Til Kingdom Come

21 | Instinct 🔥🔥

SANTO

I’ve ended a man before sunrise today. Made decisions that will echo for months—maybe years.

I come home with death still clinging to my hands, and she feeds me pasta like I’m only a man who forgot to eat.

Like I’m a husband coming home from work, not a monster still chewing on what it’s killed.

I let her see me how she wants to see me. I let her lie to herself—let her choose how much truth she can hold.

She knows where I’ve been. She saw my knuckles and decided not to press.

Instead, she fed me—in more ways than one. Offered me the only holy water capable of extinguishing my hellfire for a little while.

The world goes quiet when my head is between her legs.

My hands slide up her thighs, prying them wider as I work her open, letting her sweetness coat my tongue. She stiffens when my fingers drift too close.

“No hands.”

The words come out broken and breathy, but they carry the same weight as her ‘I do’ from yesterday.

Because she knows now, and she still wants me. Sees my darkness and finds a way to work around it.

I drag my tongue through her heat, taking what she offers me. The pasta was good—comforting home cooking—but I could survive on the taste of her alone.

I work her harder, faster, until her legs tremble and her back arches off the counter. Then I flatten my palm against her stomach, pressing her down against the marble, holding her in place as I bring her to the edge.

She breaks beneath my mouth, and the violence in me quiets—not fully gone, but leashed.

In that moment, I want nothing more than to fill her—mind, body and soul.

My hand finds my belt on its own, dragging the leather through the buckle, until—

A sound.

Instinct takes over before thought ever has a chance. One hand comes up, the other wraps around Ella’s leg, turning her, shielding her with my body as my gun is suddenly in my palm.

“Fuori,” I say, calm as death. Out.

Ella gasps behind me, her hands clutching my shirt, confusion still fogging her eyes. I feel it—the way her body is still trembling, the way she hasn’t caught up yet to the change in the room. I angle myself without thinking, blocking her from view completely.

Marco’s voice drifts in from the doorway. “Signore—”

I don’t lower the gun.

I don’t repeat myself either—because then I’d have to fire him. And Marco is a good capo bastone. I’d hate to have to replace him.

Marco stands just outside the doorway, I see his shoulder from where I’m standing.

He turns—no argument. No questions.

Good man.

Only when the room is silent again do I ease the barrel down a fraction—not all the way. I lean back just enough to murmur, “You okay?”

She nods against my shoulder, a little shaken. “I need to go.”

----

FIORELLA

I slide off the counter before he can say anything else.

My legs feel weak—annoyingly so—and I hate that I have to steady myself on the edge of the counter before bending to grab the boxers off the floor. I tug them on with clumsy fingers, my pulse still thudding too loud in my ears.

I need air. Or maybe just distance. I need to remind myself I don’t have feelings for a man who essentially bought my presence. A cold-blooded criminal. Someone who pulls a gun as a first reflex to—what—the sound of footsteps down the hall?

Except that wasn’t his first reflex.

Covering me was.

My mind replays it in slow motion: the way he grabbed me, turned me, put himself between me and the threat. Protective. Or possessive. Maybe both. Like he didn’t want anyone to see what’s his.

Behind me, I feel him move.

Not fast—just that controlled shift of space, like the room adjusting around him.

“Ella,” he says, voice low and rough.

“I have to go to work.” I’m not even lying. I have a shift at my parents’ restaurant, and I really, really need to shower again.

He studies me. Not my face, but my breathing and my posture. The way my hands are shaking even though I’ve curled them into fists now.

He nods once. Then, without asking, he moves closer. He doesn’t touch me, but he steps close enough to make me feel his heat again. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I have to physically turn myself around to keep from falling under his spell again.

Damn him.

I hurry out of the kitchen and cross the foyer back to the stairs. I take them two at a time, willing strength back into my legs. I slip into my room, slam the door shut, and lean against it like he could bust through at any second.

Nothing happens.

Silence wraps around me like a blanket, and somehow, being here alone feels wrong now.

I grab some clothes and retreat into the bathroom, turning on the shower before peeling off Santo’s shirt and boxers. Once the water is hot enough to burn away the shame, I step into the stream.

Heat cascades down my body. I lather shower gel onto my skin like it might erase what I did—though I’m not even sure I want it to.

As my hands skim my skin, all I can see are his—Santo’s.

The way he mapped out my body like he plans to sculpt my likeness from memory later.

My hand slides between my thighs and I respond instantly, breath hitching and knees buckling.

I’m still so sensitive from the way he made me come with just his mouth.

I swallow and picture his face—the way his eyes locked onto mine, molten lust flaring dark and possessive.

He looked like he wanted me. Not just my body. Not just my presence at meetings.

Me.

My fingers circle my clit once, and I’m already right at the edge. I rub harder, faster, and it doesn’t take long until I shatter with a moan, Santo’s image burned into my retinas.

