Page 119 of Of Lies and Shadows

“Look at me,” he whispers, his brow pressed to mine. “Please, let me see you. Let me feel you.”

I nod, and he kisses his way down my body, reverent and slow, brushing his lips over the healing wound on my side like I’m something holy. And to him, I think I am.

He pulls my underwear down, exposing me, and slides his fingers between my thighs with aching tenderness. I gasp, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leans in again.

“I’ve never wanted anything like this,” he says. “Not just your body. You. All of you.”

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and guiding him into me with a trembling sigh. He sinks into me with a reverent groan, his forehead pressing to mine.

“Slow,” I whisper.

He moves with aching care, every thrust a silent promise, every brush of his lips a confession. His hands roam over my curves like they’re memorizing me, like he’s scared I’ll disappear.

“You’re still here,” he whispers. “You’re still mine.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I nod, barely able to speak.

He kisses me again, deep and tender, as his pace deepens, and the connection between us intensifies into something overwhelming and raw. Our breaths mingle, our bodies are entwined, and I feel everything—every word he can't say, every fear he won't voice, poured into every touch.

When I come, it isn’t explosive. It’s slow, like a tide pulling me under, grounding me in him. He follows with a shudder, burying his face against my neck, arms wrapped tightly around me like he never wants to let go.

We lie there for a long time, tangled and quiet, the world narrowed to the rhythm of our hearts.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and this time, he doesn’t sound afraid.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

And in that silence, we begin to heal together.

Epilogue

Dante

Six months later.

Today is the funeral of Francesca’s father.

Aterriblecar accident, what atragedy. That’s what the papers say, anyway.

We didn’t want to come, but appearances matter. Power thrives on perception, and in our world, silence is its sharpest weapon.

The setting is perfect—gilded grief and marble angelsweeping over a man who never deserved tears. We made sure of that.

I offer my arm to my wife as we exit the church, her gloved hand sliding into mine. She’s dressed in black silk, veiled and poised, her expression unreadable to all but me. I feel her tension in the way she grips my fingers, not from sorrow but from restraint. She’s mourning nothing but playing the role perfectly, as always.

My eyes scan the crowd until they land on him… Don Salvatore.

The bastard doesn’t flinch under my gaze, but he doesn’t smile either. Not today. Not since last week.

The day the judge called me.

The day Salvatore requested a meeting with the judge as a neutral witness.

A truce, no more bloodshed.

He promised to never come for my business again.

And my family? Untouchable. My wife? Sacrosanct.

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