“Harder,” she said, then bit her lip, eyes fierce and hungry.
“Whatever you want,” I said, and started fucking her for real. “Unless you want like, pickled chocolate or something. I can’t provide that.”
She snorted so hard she lost the rhythm, then braced both hands on my chest and ground down, her forehead pressed to mine. “You’re a freak,” she whispered, and I could feel her clench around me, the shiver that told me she was already right at the edge.
“Yes, but you love me,” I replied.
“I do love you,” she said.
I wrapped one arm around her waist, held her close, and just fucked her slow, the way I’d promised. There was no rush. The world could burn outside, and I’d keep her here, as long as she’d let me.
“Good,” I said. “I love you too.”
She came first—always did, when I tried—and the way she said my name, soft and desperate, almost undid me then and there. I held out, because I wanted her to have every second. When she went limp, head on my shoulder, I flipped us gentle as I could, and finished slow, the way she liked, until I emptied myself inside her.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, our bodies humming with the aftershock, her breath ghosting over my chest. I knew I should sleep, or at least plan, but her heat was an anchor I couldn’t give up yet. She traced shapes over my heartbeat with a lazy finger, like she was trying to draw the blueprints of our future into my skin.
She drifted first. I knew because her hand stilled, her face going soft at the edges, the line between jaw and pillow erasing. I watched her sleep; watched the minute twitches of her eyes under their lids, the way she’d occasionally frown, fighting something in her dreams. The moon threw her shadow across the wall, and for a second it looked like she was reaching for me again, even in sleep.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. I lay there with her, counting the seconds, every muscle tuned to the possibility of violence. When the phone buzzed—3:17 a.m.—I was awake to catch it before it could wake her, thumb already wetting the screen.
Marco.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m glad you picked up. So, uh, don’t freak out. But, um, Dad is here.”
Chapter 20: Dante
Marco wasn’t the kind of guy to sound nervous on the phone. Tired, sure. Snarky, always. But not nervous. So when he said don’t freak out and Dad is here in the same breath, I moved fast.
Jade didn’t stir as I slipped out of bed, careful not to pull the sheet off her completely. Her body curled instinctively toward the warmth I left behind. I paused—just for a second—to memorize it. Then I was out the door.
Marco was still next door to us.
Enzo was sitting on the office chair, which was by the bed.
“Nice of you to show up, boy,” he said, looking into my eyes.
He looked the same as ever—hair silvered at the temples, jacket draped like a king’s robe over a sweater that cost more than Marco’s last car. Eyes flat as quarry ice, skin smoother than itought to be at his age. He filled the room just by sitting, the way a lion fills a cage even when it’s asleep.
Marco was perched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, wearing the same shirt he’d bled into two nights ago. He gave me a look: part apology, part warning. I saw the old fear in it, the one he learned in our kitchen back in Brooklyn, the one I thought I’d finally taught out of him.
Enzo let the silence stretch. He knew how to win before he even opened his mouth.
“Two sons,” he said, finally, and gave a little shake of his head. “And not one of you can find a decent cup of coffee in this city. You’ve been surviving on this hotel shit? Really?”
I said nothing. I wanted him to talk first—to reveal how much he knew, how deep the hook was set. Instead, I watched the lines around his mouth, the tick of his right hand over the armrest, the slow, deliberate way he crossed his legs. He’d come here for control, not for love.
He turned to Marco. “How are you feeling?”
Marco swallowed, tried for a smile. “Like shit.”
Enzo gave a little nod, as if that was the correct answer. “Good. It means your body still wants to live.” He turned his gaze on me. “And you, Dante?”
“What do you want?” I said.
“Did you really think you could just leave NYC behind?” he asked. “Did you think you could leave the Morettis, your entire legacy, behind?”
I didn’t answer. Not out loud. But I felt the old circuitry kick in—the way my shoulders squared, the way my tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth. The part of me that was always his, even when I tried so hard to torch the bridge.
