25 | Shrine 🔥🔥🔥
FIORELLA
I don’t feel like the old me anymore.
Every time I take Santo’s hand, I feel like someone else.
Strangely, it doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels... powerful, having a man like him follow where I lead. Even if it’s only down a hallway.
To my room.
In his house.
Our house, I suppose.
The thought still feels foreign, even if his hand in mine feels like the most natural thing in the world now.
My whole world has shifted. Everything’s upside down.
My parents have no idea what’s really happening. My friends barely feel like my friends anymore. My brother looked at me like his heart had been ripped straight from his chest, and I was the one holding it.
I could almost feel it beating against my palm.
Right where Santo’s hand is right now.
It hurts.
Not his grip, but watching the life I built crumble beneath my feet.
But Santo somehow dulls the sharp edges.
When he looks at me with those molten, impossible eyes, the ache quiets just enough for me to be able to breathe again.
The brass wall sconces cast warm pools of light across the hallway, and I count my steps to my bedroom without really thinking.
There. My hand finds the doorknob on instinct. I twist it open as I turn back toward him.
I never make it all the way around—his mouth finds mine before I get a chance to say anything.
The kiss steals the breath from my lungs. Strong hands slip beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly until my feet leave the floor.
I hike up my skirt so I can wrap my legs around his waist, my free hand sliding into his dark hair.
Maybe the world outside is falling apart, but here, Santo is holding me together.
The door slams shut behind him, and I break away from our kiss.
I slide out of his hold, lips still swollen from the soft violence of his mouth. “Stop.”
My feet find the floor, and I press both palms flat against his chest.
“Amore…” he murmurs, a slight furrow settling between his brows.
I take one measured step back, never breaking eye contact.
“You were going to show me how you pray,” I say quietly. “So show me.”
His eyes flare, his pulse beating visibly beneath the tattoos climbing his neck. “Piccola—”
“—Show me.” My voice leaves no room for negotiation.
A slow, dangerous smile tugs at the corner of Santo’s mouth.
Then he nods. “Va bene.” Okay.
He brings his hands together in front of his chest, inked fingers interlacing.
“Padre nostro che sei nei cieli… stasera pregherò una dea diversa.” Our Father, who art in Heaven... tonight I’ll be praying to a different deity.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to look away.
Instead, I click my tongue softly. “Nah-ah.” My fingers drift to the buttons of my blouse, undoing the first one as I hold his gaze. “On your knees.”
For one suspended heartbeat, the room falls silent.
His eyes burn hotter than hellfire.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he obeys.
Slowly, he kneels before me.
One knee touches the floor. Then the other.
“... Perdonami. Ho trovato qualcosa di più vicino al paradiso.” Forgive me. I’ve found something closer to heaven.
I continue unbuttoning my blouse, then let it slide slowly down my arms. My fingers drift along the waistband of my skirt until they find the zipper at the small of my back.
“Go on then,” I whisper, easing the zipper down.
Santo’s gaze drops to my hips. “So che il paradiso non aprirà mai le sue porte a un uomo come me.” I know Heaven will never open its gates to a man like me.
The skirt slips over my hips and pools at my feet in a puddle of silk.
“Così Tu hai avuto pietà…” Santo continues, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “E hai mandato un angelo all’inferno.” So You took pity on me... and sent an angel into Hell.
I reach behind me and unclasp the delicate fastening between the cups of my bra, letting it fall away. My breasts spill free, heavy and aching for his touch.
“Dio mio,” Santo breathes, beginning to rise to his feet. My God.
“Keep going,” I murmur. “We haven’t even reached the ‘Amen’ yet.”
A slow smile ghosts across his lips. “Amen.”
He steps toward me, hands lifting toward my waist, but I press my palms against his chest, stopping him. “Don’t you want to pray properly, Santo?”
My hands slide to his shoulders, and I try to guide him back down.
It’s hopeless, of course. Still, he indulges me.
He lowers himself down again, still drinking in the sight of me.
“E giuro davanti a Te... che nessun demonio la toccherà finché avrò respiro.” And I swear before You... that no demon will ever lay a hand on her while I still breathe. His brows knit together. “Nemmeno quello che vive dentro di me.” Not even the one that lives inside me.
My breath catches.
For a heartbeat, I forget every teasing remark I’d planned.
I feel the shift; he isn’t playing anymore—he’s making a promise.
I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.
“That,” I whisper, my fingers brushing lightly through his hair, “is a much better prayer.”
I take a slow step back.
Then I push my thong down over my hips. The damp lace trails along my thighs, my arousal glistening faintly in the dim light.
“Madonna,” Santo grits out. He peels off his shirt in one smooth motion.
I lower myself onto the mattress and lean back on my elbows. My breasts rise and fall with every unsteady breath, my nipples painfully tight. “Continue, amore.”
“Concedimi la forza di essere il suo scudo, anche quando sarò costretto a essere la sua spada.” Grant me the strength to be her shield, even when I’m forced to become her sword.
