ALESSIO
That was totally mind-blowing. I'm still buried deep inside her, both of us breathing hard against the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. My forehead rests against hers as the last tremors of her orgasm pulse around me.
Mine.
The word echoes through me like a vow I never planned to make… but I meant every syllable. I still do. Mine.
I've never contemplated claiming a woman like this before.
Never wanted to. Women were temporary. Distractions.
Stress relief at best. But Beccs… She's under my skin.
In my blood. In my head every waking second.
The thought of her being truly mine fills me with a fierce, possessive pride I've never felt in my life.
I'm obsessed with her.
My mind is already racing ahead. I need to get a team together for tonight. There's no way in hell I'm letting the Mexicans and the Reapers move those women. Logistics are piling up too: where to take the girls once we free them, how to keep them safe, how to make sure this doesn't blow back on us.
But foremost in my thoughts is Beccs.
Do I tell her?
She's made it abundantly clear she wants to be involved. And she's strong enough—stubborn enough—to make my life a living hell if I shut her out again.
But I also can't take her into that kind of danger.
Unfortunately, she's not the kind of woman you can lock up or leave behind. I have no qualms about locking her in this penthouse if that’s what it takes to keep her safe… but I don't want a prisoner.
I want her.
The real her. The fierce, sharp-tongued, knife-wielding menace who fights like hell for the people she loves. I press a slow kiss to her temple, still deep inside her, and murmur against her skin:
"Mia piccola diavoletta…"
She shivers in my arms. I smile against her hair. Keeping her out might protect her body… but it would break the very thing that makes her Beccs. And I'm not willing to lose that.
I make the decision.
"I'm going after the shipment," I tell her quietly. "The Mexicans and the Reapers are moving fifteen girls tonight. I'm not letting that happen."
Beccs pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are still red from crying, but the fire is back, sharp, determined, unstoppable.
She doesn't hesitate. She starts thinking out loud, practical and fierce.
"We need to find their families if they have any. Some of them might not be able to go back—or won’t want to.
We should get them real counseling, trauma specialists, not just whoever's cheap.
We could put them in a hotel first, somewhere secure and discreet with round-the-clock guards.
Maybe even set up a temporary safe house.
Medical staff on standby, clothes, food, phones so they can contact people if they want to.
We'll need clean identities for the ones who are too scared to go home… "
She keeps going, throwing out smart, compassionate ideas one after another. I listen, genuinely impressed. She's already three steps ahead, thinking about logistics and humanity in a way most people in our world never do.
I kiss her forehead, still inside her. "You'll stay in the car."
She raises one eyebrow, giving me that look I'm quickly becoming addicted to. "Yeah… so not happening."
"Beccs—"
"Let me get back to my apartment and get my gun."
"Yeah, so not happening," I counter. "Do you even know how to shoot a gun?"
She stares at me like I'm stupid. "Please. I've shot guns since before you were even weaned."
I can't help it. I laugh, low and real. This woman is going to ruin me.
"Fine," I concede, pulling out slowly with a groan. "Show me then."
We take a quick shower before I take her to Gabe's casino. He has a state-of-the-art shooting range in the basement. No need to set one up when my brother has the best.
On the way, I call Rossi. "Meet us at Gabe's range. And get a team together. We're going to spoil a shipment for the Mexicans and Reapers tonight."
"On it, boss." He doesn't even try to hide his excitement.
Beccs sits beside me in the Shelby, quiet but wired with purpose. I reach over and squeeze her thigh, letting my hand linger. She places hers on top of mine and shifts in the seat so she can look at me. I like the simple gesture. A lot.
We pull up to the valet entrance of the Dominion, Gabe's flagship casino. The sleek black Shelby draws a few looks as the valet hurries forward, but one glance from me and he keeps his mouth shut and simply takes the keys.
I help Beccs out of the car, my hand lingering on her lower back as we walk through the grand entrance. The Dominion is pure opulence: crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and the constant low hum of money changing hands.
We're barely inside when I spot them. Gabe and Audra are walking across the main floor, clearly on their way out. Gabe sees me first and stops mid-step; a slow grin spreads across his face.
"Well, well," he drawls, his eyes flick between Beccs and me with open amusement. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
Audra's gaze lands on Beccs, warm and curious.
