Chapter Eleven LEO
Steam swallowed the shower in thick white waves, turning the black marble walls slick and hazy around me. Water thundered against my skin, hot enough to redden it, but it did nothing to cool the ache under my ribs. Or the one beneath them, making my rock hard dick stand to attention.
I braced one palm flat against the tile and dropped my head forward, eyes shut tight, water running down the back of my neck and over the sharp lines of my chest. The scent of expensive soap and steam filled the air, clean and masculine and utterly useless against the memory of Chiara Ventura.
Because she was everywhere. In my head. In my blood. Under my fucking skin.
I could still feel her trembling beneath my hands when I took her hair down. Still hear those uneven little breaths every time my fingers brushed her neck. Soft. Frightened. Confused. Wanting.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
My fist wrapped around my cock before I could stop myself. Hard. Painfully hard.
The image hit me: Chiara beneath me on silk sheets, blonde hair spread everywhere like spilled gold. Those blue eyes glossy with tears and fury while she begged me not to stop touching her.
Please…
The memory of her voice dragged low through my spine. I pumped myself slowly at first, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Water slid over my shoulders and down my arm, dripping from my fist as I stroked myself harder.
Pathetic.
I hadn’t lost control over a woman in years.
Women usually wanted things from me. Power. Money. Status. A dangerous thrill. They spread their legs before I even spoke to them half the time. But not her. Chiara fought me for every inch.
And somehow that only made me want her more.
I could still remember the way her pulse fluttered under my fingers. The way her lips parted when I praised her. The way her body softened for half a second before she realized what she was doing and snapped those walls back up again.
My fist tightened. I imagined pinning her beneath me properly this time. Those tiny wrists trapped over her head. Her soft thighs spread wide while I forced her to take every inch of me slowly.
She’d cry first. Not from pain. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of it. Because Chiara felt everything too deeply. Fear. Anger. Shame. Want. Especially want.
And God, I wanted to hear what she sounded like when she stopped hiding it.
A rough groan tore from my throat as I stroked myself faster, water splashing against the marble in uneven bursts. My breathing thickened, chest flexing hard as tension coiled tighter and tighter inside me.
I pictured her begging again. Not for freedom. For my cum.
That did it. Release slammed through me violently, filthy and hot, my head falling forward against the tile as I cursed under my breath. My muscles stayed tight long after it faded, shame curling cold and ugly through the aftermath.
I stared at the black marble beneath my hand while water continued pouring around me.
Jesus Christ. One girl was all it took. One stubborn, infuriating, beautiful girl and I was jerking myself off in the shower like some desperate fucking teenager.
Pathetic.
I shut the water off hard enough for the last splash to echo through the bathroom. Cold control settled back over me piece by piece while I dressed. Dark slacks. Black button-down. Gold watch. Gun holstered at my waist. Armor in place.
By the time I adjusted my cufflinks, my face gave nothing away again.
The phone vibrating on the counter irritated me, because I knew it would be Sergio on the other end, probably with more scathing remarks about my wife-to-be. I answered anyway. “What?”
A low chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Good morning to you too, boss.”
I walked barefoot across the penthouse kitchen, the cold marble grounding under my feet. Morning light spilled through the towering glass windows, pale silver over black stone countertops and gold fixtures.
“You called for a reason,” I said flatly.
“I did.” I could hear the smirk in his voice already. “But first, I need confirmation you survived the night playing husband.”
I grabbed an espresso cup harder than necessary. “She’s not my wife yet.”
“Mm.” Sergio laughed quietly. “Not denying it.”
I said nothing. Coffee hissed from the machine beside me, rich and bitter-smelling. The scent filled the quiet penthouse while irritation crawled slowly up my spine. Sergio, unfortunately, knew me too well.
“So?” he pressed casually. “Did the little wildcat finally scratch hard enough to leave marks?”
“Careful.” The word came out low and sharp enough to cut skin.
Silence answered me. Not fearful silence. Observant silence.
Sergio had worked for my family since he was a kid. He knew exactly how to read my moods, and right now, he was reading too much.
Then his voice changed. No teasing now. “Something happened.”
I poured the espresso slowly, watching dark liquid fill the cup while Chiara’s face flashed through my head again. The tears in her eyes. The desperation. The way she looked at me like she hated herself for wanting me at all. My jaw tightened.
