CHAPTER 19
ROXANNE
The air nipped at my skin as we stepped out of the house.
Not cold—just sharp enough to remind me I was no longer wrapped in warmth. I hugged my arms around myself, the scent of cypress thick in the air, grounding me.
The Leopardi estate stretched out before me, regal and quiet. I stared at it a little too long, trying to memorise the feeling of being seen. Because being seen meant being wanted, and being wanted meant I could lose something again.
What had just happened?
Marcello’s protective yet possessive demeanour. The ride here—thrilling, reckless. His family—warm, disarming. My own confession about Kyra—unexpected, but strangely freeing.
Why had I done that? I didn’t know. Only that the weight had lifted, even if just for a moment. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
Marcello had opened up. Really opened up.
He had let me in. Not just with words—but with wounds.
I was stunned. And yet, I appreciated his honesty more than I could say.
Men didn’t unravel for me. Not like that.
Not with wounds that bled truth. And there was nothing sexier than a man who didn’t hide behind armour.
But I hadn’t been honest with him. Not entirely. And now he’d reminded me—two days. That’s all I had left.
Two days, and then our paths would likely never cross again. Two days to let this feeling linger. Two days to pretend it wasn’t already ending. To hold on to him a little longer. To let this ache bloom before I buried it. And I was terrified by how deeply it was rooting itself already.
I felt for him. His pain. His anger. And I didn’t want to add my own grief to the pile. Not yet. I didn’t know what this was. What we were—whether it was just sexual, or something more.
“Did you enjoy the ride?” the voice broke through my thoughts.
I turned. Santino stood by a sleek black car, arms crossed, a crooked smile playing on his lips. Martin was beside him—stoic, silent, dressed like a shadow.
The contrast was stark. Santino, casual and charming. Martin, formal and silent.
“You’ve come to get her?” I asked, arching a brow and nodding towards the Ducati.
“Didn’t you trust us?” I asked playfully.
Another exhilarating ride would just numb my thoughts.
“Her?” Santino smirked.
His eyes flicked to me, slow and deliberate. Like he was sizing me up—with curiosity. The kind that lingers. There was heat in it too—unsubtle, masculine, impossible to ignore. A shiver ran down my spine—unwanted, but undeniable.
“We’ve had too much to drink,” Marcello cut through our banter.
I walked up to Santino, placed my hands on his shoulders, and rose onto my toes. I kissed his cheek.
“Thank you. She’s a wonder.”
His skin was warm, his scent—leather and smoke. I lingered just long enough to feel the tension ripple through Marcello. Santino didn’t recoil. He just looked at me, eyes glinting with mischief, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Maybe I shouldn’t have enjoyed provoking Marcello this much. But God, the way his jealousy tasted… it was intoxicating.
Marcello’s jaw clenched. His eyes didn’t just darken—they burned. He stepped forward like he was about to wipe the smirk off of Santino’s face. But he didn’t. He just opened the car door for me, silent and seething.
And I felt the storm he was holding back. Santino froze and scrambled over to his bike.
“Get in,” Marcello ordered, opening the door for me.
Santino revved the Ducati and sped off before Marcello could say another word. He didn’t look back. But I stared into the darkness and smoke of dust he left behind.
Martin opened the driver’s side door to the car and got in—a sleek Maserati Quattroporte, tinted windows, leather interior, and a privacy screen between driver and passenger.
Marcello slid in beside me and the screen went up. Silence. Then a hiss.
“You kissed him.”
His voice was low. Controlled. But the heat beneath it was volcanic. The way he said it wasn’t anger—it was a claim laced with hurt, like I had bruised something he didn’t know he was offering.
“Oh, so the big bad mafia man is jealous?” I folded my arms. Daring him to admit it.
“Didn’t know you could feel that much.”
I wanted to poke the bear to see if he’d snap.
Because I needed him to. He didn’t answer.
Just looked down, exhaled, then slid towards me.
His hand reached for my neck. My body leaned into it before my mind even caught up—like it already knew him.
He tilted my chin up, eyes locked on mine.
Heat shot straight between my legs, instant and humiliating.
“I don’t share,” he murmured, his lips grazing mine like a warning.
His breath was fire against my lips. I wanted to melt into it. To let him mark me. To let him remind me exactly who I belonged to—if only for tonight.
My breath caught. My mouth parted. And then he kissed me—fierce, unapologetic. His hands moved from my neck, tracing the curve of my breast to my waist, pulling me closer. My jacket slipped off. Heat bloomed between us, fast and unrelenting.
He pushed away, leaving me breathless and burning. He raked his fingers through his hair. I’d never seen him look more undone.
