Chapter 11: 11

Aurora

The sound of the front door slamming makes me jump.

It’s late. The sky outside is black and heavy with clouds, and I’d almost dozed off on the couch, curled up in one of Damiano’s oversized sweaters. The movie I was half-watching drones on quietly in the background, but all my attention snaps to the hallway.

Heavy footsteps.

Then I see him.

Damiano.

He walks into the living room like a storm, his black coat clinging to him, his hands soaked in red. Blood stains his collar, speckled on his shirt, and something inside me breaks.

“Damiano,” I whisper, rushing to him.

His eyes are wild. Tired. Guarded. There’s a violent tension in the air around him like he’s barely keeping himself from shattering. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely, holding a hand up. “Don’t come close.”

But I ignore him. I reach for his face, cradling his jaw. He’s cold. His skin is pale, the blood on his hands still fresh.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice cracks. He’s not.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask, checking his sides, his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he says. “None of it is mine.”

I exhale, a mix of relief and ache, and slowly wrap my arms around him. He stands still for a moment, stiff, like no one has touched him in years. After my mother’s death I feel like I have become more weak and emotional. The way I respond to some situation really leaves me stunned.

Then something gives way.

His arms slide around me, holding me tightly, almost desperately. His face drops into the crook of my neck, and I feel the weight of everything he’s carrying fall into me.

“You shouldn’t see me like this,” he murmurs against my skin.

“I want to,” I whisper. “I need to. You don’t have to carry everything alone, Damiano.”

He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he leans in and kisses me hard, as if it’s the only thing grounding him to this world. And when he pulls back, his eyes are no longer the eyes of a cold mafia boss, they’re just... Damiano. Raw. Human. Broken in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

“All I need right now is you, I had an extremely rough day,” he says quietly and make me kneel in front of him and I do as he says. Taking my small palms he places it on his erection. “Remove it.” He orders and I unzip his pants and take it out. He brushes his finger on my lips. “Open your soft lips.” He inserts his dick inside my mouth. “Good girl.” He murmurs. I suck him and he takes control of my head and makes me move faster. I pushed it deeper to my throat and I moan through it. He removes it. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft. I nod my head and he puts it back. I continue to suck him until he cums. He lets out a groan. He cums down my throat. My eyes are teary, he offers me his hand to stand up. He zips his pants and kisses me.

“I don’t want to have sex with you before the wedding that’s not how the tradition goes like. I want to do everything as per the tradition.” He is breathless. Closing his eyes he kisses my forehead then head toward his bedroom.

I slip into my room, the silence pressing on my chest. The air feels heavier now, filled with the scent of his cologne lingering from when he passed by me, a mix of spice and leather and something dangerously male.

I sit on the edge of my bed, wrapping my arms around my knees.

He wants me, I know he does. I see it in the way his eyes roam my body, the way his fingers twitch when he’s close to me, like he’s fighting against his own instincts. But then he pulls away. Every time.

He’s complicated, like a storm trying to convince itself it can become calm. I don’t know what he’s protecting: me, himself, or the illusion of control he clings to so tightly.

Maybe he’s scared. Or maybe this is his way of punishing me for running.

Either way, I can’t keep up with the way he keeps pushing and pulling at my heart.

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

I thought coming to New York would be the hard part. But it turns out... falling for a man I’m supposed to hate is the real war.