Deadly Love is a spicy dark mafia romance, book 2 in the Deadly series by D. Lamers Trigger Warning: graphic content, including graphic violence, guns, blood, suicide ideation, drugs, alcohol, and explicit sexual scenes that may not be suitable for some readers.
Romantic Pairings: M/F and M/M
Never tip your hand. Never show fear.
Raised the dutiful mafia princess, I played the game well. But I was willing to spill my own blood to escape an arranged marriage. When that failed, I finally fled.
Never in my darkest, deadliest dreams did I think my path to freedom would thrust me right into bloodthirsty enemy arms.
Arms and eyes made of steel. A man like no other man I’d ever known. He’d be the death of me.
If only the death of me didn’t feel so excruciatingly good.
Excerpt
MARCUS
The hallway outside Olivia’s room is too quiet. I hate that the door is closed, locked, and that I can’t see what’s going on inside. But what I hate most is knowing who’s behind that door.
Enzo fucking Rossi.
My tongue feels dry. The thoughts circle in my brain like vultures. Did he feed her lies? Threaten her? Drug her? Did he force himself on her? My vision swims with rage, black around the edges, and I press my shoulders back against the wall to stop myself from kicking the door down.
Mitch, my head of security, stands to my left, tapping the butt of his gun against his thigh in a slow, restless rhythm.
“He’s still in there?” I mutter.
Mitch doesn’t even look at me. “Hasn’t moved in hours, sir. Lights went off maybe fifty minutes ago.”
I nod once. “She’s still out?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No way to know.”
I stare at that door. I can picture her inside—broken, pale, unconscious—while that fucking psycho touches her. The same guy who stole her. Dragged her into the dark. Cut off all contact for over a month. And then had the fucking audacity to bring her back here like some offering.
And all I feel is rage. Pure and blinding and ugly.
Mitch shifts beside me. Big, broad, reliable Mitch. My head of security since William passed. If I said the word, he’d cut Enzo into pieces and never lose a minute of sleep.
“I want him dead,” I mutter under my breath.
“Then let’s take care of it.”
I push off the wall. “Get the gear. We’re doing this my way.”
Mitch walks away without another word. I crack my knuckles one at a time as I face the door. I don’t knock. I don’t warn. I take out my key and unlock it.
The room smells like shampoo, and the moonlight spilling across the floor outlines two figures tangled in the bed.
Olivia.
Enzo.
She looks… better. Color in her face. Lips not tight. Breathing even. Enzo, meanwhile, looks like a mess. His shirt’s damp, his pants creased, his hair a wreck.
His arm is draped across her waist, his chest pressed flush against her back. They’re knotted together like they belong that way.
Footsteps behind me. Mitch enters with three others. No questions. They know the drill. I nod once.
“Do it.”
It happens in seconds. Mitch and the others surge forward, grabbing Enzo by the arms and shoulders. He wakes up with a gasp, instinct sharp as knives, but he’s outnumbered, disoriented.
“What the f—hey! Get the fuck off me!”
A black bag goes over his head. He thrashes, tries to grab something, but he’s already off the bed. Yanked backward. Olivia stirs, a faint noise on her lips, but I’m already pulling the blanket tighter around her. She doesn’t wake.
Enzo’s still fighting as we drag him down the hallway. Into my study. Slammed into a chair and strapped down. Wrists bound, ankles lashed to the legs of the chair. He jerks his head side to side beneath the black bag.
I take my time entering.
The door shuts behind me with a click. I walk slowly across the carpet until I’m standing right in front of him. Then Mitch rips the bag off his head.
“Good. You’re awake,” I say quietly.
Enzo blinks against the sudden light. His pupils dilate, his mouth opens. He looks up at me. And to my annoyance, he doesn’t look scared.
Confused, yes. Tense, obviously. But he’s not afraid.
“What the hell is this?” he rasps. “Where is she?”
“She’s sleeping,” I reply, dead calm. “I figured I’d spare her the sound of me breaking your face.”
He doesn’t flinch. “You dragged me out of bed like an animal. You’re lucky I didn’t rip someone’s throat out.”
That arrogance is what does it.
