Page 32 of Passion and Revenge

“You can’t do this! You bastard! I’m not cattle that you can just put a tag on,” she roars, outraged.

“If I were you, I’d really watch the way you speak to me.” My mouth twitches. “If you play your cards right, Ivan can have an extra six months of life. But with the way you’re mouthing off, I’m beginning to think you aren’t all that interested in keeping him alive.”

“Six months.” Her voice is a broken whisper. I see in her eyes that the reality of her situation has finally caught up with her. There’s no escape. Only death.

As the glass doors begin to close behind me, I hear a choking sob leave her throat, like that of a dying animal. My feet keep me rooted in place, and I find that I cannot look at her. I can’t watch her break.

Years of waiting for this moment, and now that I have it, I can’t even savor it.

Jaw clenched, I cross the apartment in long strides until I’m at the elevator, then I swipe my key card over the panel. There is only one key card that can open this elevator. That precaution is the only reason Sienna didn’t succeed in her prison break today.

My threat and the collar that now sits prettily around her throat are extra necessary steps.

The elevator whisks me down to the barren lobby of the building, and I toss the key card at Maurizio on my way out of the building.

My matte black McLaren is waiting in the underground garage, the only car in the expansive space, and I climb into it. The engine purrs to life beneath me, and I gun it out of the garage, speeding over the deserted road as far away from Sienna D’Addario as I can go.

But that broken sound follows me all the way back to my house.

The wrought iron gates open as I approach it, and I speed in, ignoring my men patrolling the grounds.

“Boss, the crates of?—”

I ignore the man and storm into the house, expecting the calmness that the house gives me to erase any thoughts of the dark-haired woman. This place is my sanctuary. I’ve never brought a woman back here. With all the chaos in my world, I’ve made sure to keep this place exempt from all of it.

The bloodshed, the deceit, the backstabbing, the desperate women. None of it comes back here. I kick my shoes off at the door and climb the stairs barefoot across the cool tiles.

Stripping off my clothes at my bedroom door, I slip into the shower and turn the knob for hot water. But no matter how much it beats against my skin, there is no relief.

I almost wish I hadn’t killed Dayna. Almost.

With an irritated curse, I storm out of the shower and dry myself jerkily before falling into my bed. I can swear Sienna’s scent follows me here. Something fruity but sharp, like the first taste of citrus.

“Damn her,” I bite out.

I’m a busy man, and I don’t have time for this nonsense. I don’t have time to get my head jumbled up by a slip of a woman. I need to go to bed and wake up fresh and ready to jump back into the dark corners of my world.

Spreading my legs, I wrap my hand around my semi-hard length and squeeze, feeling the sensation tingle up my spine.

If I don’t think of her, then I can justify that my hard-on isn’t for her. I’m a horny bastard, that’s all this is. She has nothing to do with what I’m about to do.

My mind is screaming at me that I’m a bloody liar—and not a very good one at that—but I drown out the voice and begin to tug at my pulsing cock.

“Hmm,” I grunt as my fist moves faster and faster, pre-cum sliding out of my tip and providing lubrication for my hand.

My thumb slides over my leaking tip each time I move my fist and twist at the head. My orgasm is close, but there’s something missing.

I let out a moan as I push into my fist, my hips fucking upward until my balls draw up, aching for a release.

A sudden image flashes through my mind. Sienna is kneeling at my feet, wearing nothing but splatters of paint, the collar around her neck. She bites her lip and then glances up at me shyly from under her lashes.

I erupt with a thundering roar, ropes of cum shooting up into the air and landing on my stomach. I continue to fuck my fist, drawing it out until I’m too sensitive to continue.

My eyelids begin to droop with exhaustion, and I just manage to wipe myself down with the duvet and fling it off the bed.

The last thought I have before I give in to my orgasm-induced sleep is that I’m not as in control of this whole plot as I originally intended.

CHAPTER 11

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