I keep my hand possessively at Beccs' lower back as I make the introductions.
"Beccs, this is Gabe, Gabriel D’Amato, and Audra."
Beccs gives them a small, cautious nod, still riding the tension from earlier. "Nice to meet you both."
"We're heading down to the range. Beccs wants to show me she knows how to shoot," I inform Gabe.
The words seem to catch Audra's attention. She gives Beccs a genuine smile. "You'll like it. Gabe has some nice guns down there."
Gabe chuckles. "I'd love to watch, but unfortunately we have other plans tonight." He gives me a knowing look. "Try not to break anything."
We say our goodbyes and take the private elevator down to the basement range.
The second the doors open, Beccs lets out a low whistle of appreciation. "Nice setup."
"Yeah," I agree, scanning the long, well-lit lanes. State-of-the-art targets, soundproofing, every caliber you could want. I'm good with a gun. Hell, I probably own more of them than most police departments.
I pick up a Glock, check the weight out of habit, then set it back down. Guns are tools. Efficient. Reliable. Necessary. They clear rooms. End firefights. Keep my men alive.
But if I've got the luxury of choosing... I prefer steel. Cold. Silent. Personal.
A gun ends a life.
A blade lets a man know exactly who's taking it.
There's something about looking into another man's eyes as hope slowly drains out of them. Watching him realize that all the money, power, and pleading in the world won't save him. That's the moment messages are delivered.
Guns kill.
Knives are remembered.
"Let's see what you've got," I gesture toward the racks.
Beccs moves with purpose, opening drawers, checking options. She settles on a compact Sig Sauer P320, reliable, fast, and deadly in the right hands. Smart choice.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move.
She checks the gun like a pro, ejects the magazine with a smooth motion, pulls the slide back to clear the chamber, visually inspects it, then racks it again.
She does it all with calm, practiced efficiency.
No hesitation. No showboating. Just competence.
Then she steps up to the lane, not bothering with ear protection, her stance solid, feet shoulder-width, slight bend in the knees, perfect Weaver stance.
She raises the pistol, breathes out, and starts shooting.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Tight grouping. Center mass.
Every shot is deliberate and controlled.
The recoil barely moves her. She empties the magazine smoothly, resets, reloads, and does it again.
Fuck.
My cock stiffens, hard against my zipper.
Damn. She really can shoot. I don't say a word.
I just watch her, keeping my jaw tight as my blood heats.
The way she handles the weapon—confident, precise, lethal—does dangerous things to me.
This isn't some girl playing tough. This is a woman who's spent years learning how to use firearms.
The questions of who, when, and how burn in my brain.
I haven't bothered checking her past; that kind of stalking is Gabe's territory, not mine.
I've never been interested in a woman enough to want to know more about them.
But this is different. I'd like for her to tell me her story, on her own, but if she doesn't, I'm not above doing some deep research.
It's possible she acquired the skills after her sister was taken; that would be the easiest explanation, but something about the way she handles herself tells me she's been used to being around firearms for a long time.
The remark she made about having learned how to shoot before I was even weaned returns to my mind.
Yeah, there's definitely something there.
She finishes the second magazine, sets the P320 down, and glances over at me with a raised eyebrow.
I don't react. I just keep watching. She smirks like she knows exactly what she's doing to me, then moves on to a rifle, a sleek Daniel Defense M4A1.
Same ritual: checks the chamber, inspects the mag, shoulders it with practiced ease.
She fires in controlled bursts. The sound echoes through the range, sharp and satisfying. Her body absorbs the recoil like it's nothing. Tight groupings again. Headshots. Center mass. She's not just competent, she's also good.
By the time she finishes, my hard-on is aching. I adjust myself discreetly, but not discreetly enough. Beccs turns around, lowers the rifle, and catches me mid-adjustment. A slow, knowing smirk curves her lips.
"Problem, Vitali?" she asks in the sweetest voice that, paired with her angelic face, makes my boner even harder to bear. Sweet Jesus, that woman is a walking challenge.
I push off the wall and stalk toward her, my eyes locked on hers. The air between us crackles.
"You're full of surprises, Grease Monkey," I murmur when I'm close enough to touch her. "Keep shooting like that, and I'm going to have a much harder time keeping my hands off you."