I don’t even bother with my knuckleduster. I just strike. One clean punch to the gut—just below the ribs. He jerks forward, mouth parting as the air shoves out of his lungs.
“You kidnapped my sister,” I snarl, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back. “You touched her. Used her. Tortured her.”
He stares at me. “I did take her,” he says simply. “But I didn’t hurt her.”
I backhand him across the face. Hard. The sound is satisfying, brutal. His head snaps to the side, blood already smearing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t lie to me, you sick fuck. You didn’t hurt her?” My knuckles split open as I drive them into his cheekbone.
“No,” he gasps. “Never.”
“You didn’t force yourself on her?” I demand, landing another hit, right in his throat. “Didn’t use her?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
His head turns to face me, blood dripping from his nose. “I don’t give a shit what you believe. I know the truth.”
Another punch. This time to the jaw.
He spits blood onto the floor, onto my priceless rug. But still—still—he doesn’t look afraid. “I brought her back,” he says, voice like gravel. “I could’ve run with her. I could’ve disappeared. But I didn’t. I walked back into your house. Knowing you’d probably kill me.”
“Then why did you do it?” I shout. “Why bring her here? After everything you’ve done.”
His eyes flick up to mine. “Because I don’t want her to hate me anymore.”
I hit him again. Just because it feels so damn good to have this monster at my mercy. Then I yank open my desk drawer and grab the first shiny thing I see—my cigar cutter.
“You know what this is?” I hiss.
Enzo’s gaze drops to it, and for the first time… something like fear flickers in his eyes. “Do it, then,” he grits. “You want to torture me? Do it. I’m not lying. I care for your sister. I know her. Understand her. Probably better than you ever have.”
That does it again. I slam the cigar cutter onto the table beside him and reach for my gun instead. “I should kill you right now. I should put a bullet between your eyes and leave your body in a ditch like the fucking garbage you are,” I hiss, leaning in closer. “You’re a monster. A psychopath dressed in designer clothes, pretending you’ve got a conscience. You slaughter people. Break them. Fuck them.”
I press the barrel of the gun to his forehead. My hand is steady. My finger twitches on the trigger. “Your family has been a pain in my arse for decades. The world will be better off without you. Any last words before I end your miserable life?”
He breathes through his nose. Swallows blood. “Let me cook for her.”
I blink. “What did you say?”
“Before you kill me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Let me make her a meal. Let me see her one more time. Awake. Safe. Just for a moment.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “You want to cook?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“Then you do whatever the fuck you want.”
I’m still staring at him. And fuck me, he’s not bluffing.
The thought of him in my kitchen feels like sacrilege, like an anomaly that should never happen. And yet here he is, asking for it. Like that’s the only thing that matters. Like the violence, the blood, the death he knows is coming—all of it is worth it, if he can see her smile one last time.
And I don’t understand it.
Because what the hell kind of monster would choose a last meal… for someone else?
OLIVIA
There’s an annoying light boring into my eyes.
It’s bright, sharp, and stubborn as hell as it drags me out of the nice, fuzzy dream I was drowning in. When I reluctantly pry my eyes open, the first thing I register is a thin strip of sunlight sneaking through barely closed curtains, casting shadows across the unfamiliar room.
Where the hell—
Chadwick.
Am I still in that hellhole?
My muscles tense, my brain screaming to bolt. But something doesn’t match. The ceiling isn’t water-stained and filthy. The air doesn’t smell like booze and drugs and sex. And more importantly, I’m lying on a mattress—a thick, plush, clean mattress.
No, this isn’t my cell, nor the club. But that realization doesn’t necessarily calm me. My gaze darts around, taking in the space—light-toned armoire, pinkish curtains.
Am I…
No. It can’t be. It just can’t.
I sit up too fast, and the room tilts like a carousel on acid. I brace a hand on the bed, grit my teeth until the wave of nausea ebbs. My eyes land on the soft blue rug, then the few photos on the wall.
This is my room.
My room in the mansion.
The one before I ran away from my family, before Enzo—
Then I see it. A black leather jacket I know all too well. Casually draped over the back of my desk chair.
Oh, fuck.
There’s a thick haze over my memories, but I remember Valerio’s face breaking through the shadows, the relief when strong arms lifted me from the ground. And then… him.
