just learned?" He shouts, voice rising for the first time. "After I saw what they do to girls like Rachel? Like you?"
I grab the plate of cookies I'd baked with stupid, na?ve hope and hurl it at him. He sidesteps it agilely. It shatters against the wall; cookies and shards crumble everywhere.
"You don't get to decide what I can handle!" I scream back, tears of fury burning down my cheeks again. "I've been handling this shit alone for four years while you were busy being a king in your fucking castle!"
I storm into the kitchen and sweep the entire pan of pasta into the sink, the crash of the dish loud and satisfying.
Alessio follows, eyes blazing. "Because I'm trying to protect you, damn it!"
"I don't want your protection if it means being kept in the dark like some fragile little doll!" I yell. "I want my sister back. And if torturing that piece of shit gets me one step closer, then I deserve to be there!"
The fight pours out of me like poison, all the fear, the exhaustion, the guilt, the helpless rage I've carried for years. It's easier to scream at him than to sit with the picture of Rachel's terrified face burned into my mind.
Alessio stands there breathing hard, fists clenched, looking like he wants to shake me and kiss me at the same time. The air between us is thick with fury and something even more dangerous. Neither of us is backing down.
"Take me to him," I snarl, storming into the kitchen. "Right now. I'll gut him myself. I'll make him talk."
I snatch the biggest knife from the block, gripping it tight.
My hand is shaking with rage and grief and four years of helpless fury finally breaking free.
Alessio moves like lightning. He grabs my wrist before I can even turn around.
We struggle, raw, desperate, both of us breathing hard.
The knife clatters onto the counter as he wrenches it from my grip and spins me around.
He pins me against the kitchen counter with his body, one hand locking both of my wrists above my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
"Enough," he growls, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes blazing with something that ignites me right back. He's dangerous. I've always known that. But fuck, it's a turn-on.
I'm panting, chest heaving, still vibrating with fury. "Fuck you, Alessio. Let me go."
The hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection presses against my stomach.
He's as turned on as I am. And damn if that doesn't flip something inside me.
The fight doesn't stop. It just… shifts, as something darker, hotter, and far more primal surges between us.
My pulse thunders. Grief and rage twist into desperate, aching need.
I grab his shirt with both hands, yank him down, and kiss him, hard and furious, biting his lower lip.
I want him, I need him, but I also want to make him pay for it. For locking me out like this.
He growls into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, then kisses me back even harder. He presses me against the counter until I can feel every inch of his body against mine, his cock thick and insistent between us.
He yanks my jeans down roughly. I kick them off, still furious, still aching with grief and overwhelming need. He frees himself and slams into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
I cry out against his mouth and rake my nails down his back as he fucks me hard and deep, punishing, possessive, relentless.
The anger and pain pour out of both of us with every thrust, every bite, every bruising grip. It's messy. It's raw. It's exactly what I need right now.
"You're mine," he snarls against my throat, teeth scraping hard enough to leave marks.
"Never," I snap back, even as I rip his shirt open, nails dragging down his chest.
"Mine," he growls again, biting my neck, my shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. "Say it."
"Fuck you," I gasp, biting his hard bicep in retaliation. He hisses but fucks me harder, hips snapping with raw power.
Our anger and lust twist together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
I'm so wet it's obscene—the sound of our bodies slapping together a filthy echo off the walls, followed by moans of arousal and pain.
He grips my hips hard enough to bruise, angling deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over.