Chapter 26 Nicolo
NICOLO
My fists slam into the heavy bag, each strike sending it swinging wild on its chain.
The links rattle overhead, squealing like they’re about to snap.
Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging like acid, but I don’t stop.
I can’t. The thud of leather against leather echoes off the gym walls, steady as a war drum.
Steady as the rage hammering in my chest.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the damn issue.
My knuckles are raw, skin splitting under the wraps, but none of it cuts through the memory of her.
The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, sweet and maddening.
Her moans are carved into my skull, that reckless sound that has no business echoing through these halls.
And that fucking dress—pink, soft, clinging to her like sin stitched in fabric.
Every sway of it, every inch of bare thigh, is burned into me like a brand I’ll never get rid of.
I hit harder. The chain jerks. The bag flies back and slams into my shoulder, pain bursting through the joint, but it only fuels me. I welcome it. I deserve it.
The sound she made when I shoved my tongue down her throat—low, wrecked, desperate. It won’t leave me. It claws at me, worming its way under my skin, and every time I close my eyes, it plays on repeat. A soundtrack to my own fucking downfall.
And my cock? It’s raging, straining against my shorts like I’m some goddamn schoolboy who just had his first kiss.
I should be humiliated by it, furious. Instead, it makes me harder.
It makes me imagine dragging her into my bed, ripping that dress to pieces, and burying myself so deep she’d never think of another man.
Showing her what it really means to provoke a man like me.
I slam the bag again, teeth gritted. My body’s a furnace—muscles burning, veins pulsing fire, lungs screaming for air. Still, I keep going. Still, I fight.
I should hate her for this. For getting under my skin. For making me lose control. For making me want things I have no right wanting. But the hate isn’t for her.
It’s for me.
Because it wasn’t her who made me cross that line. It was me. I lack the control. I always fucking have when it comes to her.
The bag swings back into me again, rattling my ribs, and I let it. Let it bruise. Let it punish. My fists crash forward anyway—reckless, relentless—because stopping means admitting the truth.
She needs to go. Out of my Castello. Out of my sight. Before I do something worse.
Because admitting I can’t keep my hands off her? That’s not just a mistake. That’s weakness. That’s surrender. That’s defeat.
And I don’t lose. Not to my enemies. And certainly not to my desires.
The chain above the bag squeals, threatening to give way under the punishment I’ve been dealing out. I drag in a breath, fists still clenched, chest heaving. My knuckles are split, my arms trembling, but none of it matters. None of it quiets the storm.
That’s when my phone buzzes across the bench. The sound cuts through the gym like a gunshot. Too sharp. Too real.
I yank my gloves off, peel back the soaked wraps from my fists, and snatch the phone. Theo’s name flashes across the screen. I swipe to answer, voice clipped and cold, the mask snapping back into place.
“What is it?”
“The Mancinis have re-arranged the meeting. No longer in person. They want a conference call.”
For a second, I just stand there, breathing hard into the silence.
A bitter laugh almost claws its way out.
Here I am trying to beat the thought of a woman out of me, and my enemies are the ones knocking on the door.
To be honest, I did not expect them to insist on the meeting after I walked out dragging out that damn brat.
“Fine,” I say at last, my tone cold and lethal. “Set it up. I’ll handle it.”
I hang up before he can respond, drop the phone back onto the bench, and look down at my hands. Bruised, bloodied, shaking. It feels almost right.
My phone hums on the desk, Theo’s name flashing on the screen, but I don’t pick it up. My knuckles are raw, split from the rigorous decompressing session on the bag earlier. I flex them once before planting them against the edge of the desk. Leather creaks; wood groans.
I glance up, out the wide glass window that overlooks the back gardens.
I shouldn’t. I should bury myself in sorting this mess with the Mancinis. In logistics, in their demands and routes and ledgers. But my eyes betray me. They seem to always do that these days.
And there she is. Trouble incarnate.
Sunlight spills over her like it’s been ordered to, gilding her hair, catching on the hem of her skirt as it flutters in the breeze.
She’s not alone. Luca stands beside her, leaning too close, his posture loose and unguarded, as if he belongs there.
His shirt is open at the collar, sleeves shoved to the elbow like he’s some boy at ease in my territory.
He says something to her, something I can’t make out, and she laughs.
Her head tilts back, that sound tearing through the window and slicing through me.
A sound I want to keep only to myself. The sound I haven’t been able to stop hearing since she stepped through the Castello’s doors. My jaw locks so hard it aches.
And then she does it. She leans in and presses her mouth to Luca’s cheek. Quick. Playful. But the heat of it ignites like gasoline in my chest.
The glass of vodka slips from my grip, hits the floor, and shatters into a thousand pieces splintering through the silence.
I don’t even look down. I’m already moving.
The halls blur, my steps pounding across stone, guards stepping aside without a word.
They feel the storm rolling through me, sharp enough to blister skin.
By the time I shove open the glass doors to the garden, Luca’s head snaps in my direction.
Mara startles, eyes wide when she sees me.
I don’t give her a chance to speak. My hand clamps around her arm, hot and possessive, and I drag her back toward the house. She stumbles once, protesting, but I don’t loosen my grip.
The doors slam shut behind us. Marble. Shadows. My office looming like a cage I’ve already built. I shove her inside, kick the door closed, and pin her to it with my body.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I growl.
Her chest rises fast, her mouth parted, defiance already sparking in her gaze.
“Jealous, Nicolo?” she taunts, voice cutting like glass. “Or just mad that I can kiss whoev—”
My mouth crashes down on hers before she can finish.