He grabbed me, carried me, but then—black. Nothing. Nada. Just a blur of warmth and something… soapy?
I glance down at myself: gym shorts, soft gray T-shirt, no underwear. My hand touches my loose hair, then searches for the elastic wound around my wrist. It’s gone, and my hair is clean, falling perfectly smooth around my shoulders.
What the—
Did he brush my hair?
I push myself upright, legs trembling. Pain claws up from the bullet wound in my calf. It’s still there, still burning, but it feels… treated. Wrapped tight. He must’ve dug the damn thing out—again. It’s the second time he’s de-bulleted me while I was unconscious, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
I stomp into the bathroom and flick on the light. The mirror does me no favors. My face is pale, my eyes are tired and shadowed. No makeup, no blood, no filth. He scrubbed all of it away. Erased the evidence of what was done to me.
I brace myself against the sink, squeezing my eyes shut as the memories slither back in—one drop at a time.
The tomb. The club. The endless days blurred into each other.
But now I’m here, in this room—my room, and I can’t even escape since the bloody door is locked. I’m trapped yet again, and somehow, it feels heavier in here than it ever did in The Palazzo.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tapping my foot impatiently. It takes a good twenty minutes, and by the time I hear the click of the lock, I’m braced for war. The door swings open, and there he is—the infuriating, unreadable bastard himself.
But… what on earth happened to him?
Enzo looks wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes, fresh bruises on his cheeks, a long gash carved into his chin. There’s scruff on his jaw that he clearly hasn’t shaved in days, and he stands with the stiffness of someone trying very hard not to wince.
“Jesus,” I whisper, voice hoarse and dry, “you look like shit.”
It’s the first thing I’ve said to him in over five days. Not quite the reunion I envisioned. Not the explosion. Not the sobbing or the screaming. Just… that.
Enzo blinks. Once. “I’m glad you’re awake, Kitten.”
Bastard.
I glance away. At the windows. The lamp. The sheets beside me. Anywhere but at him. Not those eyes. Nope.
“How’s your head?” he asks, softer now.
“Still attached.”
He ignores my sarcasm, walking inside with a tray in his hands. There’s a silver dome on top. A glass of water. Coffee. Even painkillers.
“Here,” he murmurs, setting the tray in the nightstand. “I made you some food.”
I stare into my hands. “What did you do, sneak into the kitchen between my brother’s death threats?”
“Yes,” he replies evenly, then sits down beside me, close enough that the heat from his body seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Of course you’re not,” he says. “But you’ve got about five seconds before I shove it down your throat.”
I glance at him. “You really think manhandling me into eating is the solution here?”
“It is the most practical one,” he argues. “You need food. And since experience shows that you won’t take care of yourself, I’m doing it for you.”
I glance at the plate cover. At him. Then back again. He usually puts my food in black boxes, but I suppose taking me back from Chadwick earned him the right to feel particularly fancy.
Finally, I lift the cloche, and the smell nearly knocks me over. Fresh ravioli, still steaming, thick with cream, cheese, and basil. I try to resist, I really do. But the first bite melts on my tongue, then the second, and soon, I’m practically moaning around each mouthful because it’s absolutely, undeniably, mouthwateringly delicious.
I literally curse under my breath when I realize I’ve emptied the plate, and I fumble for the mug of coffee, if only to give my hands something to do. Warm. Strong. A perfect balance of bitterness and milk—exactly how I take it.
Of course it is.
Then I swallow the painkillers and chase them with water, praying he’ll finally stop staring at me and turn away. He doesn’t.
“Did you like it?” he asks instead.
A flush creeps up my neck. “Yeah. My favorite meal so far.”
He nods, like he already expected it. His gaze dips almost unconsciously toward the bed, to the dent in the pillow where my head rested. His jaw tightens slightly.
Did he sleep next to me?
Did I…
Nope. Not going there.
I pull myself up slowly, calf screaming as I stand, but I push through it. I need space. Distance. Air that isn’t charged with him. “Why am I here, Enzo?”
He stares at me, that unreadable mask sliding back over his face. “Because this is your home,” he says, like it’s an indisputable fact. “Because I brought you where you’d be safe.”
