“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,” Giovanni mused.
“I’ve got it handled,” Alessandro replied with a satisfied smirk. “Worry about Morales. And keep me updated.”
Finally, he hung up, tossing the phone aside. His focus returned to me, his expression hardening. “Can you not do asingle fucking thing I tell you?” he bit out before shoving me back down. His gaze dragged over my body—lingering on my thigh, on the carved R. He stilled.
I wrenched free, slapping his hand away. “Are you out of your mind?” I hissed. “You don’t get to just—brand me like a goddamn piece of meat!”
“You are meat.” The corner of his mouth curled into a filthy, self-satisfied smirk. “Mine.”
Fury burned hot in my veins. “You don’t have that right!”
“Don’t I?” His eyes glinted coldly. Slowly, he lifted his shirt, letting the fabric slide over his muscled torso—until the scar at his side came into view. The fresh wound I’d given him at Delaney’s party. The thin, reddened line stood stark against his tanned skin.
“Remember this?” His voice was rough. “You cut me, Fiona. I remember the look in your eyes when the blood spilled.” He let the shirt fall. “So don’t bitch when I return the favor.”
I folded my arms and scoffed softly. Of course I remembered. And as much as I wanted to rage—an amused twitch tugged at my lips. If I was honest, I’d provoked him from the start. Again and again. I’d struck him, bitten him, needled him until he snapped. And I’d loved it.
Before I could even draw breath, he seized my chin and dragged my mouth to his. He kissed me like he could claim me with it, like he could brand the truth of my belonging into my skin. I tasted his anger, his hunger, and met them with my own. I opened for him, kissed him back with the same fire, nipped playfully at his sinfully soft lip.
He froze, licked the sting away, then snapped his teeth near my face. “I’ll muzzle you if you bite me again.” Then he shoved off me abruptly.
“Where are you going?” I asked, still breathless.
“Shower.” He stood, raking a hand through his disheveledhair. “A drink would be good.” He was already halfway to the bathroom when I sat up and teased, “What’s the gentleman drinking?”
He paused, half-turning back, eyes glinting with faint amusement. “Scotch,” he said, calm, with that effortless certainty that was so uniquely his.
I shook my head, unable to suppress a smirk. “Of course. Nothing less. Should I light you a cigar, too?”
“If you’d like,” he countered with a slow, arrogant grin before disappearing into the bathroom without another word.
I retrieved a heavy crystal glass from the cabinet—the kind reserved for moments exactly like this. Ice clinked softly as I dropped cubes into the glass, then poured the Scotch over them, watching the amber liquid swirl with the melt. As I set the glass on the counter, footsteps sounded behind me. I turned—and there he stood.
Barefoot, a towel slung low on his hips, water still glistening on his skin. His hair was damp, tousled, droplets trailing down his shoulders.
The bandage over his gunshot wound stood out like a silent warning—a reminder of what I was dealing with.
“I’m staying tonight,” he said suddenly, no warning, no hesitation—just that absolute certainty with which Alessandro said things that would’ve been overbearing from anyone else.
“What?” I blinked. “No.”
“Yes.” He stepped closer, casually reaching for the glass on the counter. His fingers curled around it with the same ease with which he upended my life.
I stared at him in disbelief. Laughter twitched in my gut, but I didn’t know if it was relief or madness.
"So it’s that simple? You announce it—and I just nod obediently?"
He merely shrugged. "Why not?" A crooked smile flickeredacross his lips as he swirled the glass in his hand. "We both know you want it. You’re just looking for a good excuse to outmaneuver your pride." His tone was neutral, but his eyes glinted—that sharp, dangerously ironic spark that flared whenever he knew exactly how much power he held—and reveled in wielding it. "Scotch, by the way, is served at room temperature," he remarked coolly, tilting the glass as his gaze skimmed the melting ice cubes with a mix of disdain and regret. "Now it’s ruined."
I stared at him, then the glass, then back at him. "Ruined?" I repeated skeptically. "You’re drinking Scotch, not liquid gold."
He arched a brow, effortlessly, almost amused. "Good Scotch is liquid gold."
"Oh, please."
I leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, my gaze scrutinizing his face. "Are you always this decadent, or is this your way of showing off?"
"Who would I be trying to impress?" He relaxed against the countertop, glass in hand, flashing a small, superior smile. "It’s a matter of taste."
