Chapter 130 130

Chapter 130 130
Mia
The moment stretches, suspended in the golden haze of the yacht’s salon, the scent of the pink cake still sweet in the air alongside the darker, richer notes of his cologne cedar and something metallic, like gunpowder and rain. His gray eyes bore into mine, a stormy sea of possessiveness that I no longer fear. Instead, it anchors me. But the setting shifts in my mind, the gentle rock of the yacht dissolving into the memory of the day that led here, a day painted in the blinding whites and azure blues of our private island villa.
The sun had been relentless that morning, a golden tyrant demanding we worship it with our skin. We started the day in the pool, the water cool and shocking against the heat of my body. I floated on my back, the water buoying me, my hands resting on the slight swell of my belly. Ten weeks. A secret just beginning to take shape, a curve so subtle only I knew the geography of it. Alessandro had watched me from the edge, his black swim trunks low on his hips, his body a landscape of muscle and ink. He brought me breakfast in the water fresh fruit, croissants, and espresso balanced on a floating tray.
"Eat, dolce mia," he had commanded, though his voice was soft, lacking the jagged edges it used to have. He fed me a strawberry, his fingers brushing my lips, staining them red. "You need your strength."
The day bled into lunch, a feast of my favorite seafood pasta served on the terrace overlooking the endless expanse of the Mediterranean. The scent of garlic, basil, and clam sauce hung heavy in the salty air. I ate with a hunger I hadn’t felt in months, the flavors exploding on my tongue. Alessandro barely touched his food, preferring to watch me, his gray eyes tracking every movement of my fork, every swallow I took. He poured me a glass of sparkling water, forbidding wine, his protective instincts flaring at the thought of the baby. I didn't argue. The fizz of the water cleansed my palate, and the look in his eyes fiercely devoted, almost frightened by how much he cared—made me feel safer than I had ever felt in my father’s house.
Now, the sun has set, and the villa is bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of moonlight. We are on the beach, just steps away from the rolling surf. The sound of the waves is a rhythmic thrumming, a heartbeat against the shore. A table is set up in the sand, draped in white linen, illuminated by a candelabra that flickers in the evening breeze. Dinner was steak, cooked rare, just the way he likes it, and medium-well for me. He cut the meat for me, placing each piece gently on my tongue, feeding me as if I were a delicate bird that couldn’t fend for itself.
The wine is gone, replaced by the silence of the night and the proximity of his body. He reaches across the small table, taking my hand. His palm is rough, calloused from violence and weaponry, but his touch on my skin is reverent.
"Mia," he says, my name a prayer on his lips.
He stands, pulling me up from my chair, and leads me to a lounge cushioned with velvet pillows, set closer to the water’s edge. He sits, then pulls me down to straddle his lap. The heat of his thighs seeps through the silk of my golden dress. His hands grip my waist, possessive but not bruising. He looks up at me, and for the first time, the mafia boss, the Don, the monster of my nightmares, looks completely undone.
"I need to tell you something," he murmurs, his voice rough, vibrating against my chest. "I haven’t been the man you deserve. I forced you. I took you from your life, from your father, and I made you a prisoner in my world."
I stiffen slightly, the old memories threatening to surface—the coldness of the wedding chapel, the fear in my throat, the feeling of being owned. But his grip tightens, grounding me.
"I hurt you," he continues, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "I made you suffer. And every day since you’ve been mine, I’ve hated myself a little more for it. But these last few weeks... seeing you carry my child, watching you smile..." He trails off, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "I swear to you, Mia. From this moment on, I will spend every breath making you happy. I will be the husband you need. Not the jailer. The partner."
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and fast. He catches it with his thumb, bringing it to his lips to taste it. The gesture is so raw, so intimate, that my heart clenches in my chest. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling his scent, letting the truth of his words wash over me. I feel the hard lines of his body, the tension in his muscles, and beneath it all, a terrified, desperate love.
Before I can speak, a noise interrupts us the crunch of footsteps on the sand.
"Signor Vercelli," a voice calls out.
Alessandro tenses, his hand instinctively moving to the small of my back, protective. A man approaches, carrying a heavy black case. He is covered in ink himself, his arms a tapestry of color and design. A tattoo artist.
"I wasn’t expecting you yet," Alessandro says, his voice shifting back to its commanding baritone.
"I came as soon as you called, Signore," the artist replies, setting up his equipment by a reclining chair near the water’s edge. "Where do you want it?"
Alessandro stands, setting me gently on my feet. He looks at me, a mischievous glint returning to his stormy eyes.
"Watch me, Mia," he says.
He strips off his black Armani jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the sand. Then, he unbuttons his dress shirt, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest. The lion tattoo on his pec seems to roar in the moonlight. He shrugs off the shirt, standing bare-chested in the cool night air. He sits in the chair the artist has prepared, extending his left arm. The muscles in his forearm ripple as he flexes his hand, the veins prominent beneath his light skin.
"What are you doing?" I ask, stepping closer, curiosity warring with the lingering emotion from his confession.
"I have lots of tattoos, Mia," he says, watching the artist prepare the needles and ink. "Scars, maps of my sins, symbols of my power. But I want to ink the most precious tattoo that I’ll ever have."
I move to his side, sinking onto the sand beside the chair. The ocean breeze is cold, but Alessandro’s body radiates heat. I take his free hand in mine, interlacing our fingers. He squeezes tight, anchoring himself to me.
"Just look at me, little kitten," he whispers as the needle begins to buzz.
For hours, the only sounds are the buzzing of the gun, the crashing of the waves, and Alessandro’s steady, controlled breathing. I watch his face, watching the beads of sweat gather on his forehead, watching the way his jaw clenches with every pass of the needle. He doesn’t make a sound. He just stares at me, his gray eyes boring into my soul, as if the pain of the ink is a penance he gladly pays. I stroke his hair, slicking it back when the dampness makes it stray, tracing the line of his beard.
I try to peek at the artist’s work, but Alessandro stops me with a gentle tug on my hand.
"No, little kitten," he says, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "Not yet. Let it be a surprise."