The confidence in his tone throws me off more than anything. It’s like he’s doing me a favor. Like I should be grateful. Like it never even occurred to him that I might not want to come back here.
“Safe,” I repeat. “Right.”
“Right,” he echoes.
I open my mouth to say something else—anything to cut the tension—but nothing comes out. My voice is gone and buried under the weight of too many things I don’t understand.
I was ready to fight him, yell at him, scratch his eyes out. But the second I saw that bruised face, all I felt was the crack of my own heart. And worse than all of that is this sick, terrifying ache of missing him.
I missed him.
He’s the bastard who kidnapped me. The man who’s tangled himself into every vein, every nerve ending, every sane thought I have—the man who’s made my life harder, sharper, messier in a way no one could. And I missed him?
Pathetic.
I turn toward the door, desperate to get away before my body betrays me completely. “I should find Marcus,” I mutter.
I don’t make it two steps before his hand clamps around my wrist. “Don’t you dare walk away from me again.” He spins me back around, and I’m slammed into his chest, meeting a wall of muscles and heat with my cheek.
And everything inside me fractures. Because his touch suddenly blurs into other hands, rougher hands, hands that belonged to Chadwick’s men. Their filth on me, their laughter in my ear, the way they pawed at me like a discount whore. The smell of their sweat, the sting of their nails.
My lungs seize. My vision tunnels. And before I can stop it, I’m not here anymore. I’m back there. Helpless and fragile and caged.
Panic panic panic.
“No—” I choke out. “No, don’t—please—!”
My arms jerk, my legs kick weakly against his shins as I twist and claw, desperate to free myself. I’m trapped, I’m cornered, I’m going to be hurt again.
Enzo stiffens, confusion flashing across his face. “What the—Kitten, stop,” he says sharply, and then he tightens his hold, probably thinking I’m fighting him in the same way I always do.
“Let go!” I sob, the words tearing out of my throat as I struggle harder. “Let go of me!”
He doesn’t. Instead, he pins me back against the wall, all strength and control, and one of his hands comes up to clamp around my jaw. “Look at me,” he orders. “Fucking look at me, Kitten.”
My eyes fly to his because I have no choice. Because his grip demands it. Because his presence is everywhere. And I can pinpoint the exact moment his confusion morphs into realization when he really looks at me, taking in my shaking, my wild eyes, the way my breath is coming in broken, choking gasps.
“Oh,” he breathes.
His grip doesn’t loosen, but it changes. The pressure shifts, becomes grounding instead of trapping. “Hey,” he murmurs, the edge gone. “Stop panicking. You’re with me.”
I try to turn my face away, to escape, but his grip holds me, forcing me to stay in those relentless eyes. “I can’t—Enzo, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he says. “Listen to me. You’re not there anymore. You’re here.” His forehead dips close to mine. “Breathe with me. In. Out.”
I try. I fail. I cough in the process.
“Okay,” he says, “that’s fine. We’ll do it together. In. Out. In. Out. Like this.”
My body fights it, panic thrashing violently, but his voice doesn’t waver. He keeps breathing, keeps counting softly, keeps me locked into the rhythm of him.
“In… Out…” he murmurs. “Good girl. That’s it.”
Little by little, against my will, my trembling softens. My lungs start to catch air in ragged bursts. The darkness retreats a fraction. His voice becomes the only thing in the room, low and rough and grounding.
And then, slowly, I see it. That deep, dark shade of blue, like the darkest part of the ocean, like navy sapphires, framed by those thick, dark lashes. And just like that, a slim crack opens in the panic. A sliver of recognition. And the fight in my limbs falters altogether.
He watches every flicker of me. Every quiver in my lips, every ragged inhale. “Chadwick,” he murmurs. “That’s what this is. He hurt you. Scared you. Used you. Am I right?”
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, but I force myself to nod.
His hand stays on my face, steady, immovable. “Tell me what he did to you, Kitten,” he says. “Every single thing. I’ll make sure he remembers exactly that while I’m tearing him apart limb by limb.”
“I d-don’t want to talk about it,” I stutter, shaking my head so hard my hair whips against my cheeks. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His palm spreads along the back of my neck. “Don’t run from me. Tell me. Now.”