More dangerous. Sexier.
I could see him trying to control his urge to take me. The veins on his arms stood out. His neck, taut and exposed—inviting a bite.
I pushed him back against the seat, fingers fumbling with his belt. I needed this—needed to taste him, to feel him unravel on my tongue. Needed proof he wanted me as fiercely as I wanted him. I needed something real. Something that wasn’t pain or memory.
He was already hard. Already mine. And I wanted to show him that I understood possession. That I could give it back. That I wasn’t afraid of him, or his past.
It was the heat of hunger. I pulled his jeans down as he sprang to life.
Before he could speak, I wrapped my lips around him.
I heard a guttural moan as my tongue went up and down his shaft.
I wanted to taste his fury. To swallow every ounce of his jealousy and turn it into pleasure.
I wanted to own his pleasure, to make it mine.
Because giving him this—his sounds, his surrender—felt like the only kind of closeness I could control.
My mouth moved with purpose—slow, then fast, teasing him until he forgot every name but mine. I reached down and caressed his sack. He closed his eyes, head resting against the seat—letting me consume his tension, mouthing:
“Fuck. Roxanne.”
He ran his fingers through my hair as I flicked my tongue over his tip, grazing him lightly with my teeth. He reached for the back of my head, urging me to move faster. I knew he was close when he started to twitch in my mouth.
“Rox… I’m close,” he gasped.
I didn’t stop—kept going until he hit the back of my throat, filling me with his desire. I barely had to swallow as it slid down my throat.
He looked at me, wrecked. And something in me pulsed—pride, desire, and something frighteningly close to tenderness. His olive eyes gone dark, his body slack, his breath uneven. And I smiled. Because I’d undone him.
Then, he grabbed me and kissed me hard. Our breaths tangled, bodies pressed as he slipped off my dress, letting it pool at my waist.
The way he looked at me, the way he touched me like I was the only thing that mattered. I leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“Just so you know,” I whispered, “you’re not sharing.”
His breath hitched—a barely-there sound, but I felt it, a pulse of heat against my skin.
“Next time you see Isabella, tell her to go fuck herself.”
He was stunned, I knew. Then he smiled, slow and wicked.
“I did.”
He pulled me onto his lap and ripped my underwear, kissed my neck, then trailed down to my breast. His hand guided me down, and then he was inside me—sudden, deep, inevitable—stealing the breath right out of my chest.
The rhythm of the car matched the rhythm of my hips. Urgent. Unforgiving. Like we were trying to outrun the goodbye. Like we were trying to fuck the silence away.
Every thrust was a plea. Every moan, a confession. He whispered something in Sicilian—Mi mancherai. Non andare, cuore mio.
His voice cracked on the last word. I didn’t know all the words—but I knew the tone. It was longing. God, it was longing.
And I felt it, not just in my body, but in my chest. In the place where longing lives. The words hit deeper than his thrusts—raw, unguarded.
I shattered, hips grinding, breath caught, moaning into his neck like I was trying to disappear inside him. My body convulsed, clutching him tighter, riding the wave until I was nothing but heat and heartbeat. For a second, I forgot the world outside us existed. Forgot the goodbye, waiting for us.
He followed, his gasp low, broken, his hands gripping my hips like he needed to anchor himself. His release was quiet, but the way he trembled told me everything.
We stayed like that for a moment, tangled. Spent. Our bodies still humming with the echo of what we’d done. We straightened our clothes slowly, clumsily, his fingers brushing my skin like he couldn’t stop touching me. Each accidental brush felt intentional.
My dress clung to my thighs, damp and wrinkled. His jeans were sticky with us.
He kissed me again, soft this time. Like he was trying to hold onto the taste of me before the night swallowed us whole.
When we reached the villa, Santino was already waiting. Marcello tucked my torn panties into his pocket like a trophy. As we passed Santino, he gave me a playful pat on the ass—a silent claim. I giggled, leaning into him, knowing exactly what it meant.
Santino’s smirk was slow, lazy, and loaded. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said plenty. His eyes flicked to Marcello’s pocket and then to me. Like he knew. Something unreadable passed through his gaze—gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Marcello,” Santino said. “There’s something that needs your urgent attention. Antonio is also on his way.”
I knew what that meant. We’d have to part for now. I kissed Marcello goodnight, long enough for anyone around to look away.
I slipped back to the room, hoping he’d find his way back to me—because tonight, silence would be too loud to bear.
I didn’t look back. But I felt his eyes on me. And I hated how much I wanted to turn around. And I knew—if he didn’t come find me tonight, I’d dream of him anyway.