Page 39 of His Savage Ruin
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold without his touch. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“You did,” he interrupts, but his tone has softened, more truth than accusation. He drags a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his face. “You want me. And I want you. But neither of us knows what to do with that, do we?”
The admission lands heavy between us. I do want him—his hands, his mouth, the way he makes me feel like I’m more than broken pieces. But wanting and being ready are not the same.
Matteo exhales sharply, as if trying to shake something off. “You confuse me,principessa. And confusion is dangerous.
The words settle between us like a challenge. I close my eyes and try to quiet my racing heart, but sleep feels impossible now. Because, despite everything, I think I might be ready to find out exactly how hot his fire burns.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Matteo
The warehouse district sprawls in shades of gray concrete and rust-stained steel, industrial decay that's perfect for the kind of business we conduct in shadows. My driver navigates the maze of buildings while I try to focus on the reports Enzo compiled overnight, but the words blur together after the third attempt to read the same paragraph.
I force my eyes back to the page, but what I see instead is Alessia's face last night when my fingers pushed inside her. The way her eyes went wide, pupils blown dark with pleasure.
Cristo.
I shift in my seat, adjusting myself through my trousers because apparently my cock doesn't care that I'm supposed to be reviewing weapons manifests. The scent of her still clings to my collar—the musk of arousal that I noticed this morning when Iwas buttoning my shirt. I should have scrubbed it away in the shower, but some part of me wanted to carry that reminder.
This is dangerous, this distraction. A don who can't keep his mind on business doesn't stay don for long.
I roll down the window, letting cold morning air cut through the car. The bite helps clear my head enough that I manage to finish scanning the reports by the time we arrive. The shipment looks clean on paper—falsified manifests, routing through three countries to obscure the origin, payment laundered through accounts that don't officially exist. Enzo's work, precise as always and I can’t be happier that he’s the one dealing with this.
Rafael waits at the warehouse entrance, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His shirt is half-untucked, collar open, and I immediately notice the blood dried under two fingernails that he hasn't bothered to clean. He's been busy while I was occupied with other matters.
"Clean delivery,fratello," he reports as I approach, falling into step beside me. His boots echo against concrete as we walk into the cavernous space. "No complications. Quality matches specs. Payment cleared through the usual channels."
The warehouse smells like gun oil and concrete dust, with an underlying tang of motor oil from the trucks that moved through here earlier. Sunlight filters through high windows, creating pools of illumination that make the shadows between them seem darker. Crates are stacked in neat rows, each stamped with false labels that would pass customs inspection—agricultural equipment, the paperwork claims, though the weight distribution would tell a different story to anyone who bothered to check.
Rafael cracks open the first crate, hinges screaming in the quiet space. The sound echoes off steel rafters, and I'm absurdly grateful for the noise because it gives me something to focus on besides the phantom sensation of how wet she was, how her body clenched around my fingers when she came.
He hands me a rifle. The metal is cold enough to sting my palms, weight distributed exactly right. I test the sight, the trigger pull—smooth action, no resistance. Quality hardware. The kind of weapon I'd trust with my men's lives, which is the only standard that matters.
"What's the timeline on distribution?" I ask, setting the rifle back in its packing and checking the serial numbers have been filed off properly.
"Forty-eight hours. Dante's arranging the drop points."
Of course, Dante is handling it. The man has connections in places most of us wouldn't even know existed—politicians and police captains and judges who owe him favors they'll never finish repaying. He's been doing this since his early twenties, trading in influence instead of bullets, and he's never lost a shipment to law enforcement. Never even come close. The bastard is a magician.
I remember when Dante made that triple homicide charge disappear for me—I was twenty-four, facing life in prison, and he'd already spent three years building his political network in Jersey. Witnesses relocated, evidence misplaced, judges suddenly finding reasonable doubt where none should have existed. I asked him what he wanted in return, what price I'd be paying for the rest of my life.
"Nothing," he'd said, straightening those expensive cufflinks he always wears. "Brothers don't charge each other for staying alive."
That was ten years ago. He's saved my life a dozen times since then, in courtrooms and backroom deals, with paperwork instead of bullets. Where Rafael breaks bones and Enzo tracks numbers, Dante dismantles threats with phone calls and political pressure. He frustrates me sometimes with his silver-tongue manipulation. But there's no one I'd rather have on my side when legal trouble comes knocking.
My phone buzzes against my ribs, sharp enough to pull me out of thought. I fish it from my pocket, and the Chicago area code makes ice flood my chest before I even see the name.
Don Emilio Moretti.
My father's murderer, calling me like we're business associates instead of enemies. Damn him! The urge to throw the phone against the concrete wall is so strong my hand actually twitches. But that would be weakness, and weakness is death in our world.
I motion Rafael back with a gesture he understands without explanation. He moves to the far side of the warehouse, giving me privacy but keeping his eyes on me in case this conversation goes somewhere that requires immediate violence.
I answer the call.
"Romano." That voice—oil over gravel, every syllable weighted with decades of practiced authority.