“I said I can’t!” The words rip out of me raw, shrill, my chest heaving as I try to shove against him again. “You don’t get it—”
“Then make me get it!” he snaps, eyes blazing. “Make me fucking understand, because right now, all I can see is his hands on you, his filth on your skin, and it’s—” his jaw clenches, his pupils are nothing but black fire, “—it’s driving me insane.”
“You think I want to relive it?” I claw at his wrist, glaring up at him even though tears burn at the corners of my eyes. “You think I want to stand here and hand you every disgusting detail so you can feed your little vendetta? So you can check my pain off your fucking revenge list?”
“Yes!” His roar rattles the walls. “I want every detail, every second, every memory, and then I’ll make him suffer for everything he’s done to what’s mine.”
“I am not yours!” I spit the words like they’re fire in my mouth. “Stop claiming me like I’m some prize. You kidnapped me, you lunatic. You locked me up, toyed with me, kissed me one second, and then called me a mistake the next. You think you’re better than Chadwick? You’re not. You’re just—”
I don’t even get to finish. He moves, boxing me against the wall. “You think I don’t know I fucked up?” His fingers grip my chin, forcing my gaze into his. “You think I haven’t spent the last five goddamn days replaying that night, regretting every word I spat at you? It killed me to find out you ran away from me.”
“Then why didn’t you come for me?” I shoot back, my voice rising.
His face twists like I just stabbed him. “What the hell are you talking about? I did come for you. I was the one who found you. I’m the one who went through hell to drag you back.”
I shake my head. “I mean, before Chadwick got me. Valerio said… You didn’t want anything to do with me. That you were done. That you didn’t care.”
“I never—” He blinks, once, twice, like the information doesn’t compute. “I never said that. I didn’t even know you were gone until it was too late. Nobody told me. They said… they said you’d come back. That you were safe. It wasn’t until Marcus called that I knew Chadwick had you. I swear to God, Kitten, I didn’t know.”
I stare at him, searching his eyes for a crack, for some deception. But there isn’t any—just brutal, undeniable truth.
That’s when I realize Valerio lied. That bastard lied to me about everything.
“I didn’t know,” Enzo repeats. “But the second I did… I stopped at nothing to get to you. To make sure you were safe. You’re mine, Kitten, and mine alone.”
The words coil in my stomach like fire. I should hate him. I do hate him. My entire body screams with it—yet beneath it all is a pulsing, stubborn, infuriating desire that refuses to be silenced. “You think saving me cancels out kidnapping me?” I ask, slapping his hand away from my face. “You’re delusional. I’ll never be yours, no matter how many times you say it. Because guess what? I hate you.”
“You don’t!” he growls, grabbing me by the throat again. “You hate that you want me. You hate that your body betrays you every time I’m near, that it doesn’t give a shit about your morals or your anger or whatever story you’re telling yourself to justify your needs.” His hand tightens around my neck while his voice drops, roughening around the edges. “You hate that your thighs tense when I look at you like this. That your pussy fills with arousal at the mere sound of my voice.”
“Fuck you,” I say, because how dare he know exactly what goes on in my mind before I do.
Unbothered, he leans in, so close I feel his words on my skin instead of hearing them. “You ran away from me, only to realize how much you missed me. How much you crave me. Tell me I’m wrong, Kitten. I dare you.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s me. All I know is the second our mouths collide, the world around us detonates. His lips are rough against mine, desperate, his teeth catching my bottom lip until I taste blood and heat. He kisses me like he’s starving, like his life depends on this, like it’ll be the last time he gets to taste me.
And me? I’m already grabbing at him—shirt, hair, ears, whatever I can get—pulling him in. My nails scrape down the side of his throat, and he growls against my tongue, so feral it makes my stomach clench. Then he hauls me off the ground without warning, pinning me savagely against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist, and I can already feel his cock straining beneath his jeans, pressing against my soaking core.
We rip apart only because oxygen demands it, gasping against each other’s mouths, both of us trembling. I’m about to pull him back in when I see it.
He smiles.
Smiles.
…Bloody dimples.
