24 | Offering
LUCA
I’ve never been this angry in my life.
The cold night air does nothing to cool the lava in my veins as I storm down the sidewalk, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.
I fucked up—badly.
I knew dipping into a client’s product was risky. Everyone knows that. You don’t skim inventory. You don’t touch merchandise that isn’t yours. Especially not when rich people are paying insane amounts of money for tiny glittering rocks and gold bands that cost more than my parents make in a year.
But I thought I was careful.
A few pieces swapped out during transport. Real diamonds replaced with convincing fakes. Boxes resealed perfectly.
Nobody was supposed to notice before the shipment cleared customs.
And by then, I’d be gone. Debt handled. Clean slate.
Instead, I stole from Santo fucking Valenti.
And now Ella’s paying for my mistake with her goddamn body.
The image of her standing beside him—his hands on that silk skirt of hers—claws at something deep in my chest.
My sister married to a monster because I got greedy.
I need to get her out first—everything else can wait.
There’s one thing I said I’d never do, but there’s no choice now.
I need to go to my parents.
----
The drive is short, the city lights slipping past in a blur of gold and black.
I make it there on pure muscle memory, because my mind is somewhere else entirely—crossing names off a mental list of everyone who still owes me money.
It wouldn’t even make a dent in the two-hundred-grand debt. Besides, I already collected most of it.
There’s no other way.
I park the car and cross the sidewalk, ringing the bell instead of letting myself in. What I’m about to ask is enough of a shock already.
Mamma opens the door, eyes widening with delighted surprise. “Luca, mio figlio.” My son.
She pulls me inside before I can say a word, already fussing with the collar of my sweater. “It’s freezing out and you’re not even wearing a coat. Vieni, I’ll make tea.” Come.
I let her guide me into the kitchen and sit me down at the table. I don’t speak until she sets a steaming mug in front of me.
“Mamma, I…”
Her breath catches. Her eyebrows knit together instantly, and guilt twists in my stomach. She’s always seen right through me.
“How much do you need, tesoro?”
I clench my jaw. Part of me hates that her mind goes there immediately, another part is relieved we don’t have to drag this out.
“… A lot, mammina.”
“A number, please, Luca.” Her hands smooth nervously over her thighs, eyes flicking toward the pantry where they keep the safe.
It’s not enough. I already checked.
I’d never steal from my parents—I just needed to know if there was anything I could ask to borrow.
The kitchen suddenly feels suffocatingly hot. I clear my throat. “Two hundred—”
Relief flashes across her face. “Oh, we—”
“—thousand,” I finish quietly.
Mamma pales. “Oh.”
I stare down into my tea. “I’ve scraped some money together already, but it’s not enough.”
A thick silence settles between us. We both sip our tea, neither of us tasting it.
Finally, Mamma nods once. “Alright,” she says softly. “We’ll handle it.”
Pain cracks through my chest. “Mamma,” I murmur shamefully. “I know I haven’t exactly been the best son, and this is fully on me. I swear I wouldn’t come to you if I had any other option—”
“Basta.” The word lands firm and immediate. “You are our son,” she says. “You come to us when you’re in trouble, and we help you.”
She leans over to kiss my cheek. “I’ll speak to your father tomorrow. We’ll figure it out, ragazzino.”
Little boy.
That’s exactly how I feel—like some stupid fucking kid who got in too deep and dragged everyone else down with him.
I’ve made bad decisions before, but never one this catastrophic.
I knew it could cost me my life, I just never thought it could cost Ella hers.
I stare into my tea until it goes cold.
I need to fix this.
----
SANTO
The house is quiet around us, Ella’s silk skirt whispering against her legs the only sound as we cross the foyer.
She hasn’t let go of my hand since she grabbed it outside her old apartment.
Every time her thoughts spiral too far, her fingers tighten around mine like a reflex.
Seeking comfort in me—a small surrender.
It’s the silent caving of her walls—seeking comfort where darkness bleeds into light, where sharp teeth sink into soft flesh.
Ella’s flesh.
But she’s offering it up willingly, now.
So I won’t bite. I’ll savor.
I drag things out. Learn every expression she makes, every breath she loses, every tiny fracture in her composure.
Because for the first time in my life, I want something beyond possession.
I want to devote myself to her.
I guide her into the empty kitchen, my hands settling on her hips before I lift her onto the island counter.
She barely notices, too busy rambling softly about Mia and Lila—how they met, how they survived on instant noodles for months after moving in together, how Lila once nearly burned the apartment down making grilled cheese at three in the morning.