“Leo,” Sergio said carefully.
“I’m fine,” I bit out.
“Right.” A pause. “You don’t sound fine.”
I leaned one hand against the counter, staring out at the city below me. The skyline stretched endlessly beneath the clouds, cold steel and glass glowing in the early light.
All of it was mine. Every building. Every street. Every man worth knowing feared my last name. And somehow none of it quieted the mess in my head.
“I arranged the dock meeting for noon,” Sergio continued after another second. “Santino and Angelo will both be there.”
Of course they would, those goddamn vultures. My cousins circled every conversation involving the estate now, pretending concern while calculating what pieces they’d inherit if I failed to produce an heir. The thought darkened my mood further.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“And the wedding?” Sergio probed carefully.
My eyes drifted toward the hallway leading to Chiara’s room. Locked. Safe. Still mine.
“In seven days,” I replied. “Start planning.”
By eleven, I wanted to strangle every wedding planner sitting across from me. The first one wouldn’t stop talking. The second kept staring at me like she expected poison in her champagne. This third woman, at least, hid her fear behind polished professionalism. Barely.
“Signore Moretti,” she said carefully, sliding a leather portfolio across the black dining table, “these are some luxury floral concepts that are currently trending among upper society weddings.”
I flipped through glossy pages without really seeing them. White roses. Crystal chandeliers. Gold silk runners. Meaningless. All of it. Chiara would hate every single one if she thought I chose it myself.
“What does the bride like?” the planner asked carefully.
The question caught me off guard. Because I didn’t know. Not really.
I knew she liked coffee with milk and sugar. I knew she braided her hair to piss me off. I knew she pretended to hate praise while melting under it anyway.
But favorite flowers? Favorite colors? I didn’t know a fucking thing. Something sharp twisted low in my chest. I closed the portfolio slowly.
“Tell me something,” I said.
The woman straightened. “Of course, Signore.”
“If a woman spent her entire life trapped,” I said quietly, “what kind of wedding would make her forget that for one night?”
The planner blinked. Sunlight glinted across the gold pen in her trembling fingers while silence stretched between us.
“Well…” she started cautiously. “That depends entirely on the bride’s dreams.”
Dreams. The word sat strangely in my chest. Chiara probably still believed in stupid things like love. Fairy tales. Princes instead of monsters. Pity for her she ended up with me.
“Then make this simple for yourself,” I said finally. “You will give Chiara Ventura everything she wants.”
The planner’s eyes widened slightly.
“The dress she wants,” I continued. “The flowers. The music. The cake. The venue. If she points at something, she gets it.”
“Yes, Signore Moretti.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” I said firmly.
“Of course.”
“And if she changes her mind twenty times?” I hissed. “We’ll accommodate her.”
“Of course,” she repeated. I leaned back in my chair slowly, studying the woman carefully enough to make her sweat.
“She is not to feel trapped during this process,” I said quietly. “Understand?”
The planner nodded. “Perfectly.”
Because if Chiara looked miserable walking down that aisle, every person in the city would assume I forced her into it. Which, technically, I had. But appearances mattered.
I dismissed the planner a few minutes later, and the penthouse fell silent again after she hurried out.
My gaze drifted toward the hallway automatically. Toward her. I should have left without seeing her again. Instead, I found myself unlocking her door anyway.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla soap and clean linen when I stepped inside. Chiara stood near the windows overlooking the city, sunlight wrapping around her pale hair like a halo. She wore one of the silk robes the staff left earlier, cream-colored fabric tied tightly around her waist.
Too beautiful.
She turned when she heard me enter, and the softness vanished from her face. Cold fury replaced it.
“Come to lock me up again?” she asked sharply.
I ignored the bite in her tone. “Unlock you, actually. I’m leaving for a few hours.”
“Congratulations on getting away from me,” she hissed. Her voice dripped acid. I watched her carefully. Loose blonde hair spilled over her shoulders exactly the way I told her to wear it. The sight hit me harder than it should have. Christ. She was finally obeying.
“You’ll have staff outside if you need anything,” I said.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she bit out. She looked exhausted. Shadows lingered beneath her eyes from crying. From fear. From me. I stepped closer anyway.