“What?” I pant. “What’s so funny?”
“I missed this.” His grin deepens, turning almost boyish. “The yelling. The touching. The kissing.”
I blink, genuinely stunned. “You missed me yelling at you?”
“Not the words. Just the sound. That fire in your voice. I was afraid Chadwick had snuffed it out of you.” His mouth claims mine again between each word, harder, rougher, punishing me with every syllable.
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes as I brush his hair back from his forehead, forever amazed by how soft it is. “What happened to you?” I ask, tracing the bruise blooming along his jaw. “Did someone take a bat to your face while I was out?”
To my surprise, he huffs out something resembling a laugh. And then he leans into my hand. Just like that, this proud, dangerous man who makes people fear for their lives with a single glance, now presses his bruised face into my palm like he’s starved for even the smallest piece of me.
“Not a bat,” he mutters. “Just days without sleep. And a few nice reminders from Marcus that kidnapping you comes with consequences.”
His stubble scrapes against my skin as he speaks, and my thumb moves on instinct, brushing just beneath his lips. I make a mental note to tear into Marcus for hurting him later.
“Why did you?” I say. “Why bring me back knowing Marcus would skin you alive for it?”
“Because I want you safe.” His fingers skim down my spine, pressing me flush against his chest. “And because I’d burn, bleed, crawl through Hell itself if that’s what it takes to make sure the world knows you’re mine.”
Something in my chest cracks open. I hate him. I crave him. I hate that I crave him. Meanwhile, my arms develop a will on their own and snake back around his neck. “Prove it, then,” I whisper.
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. His lips are on me again, and this time the kiss is filthier, wetter, his tongue thrusting deep as he devours me all over again. “Tell me to stop,” he snarls against my lips.
I shake my head. “Don’t you dare.”
“Good girl.” His hand shoves my shorts aside before he drives two fingers in, thrusting once, twice, coating them in my arousal. He smears the wetness over my clit just to hear me whimper, then drags the mess over my thigh. “So fucking wet already. You like this, don’t you? Me claiming you against the wall?”
I glare at him even as my body betrays me, hips grinding down against his hand. “Shut up and fuck me.”
He chuckles darkly against my throat, biting down on my skin just enough to sting. “I love it when you’re bossy.” He tugs his zipper down in one rough motion, his cock pressing hot and heavy against my thigh. “Always ordering me around. But you always end up begging anyway, don’t you?” For a second, his eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide. “But you know what I want to hear first. I want you to tell me exactly who you belong to.”
My only answer is a hissed, “Bastard.”
“Not good enough,” he growls, and then he does the worst thing possible; he lets go.
I stumble, sinking with a frustrated sound, aroused and annoyed, because this idiot thinks he can force me into saying it. Into handing myself over just because he needs to hear those stupid words. And the infuriating truth is that he’s right. I am his. I’ve been his all along, no matter how much I’ve been fighting it.
I can’t let him walk away again. I can’t survive it a second time. If he were normal, he wouldn’t even need the verbal confirmation. Any other man would look at me and understand, because the truth is already written all over my face. But Enzo isn’t normal. He’s rigid and precise and wired wrong in a way that makes him need certainty, need permission, need to hear it said so he can lock it in place and never question it again.
And against all logic… I like that about him.
He’s already backing away, retreating to his walls and fake bravado, when I break. “Enzo,” I call.
He turns around slowly, and those dark eyes track my every movement as I walk toward him, my pulse hammering violently against my ribs. I lift my chin as I stop in front of him, forcing myself to hold his gaze.
“You’re right,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows.
“I’m yours.”
That’s all it takes. He closes the distance in one brutal step and hauls me into his arms, sliding down my shorts altogether. I think he’s going to jam his cock straight into me, but instead, he hooks his arms under my knees and yanks me up. Higher than any sane man ever would.
“Enzo—what—”
My back hits the wall, and suddenly, I’m sitting on his shoulders with my legs spread around his head and my soaked pussy just inches from his mouth. I have a full two seconds to catch my breath before his head dips between my thighs, and—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
My brain blanks out. Gone. Vanished. Obliterated.
