Chapter 69 Ice Cream and Incineration
Valentina
I didn’t wake up today expecting to crush a woman in a junkyard compactor, but here we are.
When I asked Matteo to take me to lunch, I imagined overpriced pasta and a lingering kiss in the parking lot, not Maria screaming from the driver’s seat of a rusted-out sedan as we watched it get folded into a metal taco.
And the worst part? I kind of loved it.
The van hummed beneath us as we drove back toward the mall, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Matteo handled everything. Calm. Calculated. Not a trace of panic. Just quiet, vicious control that felt like watching a master sculptor at work—if the clay screamed and begged and accused you of loose pussy energy on its way to the kiln.
God, it was hot.
And the way he looked at me when I started helping Rosco tie her up—like he was seeing me in a new light. Like he was impressed. Proud. Maybe even turned on.
He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me since we left the yard. One rested on my thigh, fingers slowly stroking circles just above my knee. His other arm reached behind my seat at one point, draped across my shoulders like he owned every inch of me—and maybe he did.
If I had to guess, I’d say the entire murder-turned-smelting operation worked him up more than he’d admit.
It definitely worked me up.
Even though I didn’t grow up under my parents roof, I was still Stefano Maranzano’s daughter. I was taught about things like this. Scenario drills, hypothetical essays, cleanup protocols. Simulated kidnappings, mock escape rooms, fake encrypted burner phones. I could write you a ten-page thesis on the ethics of disposing a body without triggering RICO.
But I’d never done it.
I’d never smelled the rusted iron or felt duct tape stick to my fingers or heard the moment the screaming stopped.
This was real.
It was exhilarating.
I was born into this world, but today? Today I earned it.
Rosco turned onto the mall road and eased toward the underground garage. We parked in the same corner as before, out of the cameras’ line of sight. The beat-up van was long gone—already bubbling in a furnace somewhere with no DNA left to argue with. And in its place we leave another beat up van for the next time a mission needs to take place.
That’s how it works, if you stay with pieces strategically placed, you can move with ease at any given moment. No need to wait on others to set things up and possibly lose a fragile timeline.
We slipped through the service corridor again. The bags we stashed earlier were right where we left them, tucked neatly behind a recycling bin. Rosco grabbed his first and slung it over one shoulder like a kid leaving day camp.
“Can we get another ice cream before we go?” he asked hopefully, already licking his lips like some sugar-starved six-year-old.
Mateo didn’t even roll his eyes this time. He just muttered, “You’re a walking cavity,” and started walking toward the food court.
I followed, shopping bag in one hand, stolen kiss still tingling on my lips, and the weight of Maria’s death settling on my shoulders like a second skin.
We left through the front entrance fifteen minutes later.
Clean. Composed.
Smiling for the cameras.
The mansion came into view like nothing had happened—no junkyard, no screaming, no metal folding under a crusher.
But the second we stepped inside my suite, everything in Matteo’s posture changed.
The door clicked shut behind us.
He didn’t even wait for the sound to finish echoing.
He grabbed me by the waist, spun me, and pressed me back against the wall with a strangled groan that sounded like he’d been holding it in for hours.
“I’ve been dying to do this,” he murmured against my neck, voice low and rough, “since the moment you tied Maria up.”
Heat shot through me, sharp and bright.
He tugged my sweater up and over my head in one smooth, impatient motion, tossing it somewhere behind us without looking. His hands were already at the button of my jeans, knuckles brushing my hips, breath hitting my collarbone.
“Matteo—”
“Turn around.”
I barely had time to inhale before he spun me, hands guiding me forward until my palms landed flat on the dining table. The wood was cool beneath my skin; he was molten behind me.
He dragged my jeans down my legs—fast, demanding—letting them hit the floor in a soft heap. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs brushing the tender strip of skin at my lower back.
Then he froze.
For half a heartbeat.
As if something he felt short‑circuited him.
“Fuck…” His voice broke low, half‑growl, half‑confession. “You’re already shaking.”
My breath stumbled. “Matteo—”
He leaned over me, chest against my back, lips at my ear.
“Did it turn you on too, baby?”
God help me. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
One of his hands slid lower, between my legs—and the sound he made when he realized exactly how right he was nearly took me out at the knees.
“Christ,” he exhaled. “I knew it, your pussy is so fucking wet.”
His grip tightened. His breath grew uneven. I felt the tremor of restraint in the way he held my hips—as if he was fighting the urge to just take, claim, ruin.
Then his voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
“Hold on to the table.”
My fingers dug into the wood.
The air between us snapped tight as a live wire—
—and the world narrowed to heat, breath, and the way he pressed against me from behind then slammed into me in one fluid motion.
I gasped but held myself steady. The feeling of his cock stretching me was becoming familiar, easier to take.
“Tell me baby,” he said between thrusts, “which part did it for you the most?”
Another thrust, “the rope?” Another thrust, “the duct tape?”
And then he held himself deep in me and leaned in over my back to whisper in my ear, “or was it pressing the fucking button?”
My pussy clenched tight around his cock. “Oh fuck, that was it wasn’t it? I can feel your little cunt straggling my cock at the thought of that button.”
Another squeeze. And then he grabs my hand and slides it to my clit.
“Tease that clit baby, show me what you felt when you pushed that button.” He said, then added, “did you cream your panties?”
Between his dirty talk, the thought of pressing that button, and rubbing my clit, I couldn’t take it anymore. I came so hard.
“Yes that’s it, come for me,” he said talking me through my orgasm. Then, “I didn’t know I had such a dirty girl…creaming your panties over murder, and in front of Rosco no less.”
He began thrusting harder and faster again and came with a violent shudder.
He pulled out and slapped my ass and said come on let’s get cleaned up and see what’s for dinner, I’ve worked up an appetite after everything today.