I look over my shoulder as he falls silent, and shame heats my cheeks—the mess I’ve made of Olivia’s belongings stands out in stark contrast to the overall barren room.
I race to grab the clothing I’d left in piles on the floor, returning them as neatly as I can.
Fabio enters the room after me. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he croaks. The pain in his voice shouldn’t catch me so off guard, but I fumble with the silver box of letters, dropping it. He knew Olivia, from what I remember. She was his sister.
Of course, seeing her things would affect him.
“I… They shouldn’t have brought you all this—” he clears his throat, gesturing helplessly. Then he reaches for the nearest articles of clothing, shoving them into the box. When he sees the silver container, he pales. “Why the hell would he—”
He snatches it, and I can tell from his horrified expression that he knows exactly what it contains. For the longest time, he eyes the silver lid, his hand shaking. Then he starts to tuck it into the pocket of his suit.
I don’t know what comes over me. I grab for it.
Those letters are all I have of the past. Of Donatello.
“I think I should take care of these,” Fabio says softly. “It’s just an old trinket—”
“Fabio?” Donatello calls from what sounds like the base of the stairs. “What the hell is taking so long?”
“N-Nothing!” Fabio starts toward the door, trying to shove the box into his pocket. He winds up dropping it instead, though I don’t think he notices, already lurching into the hall.
Before leaving the room entirely, he hesitates, his gaze flitting in my direction. “He shouldn’t use her… He has no right to torture you like that. No right.”
Torture me. The remnants of Olivia take on a newer significance—until I remember that Donatello wasn’t the one to bring me these items. Fabio himself saw me wear one of her dresses—the same one I’m still wearing now—but for whatever reason, this strikes him differently. He’s angry, his cheeks scarlet, his hazel eyes ablaze as he inspects me one final time. With a sigh, he retreats, his voice reaching back to me, “When you’re ready, we can set out.”
I stare after him, more unnerved than I think I should be. I know he disagrees with Donatello’s insistence we stay here, but the thought of his sister’s memory being used as a cudgel enrages him more. It makes sense. No one would stand for that.
But it was the way he looked at her belongings, the letters in particular. Like whatever memories they conjured weren’t merely painful…
They scared him.
The reason why might lurk in the very paper still clutched in my grasp, but I release it as if burned. Maybe it’s far better to avoid learning the secrets that lurk within Donatello Vanici.
Whatever happened last night was merely another round in this twisted game. A test. A new attempt for him to manipulate me and reinforce whatever hold he thinks he has.
Dwelling on it is precisely what he wants me to do.
So instead, I turn my attention to the one topic he doesn’t want me to focus on—my family. Hope flutters in my chest at the thought of seeing Ellen and Eli again. Then I remember the circumstances I’ve brought upon them, and the excitement turns to dread.
Everything has been ruined because of me.
Because of Donatello Vanici.
3
Don
Her smell lingers in my nose hours later, potent enough to taste. Roses—though I know for a fact she hasn’t come near the damn flower. She smelled like sweat, too, and sweet… A scent my brain avoids identifying though the pulse shooting through my cock has no trouble—arousal.
Irrefutable evidence that last night wasn’t a dream.
As if I could ever imagine a scene so twisted. So fucking wrong. So goddamn intoxicating I can’t get it out of my head. Remnants of her heat sear my skin even now. I’ve never felt a body like hers. Soft enough to crush in places. Firm enough to grip in others…
She’s a walking contradiction, playing the role of a stoic mafiya princess one minute. Transforming into a writhing little hellcat the next. Even inside my own skull, it sounds insane to spell out exactly what she did.
The little minx climbed into my bed and slid those delicate fingers of hers into a place no heiress should want to be defiled by a monster.
I grit my teeth at the mental image, catching my bottom lip between them. The harder I bite, the sharper those images become. I taste copper by the time I finally relent to the mental assault. Fabio be damned, I should have dragged her here by her hair and demanded an explanation.
Waking up to find her gone was a godsend, prolonging the moment I have to face the aftermath. Hell, I wish she had escaped—it would be easier to write off last night as nothing more than a nightmare.
Some sick part of my soul craves to rewrite the narrative, anyway. I’m the aggressor in this new version. I pinned her down and forced her to perform for me. I held all the cards.
Not her.
I might have believed that until she crept from the shadows this morning—still wearing that blue fucking dress—playing the innocent victim at my expense once again. I could almost hear her laughing; she won that round.
She got my attention. What was her aim? To taunt me? Toy with my head? Test how much I really meant my vow to never fuck her?
Stubborn as always, she showed me what I’d be missing in excruciating detail.
If only she resembled Gino—may the bastard rot in hell, right alongside Antonio Salvatore. It would be easier to hate her, then. As pathetic as it is to admit, if she had his eyes,