I feel him everywhere—lips, tongue, teeth—working against me with a kind of reckless intensity that feels almost feral, as if he’s been starving for this and has finally decided to stop pretending otherwise. His stubble scrapes against my inner thigh, and my body jerks involuntarily.
“Fuck—Enzo—” I hiss, tangling my fingers in his hair.
“Louder,” he growls against me. “Let everyone in this damn house know whose pussy this is.” He bites down on me, followed by a soothing swipe of his tongue, and suddenly, I am incapable of doing anything but falling apart around him.
“Enzo—” My hips buck helplessly against his face, chasing every motion of his mouth as if I might actually die if he stops.
He shoves two fingers inside me without slowing down. “Do you still hate me, Kitten?” he murmurs against my core, sucking me like a damn animal. “Do you hate me when you’re dripping for me? When your body is mine to take apart however I want?”
I don’t respond, and he bites my clit. “Say it,” he orders. “Say you want me. Say it while you ride my face.”
“I—I want you,” I sob helplessly, and that’s it. My body goes nuclear, convulsing around him as my orgasm crashes in, violent and devastating. My thighs quiver uncontrollably around his head, my voice cracking on a sobbed scream as wave after wave rips me apart.
But he doesn’t stop. He licks me through my climax, forcing me higher, forcing me raw. Only then does he pull away, groaning savagely, smearing spit and arousal all over my thighs before he lowers me to his hips. My legs wind around his waist on instinct, arms locking around his neck, and I’m met with the most beautiful sight. His lips are glistening, almost dripping, and his eyes are so full of emotion that it nearly breaks me. He lifts his hand, still slick with me, and instead of wiping it away, he brings those fingers to my mouth.
“Open,” he orders, voice rough.
I blink at him, dazed and trembling, but my mouth opens anyway. He slides them between my lips, pressing against my tongue. “Taste yourself. Taste how sweet you get when I ruin you like the feral little thing you are.”
The filth of it burns my cheeks, but my body betrays me again. I suck on his fingers, tasting myself on his skin, moaning when he pushes them deeper down my throat until I gag. He watches with fire in his eyes, jaw tight, cock twitching against my core.
“Fuck,” he mutters, thumb smearing wetness over my lips when he pulls back. “You look so hot choking on my fingers.”
I glare, cheeks flaming. “Pompous prick,” I mutter, even when his smirk makes my stomach flutter.
When he finally lowers me to the ground, I do a hasty job of putting my shorts back on, suddenly very aware of the house we’re in. Meanwhile, he takes his sweet time watching me, clenching and unclenching his fists. That’s when my gaze drifts to his right hand. The gloved one. The one he never shows.
Before I can think better of it, I walk up to him and reach for it. I trace the seam, silk against my skin, curious. Always curious. Always wondering what it is he hides so carefully. He stiffens slightly before he pulls me against his chest.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low, not angry exactly, but sharp.
“I’m not sure.” My fingertips hook beneath the cuff, teasing the edge. “I just… want to see. I’ve always wondered what’s underneath.”
“Don’t.” The command is low, dark, but I don’t care.
His gaze pins me while I carry on, wild and searching. For a moment, I’m sure he’ll rip his hand away, maybe even storm out. But then he exhales, something like surrender flickering in his eyes.
I kiss him deeply, to distract him, when I slip my fingers under the edge of the glove, tugging it down, down, down—
“Get away from my sister!”
The voice shatters everything. The door slams open, the sound ricocheting through the room.
Marcus.
Enzo doesn’t move at first. His arm stays locked around me, chest pressing into mine, like he refuses to hear the command. Only when footsteps thunder closer does Enzo slowly and reluctantly release me. And I turn around just in time to see my brother storming toward me.
Then I’m slammed into his chest with a kind of raw desperation I’ve never seen from him. Not in years. Not ever.
“You’re awake,” he chokes, voice muffled in my hair. “Jesus, I—fuck—I missed you.”
My arms hover, useless, before they finally cling back. Because my body still remembers. Still remembers missing him too, even if the memory is tainted.
“Don’t do that again,” he breathes. “Don’t ever disappear like that again, Liv. I thought—” His voice breaks.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “It wasn’t supposed to—”
“What did that psycho do to you?” His hands come to my face, framing it. “Did he hurt you?”