His fingers undo the button of his slacks, his erection straining against the fabric.
I let my knees drift apart, baring myself to him completely.
Santo rises, shoving down his slacks and boxers until he’s just as bare as I am.
“E quando verrà il giorno del mio giudizio, lascia che sia il suo amore l’ultima cosa che porterò con me.” And when the day of my judgment comes, let her love be the last thing I carry with me.
He leans over me, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, the other cupping my breast. “You’re the most cunning angel to have ever walked the earth,” he whispers against my lips.
I answer by tracing the seam of his mouth with my tongue.
A curse slips under Santo’s breath before he kisses me hard enough to bruise.
I gasp into his mouth, hips lifting instinctively to meet him, but his hand settles firmly between my thighs, gently urging me back down.
“Prayer is worship, fiore,” he murmurs. “Let me show you what the rest of my worship looks like.”
His fingers slip lower, curling inside me, and my head falls back as every muscle in my body draws taut.
My breath catches. “Santo,” I moan, barely recognizing my own voice.
“That’s right.” His lips brush my breast as he speaks. “Pray back to me, amore.”
The room begins to dissolve around us.
There’s nothing left but him and me, skin against skin.
“More,” I manage, barely audible. “I want you inside me, Santo.”
“Cristo…” He guides me farther onto the mattress before climbing over me, his forehead resting briefly against mine. “How do you want me, bella?”
“Like this,” I whisper, threading my fingers into the thick hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to look at me while you fuck me.”
He groans something inaudible, then grabs his cock at the base. He guides his crown to my entrance, easing himself inside slowly.
I gasp, eyes fluttering closed. The stretch is sharp and delicious, every inch that slides into me a prayer of its own.
“Open your eyes, fiore.” He stills completely, waiting for me to obey.
I force them open.
Those dark, dangerous eyes are fixed on mine now, hot and reverent.
“Così brava.” He eases deeper, never looking away. “Are you okay, amore?”
I answer with a breathless nod before kissing his lips.
He deepens it, thrusting into me slowly as his fingers continue to work my clit. “You’re so fucking tight.”
The words send another shiver through me.
I feel myself slipping. Not just into pleasure—into him.
I’m impossibly sensitive beneath him, every movement pulling another helpless sound from my throat.
He knows my body far better than he should already.
My muscles tremble around him as he keeps that steady, unhurried pace.
It’s delicious. He’s delicious.
And far more dangerous than that—I think I’m beginning to really fall for him.
It isn’t just the pull anymore.
Not just the strange awareness that settles over me whenever he walks into a room.
Not just desire.
Not just lust.
I’m falling for every part of him.
His darkness. His sharp edges. His unwavering certainty.
The Don who terrifies everyone else, and somehow makes me feel safest.
Santo straightens slightly, sweat beading along his brow. “Per questo peccato non chiederò mai perdono.” For this sin, I will never ask forgiveness.
The words break something open inside me.
The climax crashes over me like a tidal wave, sudden and all-consuming.
My body seizes, fingers tightening in his hair as I come apart on his cock.
“Fuck, Fiorella,” he groans, fucking me steadily through my orgasm.
It’s not until I’m softening beneath him, pussy still throbbing, that he allows himself to let go.
His forehead drops to mine as he comes undone, his breathing ragged against my lips as he spills deep inside me.
For a long moment neither of us moves. Then he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him.
I let out a startled yelp as I end up sprawled across his chest, slick skin sliding against slick skin.
I push myself up before we make a complete mess of my freshly made bed.
Santo reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. “Amen.”
I can’t help but smile.
I lean down until my lips brush his. “Se questo è l’inferno...” I whisper. “Allora lasciami bruciare con te.” If this is Hell... then let me burn with you.
Santo’s eyes search mine for a long, silent beat.
Then he smiles.
Not the sly grin he uses to taunt me. Not the cold smile that makes grown men fall to his feet.
Something rare—almost soft.
He cups my cheek, thumb brushing lazily beneath my eye. “You’d burn with me?”
“I think I already am.”
A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. He closes the last inch between us and kisses me once. When he pulls back, his nose lingers against mine. “You’ve made a very dangerous decision.”
“I know.”
“No.” His voice drops to little more than a whisper. “I don’t think you do.”
A sharp vibration breaks the moment.
Santo doesn’t move immediately. His eyes stay on mine for another heartbeat before he reaches for his slacks on the floor and pulls out his phone.
Marco’s name is on the screen.
He answers without looking away from me. “Dimmi.” Tell me.
There’s a beat of silence as he listens to Marco.
The trace of softness drains from his face. His jaw hardens, and his shoulders square.
The Don returns.
“Tell him Friday at noon.” Then he hangs up.
I push myself up on one elbow. “What happened?”
Santo drags a hand down his face, then looks at me.
“Your brother has requested a meeting.”
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Oooooh what do we think Luca is up to? ????
Next chapter comes out Wednesday August 5th at 18:30 CET/12:30pm EST/9:30am PST ??