"Use your words." His hand grips my jaw again, tilting my head back just enough that his lips brush my ear. "Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you."
"Marco," I plead, shameless, shaking.
He grins.
"That’s what I thought."
Then he thrusts into me, hard and deep, filling me in one brutal stroke.
I cry out, my back arching, my nails scraping against the stone wall as he buries himself inside me.
"Fuck, you’re tight," he grits out, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place as he pulls out—only to slam back in.
We’re out in the open, people nearby, but I don’t care.
I’m too busy being wrecked.
He fucks me deep, hard, relentless, every stroke pushing me closer to the edge.
"You feel that?" His breath is ragged against my skin. "That’s me owning you."
I moan, too lost in pleasure to argue.
His grip tightens, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate.
"Come for me, Sofia," he commands, his hand sliding down to rub my clit, pushing me over the edge.
I shatter, my body convulsing as he groans, his hips snapping forward one last time as he spills inside me, his grip just shy of bruising.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks, our breaths still uneven in the charged silence. I smooth my dress with deliberate precision, willing my pulse to settle, then lift my gaze to scowl at him. Marco, infuriating as ever, meets it with a slow, satisfied smirk.
"Always a pleasure," he murmurs, his voice dripping with wicked amusement.
Before I can summon a sharp retort, a sudden rustle in the bushes beyond the alcove shatters the moment. Instinct kicks in—I take two quick steps back, putting as much space between us as possible, as if distance alone can erase what just happened.
The rustling grows louder, and then Antonio Mancini steps into view.
I know that name. Everyone in Nuova Speranza does.
Mancini isn’t just one of Luca’s top men—he’s the Salvatore family’s silent architect of ruin, the man who reshapes the world with pressure, persuasion, and when necessary, a perfectly timed disappearance. If a problem lingers too long, if a deal refuses to close, Mancini doesn’t make it vanish—he makes it inevitable.
I’ve written about him before—never by name, because even the boldest reporters know better. But his handiwork lingers in the spaces between the headlines.
Political opponents who abandon their campaigns without explanation.
Business owners who hold out until, inexplicably, they don’t. Deals sealed with a handshake one day and regret the next.
He doesn’t need a gun to end a war—just time, patience, and the right pressure applied in all the wrong places.
Seeing him up close is unsettling.
He’s younger than I expected, barely into his thirties, with the kind of sharp, wolfish features that belong to someone who enjoys his job a little too much. His dark suit is pressed to perfection, but there’s a casual arrogance in the way he wears it, his tie slightly loosened, his stance just shy of disrespectful.
His eyes, sharp and knowing, flick from Marco to me, and the slow, satisfied smirk that stretches across his face makes my stomach turn.
"Well, well," Mancini drawls, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "If it isn’t Sofia De Luca."
I school my expression into something impassive, but my fingers twitch at my sides. The way he says my name makes it clear—he knows exactly who I am.