“What?” I stammer. “No, he—”
But Marcus isn’t listening anymore. His eyes shift. Over my shoulder. Straight through me. “Time to go.” His hand drifts to the handle of the gun holstered at his hip. “Now!”
“Go where?” I glance back. Enzo is exactly where I left him. Standing near the wall with his lip still split, and bruising swelling along his cheekbone.
I slowly turn back to my brother. “Why do you look like you want to kill someone?”
“Because I do,” Marcus spits, eyes locked on Enzo, drawing a gun. “We made an agreement, you psycho. She’s awake. You saw her. Now I finish this.”
“No,” I say before I can think. “Wait.”
“Olivia.” His voice is darker as he lifts the gun towards Enzo’s head. “Don’t interfere.”
But I step forward anyway, planting myself between them.
Marcus turns on me like I’ve betrayed him. “You’re defending him?” he snaps. “He kidnapped you, Olivia. He took you. No one knew where you were, what he was doing to you. Do you even understand what it felt like? What I imagined? Every goddamn scenario playing in my head—and all of them ended with you dead.”
“I wasn’t dead,” I say quietly.
“No,” Marcus growls. “You were with him. While he hurt you. Took advantage of you. And now I walk in here and find you with his tongue down your throat. What’s wrong with you?”
“I never hurt her,” Enzo mutters behind me.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Marcus growls.
“Stop! Both of you!” I turn to Marcus, trembling now. “It’s true, alright? He never hurt me. He annoyed the hell out of me, sure, but I never felt unsafe.”
Marcus blinks. Once. “Oh, well, that settles it,” he snaps. “Let’s absolve him of all crimes then, shall we? Maybe nominate him for sainthood while we’re at it. Jesus. You don’t even hear how you sound, do you?”
“I’m not defending what he did—”
“Then what the hell are you doing?” His voice rises. “How can you stand here while I caught you swapping spit with this lunatic?”
“Bloody hell, you’re unbelievable.”
“I’m only trying to protect you.”
“No, you’re the one trying to control me.”
“I’m your brother—”
“Then trust me!”
“Enough.” The new voice comes from the hallway—low, smooth, exhausted.
Hugo.
He steps through the doorway, eyes sweeping over me once before he crosses the room and pulls me into a hug so firm and warm that I feel the last of my breath punch from my lungs.
“Jesus,” he mutters into my hair. “We thought we lost you. Don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But it’s automatic, empty, like I’ve said it too many times to believe it anymore.
Hugo pulls back just enough to search my face, his eyes lined with exhaustion. I feel another flicker of guilt, deep in my ribs. They were looking for me. They were suffering while I was—
My thoughts cut off when Marcus scoffs loudly behind us. “Touching reunion,” he mutters dryly, lifting the gun again toward Enzo. “Great. Can I kill the psycho now?”
Enzo finally moves, stepping past me into Marcus’s line of fire. “If you want to kill me,” he says, “do it. But don’t make her watch.”
“No.” I step in front of him again, holding my hands up. “Nobody’s killing anyone. Not today.”
Marcus glances at Hugo, but Hugo’s face is unreadable. “She’s alive,” Hugo says after a long beat. “That’s what matters. Right?”
My brother looks at me for a long time. And then, finally, he spits a curse and turns away, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Fine. You want to play this your way? Then stay here. Do not move. I have to deal with Matteo anyway.”
My head snaps up. “Matteo?” I echo. “What happened? Where is he?”
“Volkov has him.”
The floor disappears from beneath my feet, and I blink back tears as I notice Marcus’s hand properly for the first time. Or rather, what’s left of it. His pinkie finger is missing. Just… gone. Where it should be, there’s only a short, angry-looking stump of scarred skin, still reddish and tight like it hasn’t fully healed yet.
I remember seeing that finger, displayed like a trophy in Max’s palm. He waved it in front of me with that sick little smile on his face, demanding I’d cooperate before he took even more from him. I almost forgot about it, almost forgot about the suffering I put my family through.
Suddenly, the room feels very small. Very loud. Very far away. The last thing I see before everything goes dark is Marcus’s mutilated hand before everything goes back to black.