I finish showering in silence, refusing to think too hard about what’s happening to me.

Once I’m dried off and dressed, I head downstairs and find Matteo waiting by the door.

“Need a ride?” he asks.

I shrug, not meeting his eyes. “If you have nothing better to do.”

Matteo grins. “I don’t.”

I finally look up at him and smile. “Then yes, please.”

The drive to work is quiet at first—Matteo humming along to a song under his breath, and me trying to figure out how not to look like I just spent the last twelve hours getting fucked into oblivion by the man who bought my soul—and liked it far more than I should have.

We pull into the city, buildings slipping by in the gray autumn light. Matteo hums along for another minute before he glances over at me.

“You look… different,” he says mildly.

I snort. “My agent won’t like that.”

He grins, one hand loose on the wheel. “You still look like you, just—” He tilts his head, considering. “Like you survived something.”

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest and staring out the window. “I’m not sure if I have, actually.”

We drive in silence for a few more seconds before he speaks again, quieter this time. “You know,” he says, eyes still on the road, “I’ve worked for Santo a long time.”

I tense.

“I’ve seen women throw themselves at him. Seen men try to challenge him. Seen entire rooms stiffen just because he walked into them.” He glances at me briefly. “And I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

My throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Matteo chuckles. “Sure I do. You just don’t like what it implies.”

I turn toward him. “Which is?”

He glances at me. “That you have no idea how much power you hold over him. I’ve seen him put a gun to a man’s head without blinking.” He flicks on his turn signal. “And I’ve seen him hesitate with you.”

He parks a little bit away from the restaurant and cuts the engine, turning to me with an easy grin again. “Just… don’t underestimate yourself, okay?”

I reach for the door, heart doing something stupid and traitorous in my chest. I open it and swing my legs out, cold air tousling my hair. I look at him over my shoulder. “Thanks, Matteo. For driving me, and… you know.”

He winks at me. “I’ll be here after your shift.”

----

I spend my entire shift hoping Luca will show up.

He doesn’t.

I keep my head down, busying myself with orders and refills, doing everything I can to avoid my father’s eyes.

Talking to him feels like betrayal.

I still feel the stranger’s hand on my arm—the man who walked me down the aisle instead of him.

The memory sits wrong in my chest, heavy and sour.

I picture Dad behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, working himself into the ground while his daughter plays wife to a monster on the other side of the city.

Selling her soul in a cathedral, and smiling pleasantly while she does it.

By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted—both mentally and physically.

Matteo drives me home again, mercifully quiet this time, the city blurring past the window as I rest my forehead to the glass.

The closer we get to the house, the more tightly my chest constricts with a sickening mix of excitement and dread.

When the gates finally open and the car rolls to a stop, I thank Matteo and slip out before he can say anything back.

I cross the foyer on autopilot—then stop.

I turn back. “Annabelle?”

She looks up from her computer. “Yes, Mrs. Valenti?”

The title still makes something strange flutter in my chest. “Is Santo in?”

“Yes.” She pauses. “He’s in his room.”

Relief loosens something in me—until she adds, calmly, “He has Giorgia with him.”

Oh.

My smile falters. “Giorgia.”

“Yes.”

I nod slowly. “Thank you,” I say, already turning away.

The walk upstairs feels longer than usual.

Giorgia. I’ve heard her name before—knew he’s been seeing her. Somehow, stupidly, I expected that to end when we got married.

I should’ve known better. This is just a deal to him. Business. Appearances. It was never anything more—not to him, at least.

By the time I reach my room, the initial sting has curdled into something hotter and meaner.

I drop my bag on the chair and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look struck. Like I just heard my husband is entertaining company. Female company. In his bedroom.

Something sharp snaps into place.

Nope.

I turn on my heel and march down the hall before I can talk myself out of it. My knock is more of a statement—two sharp raps—and I don’t wait for an answer.

I push the door open.

The scene I brace for never comes.

Santo is stretched out on top of the covers, shirtless, eyes closed. Giorgia—a petite brunette, fully dressed—is standing beside the bed with her hands hovering uncertainly over his shoulders. There’s a bottle of oil on the nightstand.

That’s it.

No sex. No scandal. Just… a fucking massage.

Santo opens his eyes and flicks his gaze to me. There’s no guilt in them—not even surprise. Just that steady, assessing look he wears so well.

“Ella,” he says calmly.

Heat rushes my face. Embarrassment wars with relief, then loses to indignation.

“I didn’t realize you were busy,” I lie, keeping my voice cool.

His mouth twitches—barely. He turns his head toward Giorgia. “You can go.”

She blinks. “But—”

His eyes find mine again, hot and possessive. “My wife will take it from here.”

----

SO THAT'S WHAT THAT WAS?! How many of you guys guessed right? ??