I shouldn’t care.
There are a thousand things demanding my attention tonight, every single one more important than two girls who hurt my wife’s feelings.
But nothing outweighs Ella.
And right now, for the first time since I met her, she’s letting me see pieces of herself that aren’t sharpened into weapons.
I shrug off my jacket and roll my sleeves to my forearms before opening the fridge.
That finally makes her pause. “What are you doing?”
“Making dessert.” I set a bowl onto the marble. “You like cannoli?”
Her brows lift. “You’re making cannoli from scratch right now?”
“The chef keeps shells prepared.” I glance at her over my shoulder. “I figured you could use some sweetness after tonight.”
She tilts her head, eyes glinting despite the exhaustion still clinging to her. “So your plan is to feed me sugar so you don’t have to be sweet yourself?”
I drop a handful of shelled pistachios onto the cutting board and start chopping. “This is me being sweet, amore.”
A tiny smile touches her mouth.
Christ. The sight of it does ugly, possessive things to my insides.
Domesticity is a dangerous thing. Violence has never once made me hesitate—never made me kneel.
But that smile? I’d crawl through broken glass for another one.
Her gaze follows the movement of my hands as I work—the tattoos climbing my forearms, the knife flashing against the cutting board, the slow precision of my movements.
She watches me like she still can’t decide what I am.
Good.
I fill the cannoli carefully, dust powdered sugar over the shells, then slide the plate toward her alongside the chopped pistachios.
Ella picks one up slowly, dipping both ends into the pistachios before taking a bite without breaking eye contact.
A flush creeps up her throat as the shell crunches softly between her teeth.
Testing me.
Inviting me.
I step closer instinctively.
Her knees part to make room for me before she even realizes she’s done it.
Too late now. My hands plant on either side of her hips against the marble, boxing her in without touching her.
She swallows slowly, eyes never leaving mine.
“Good?” I ask, gaze dropping to the faint streak of powdered sugar dusting her lower lip.
She nods once. Then her palm settles against my chest. “Thank you.”
“Di niente,” It’s nothing. I murmur. “Like I said, the chef already had the—”
“I’m not talking about the cannoli, Santo.”
“Ah.” I shift closer between her thighs, lowering my head until my mouth brushes the line of her throat. Her pulse jumps beneath my lips like prey realizing the wolf is already inside the fence.
“You’re welcome, then,” I murmur against her skin.
A quiet breath leaves her—then she stops me.
Her fingers curl lightly around my jaw, guiding my attention back to her face. “I’m serious.” There’s no fear in her expression now. “I know you meant well,” she says softly. “Even if you went about it completely wrong.”
I lift a brow. “Wrong?”
“Yeah.” Her lips twitch despite herself. “You went all…” She gestures vaguely between us. “Santo-y on them.”
A laugh rumbles low in my chest before I can stop it. “Santo-y,” I repeat flatly.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
I do.
Too possessive. Too intense. Too willing to put my hands around someone’s throat for talking to her the wrong way.
The problem is she says it like it’s ridiculous—not terrifying.
My hand slides from the counter to her thigh, fingers flexing once against the silk pooled there. “I’m sorry.”
She lets out a theatrical gasp. “Did Don Valenti just… apologize?”
I level a look at her. “Don’t push me, amore.”
Mischief sparks in her eyes, and fuck, I’m instantly hard.
“No,” she says softly, reaching toward me. “I think I will, actually.”
Her fingertips press lightly against my chest.
A challenge—a test.
“What else are you willing to do for me, Santo?”
My name on her tongue does ugly things to my self-control.
I catch her wrist before she can push me again, wrapping my hand around it slowly.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You’re starting to realize how much influence you have over me.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.
Good.
She pushes anyway. Brave little thing.
“You already kneeled for me once,” she muses, tilting her head. “Would you do it again?”
A dark smile pulls at my mouth. “For you?” I step closer until her breath catches. “I’d bury bodies. Burn kingdoms. Start wars.”
My hand slides up her arm, slow enough to make her shiver.
“I’d kneel too,” I lean in, letting my mouth hover just beside hers. “But don’t confuse worship with surrender, tesoro.”
Her breath stutters.
There it is—that look. That dangerous little crack in her resistance where fear and desire blur together.
I pull her against me before steering her toward her room. “Then let’s go to your temple, and I’ll show you how a sinner prays.”
----
Who would take him up on that offer? ???♀????♀?