Page 67 of Princess of the Mafia

His chest vibrated with his laugh. He pulled my mouth into his and bit my bottom lip, hard.

“Ouch!”

“That’s for calling me a brute.”

He rocked his body against mine and jerked his head. “Take it off.”

I looked at my blouse and scowled at him. The man needed to learn some manners. “Say please.”

His face darkened like ink on paper. Before I could catch my breath, he had ripped it in two.

“There’s your please.” He growled at my bra.

I scrambled to remove it before his hands could move to it.

“Good girl.” He pulled out and pushed in. Rough and hard. His eyes sparked like a dark and delicious sauce. “I’ve been thinking of you. Your little moans and shrieks are what I thought about when I was killing off traitors, Principessa. Does that make you happy?”

Was I sick? Was I bad or insane? Because I couldn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that coasted through my veins at his perverted comparison. His hands gripped my breasts and squeezed them tight. Thick, inked numbers skittered over my flesh. I hated tattoos, didn’t I? So why did my skin tingle at the sight of his?

He grunted as he pumped in and out. He was rough. He was hard. Uncouth to his bones. From the way he looked, to the way he fucked. Why does it feel so good? My legs wrapped around him tight, and when he tweaked my nipple with his calloused hands, a million sparks jittered through my veins. He was going to break me. Now or someday soon. But it didn’t stop me from exploding around him. The only relief was that I wasn’t going down alone, as I took him with me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DARIA

“She never comes here anymore.”

Mamma’s sorrow touched my heart. “She must be busy, Mamma.” I consoled her reluctantly, even though my heart wasn’t in it.

“For two months? What’s she doing when her man isn’t home? I see him more than her.”

I sighed. Orietta had always been the peculiar one, but Papà’s death brought with it a difference in my sister that I had not seen coming. It was like she had shrugged off the facade she had kept on her for all these years and moved on. More than that, though, I worried my brute of a husband rejecting her had pushed her further away, even though the thought of his hands on her brought an odd kind of bile to my stomach. But irrational logic took over. It should have been her in this apartment, on this bed, burning under his magnetic eyes.

The question that had been on my mind crawled up my throat. “Is she happy?”

“Beddra Matri! How will I know? If she isn’t, she won’t tell us either. I’ve gone so many times, and she won’t welcome me in. Keeps me at the door and doesn’t invite me in. Her own Mamma. Sometimes I think it’s a good thing your Papà isn’t here anymore.”

Is it? I still missed him. The way he called me Ria. His loud, robust laugh. But I still hated him, too. The memories he had left behind followed me around even in the depths of my dreams. All dirty and dark and tainted in every possible way.

“Maybe Ale can…”

“Your brother has enough things on his mind. Besides, I suspect he knows more than me. Probably why he tells me to drop it.”

I sat on the bed, cross-legged, and plucked random loose threads out of the sheets.

“Maybe it’s my fault,” I muttered.

“Cu fu? What’s got into you?”

I was making a mess out of it. Sicilian women spend ages embroidering these sheets. I found another loose thread and yanked hard. It made me feel better as I took a deep breath and spelled out my worst fear. “If Lorenzo had married her instead of me—”

“Schifiu! Don’t talk nonsense. This has nothing to do with you.”

“But….” My gaze drifted up. The object of all my thoughts was framing the doorway with a dark look burning in his eyes and dark clothes draped on his body. A shift in the air spoke of a slow rage building up. I don’t know what had pissed him off, but when he strode towards me, I knew I had to end the call. Immediately.

“I’ve got to go, Mamma.” I rushed. “There’s someone at the door.”

“Don’t you have a doorman for—” hung awkwardly in the room as I hung up on her and tossed the phone.

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