Chapter 24

Colina Rosetti

The second he pulls away, my body collapses onto the mattress—trembling, breathless, raw.

But I don’t get a moment to breathe. Santino flips me over effortlessly, spreads me open, and his fingers dive between my thighs, stroking my clit with ruthless precision.

A harsh gasp escapes me just before he thrusts himself back inside—hard. Deep. Unapologetic.

My body arches in shock. The pain and pleasure blend in an overwhelming rush.

The room reeks of sex, sweat, and something more dangerous—power. His grunts match the rhythm of my moans, each thrust sending tremors through my body.

My legs quiver as the pressure builds, tension curling inside me like a coiled spring. He doesn’t slow down. Not when I start begging. Not even when my scream echoes off the walls.

And just when I think I can’t take another second, he spills inside me with a growl so guttural, it makes my blood freeze.

He slides out slowly, letting the mess trail down my thighs, and stands. Still watching me.

“You’re mine, Colina. And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”

There’s no warmth in his voice. Just obsession.

He walks out, leaving me naked, soaked in him—literally and emotionally.

And somehow, despite everything… some twisted part of me still wants more.

What the hell does that make me?

⸻

Santino Romano

I’m losing grip. The more I try to control Colina Rosetti, the more I feel her control slipping under my skin.

She doesn’t even realize the kind of fire she’s igniting inside me.

But I can’t afford to be weak. Not again.

This is war. And I don’t mix war with feelings.

I sit high above Bar La Lupa’s VIP balcony, sipping aged whiskey and pretending the stripper below has my attention.

She’s dancing for me—lean hips swaying in rhythm, curves on full display, teasing me with eyes that promise pleasure.

But I’m not here for pleasure. Not tonight.

I signal to Ryker, who leans close so I can speak above the thunder of bass. “The brunette. Tell her to meet me in the bathroom.”

I make my way through the neon-lit hallway, the cold tile under my boots grounding me back into focus.

But when the door creaks open behind me, it’s not the dancer walking in alone.

No.

It’s him.

“Figlio di puttana…” I whisper. My blood runs cold.

Matteo Rosetti.

I thought I ended this bastard.

He looks like hell—scruffy, leaner, haunted. But alive.

And worse… furious.

“Out,” he orders the woman. She rolls her eyes and struts away.

He lunges. I move just fast enough to dodge the first blow, landing my own into his ribs.

He growls and drives me back against the wall. My spine hits tile with a sickening crack.

He doesn’t hold back. Fists flying, landing. No hesitation.

I retaliate with a sharp knee to the groin, forcing him down. I slam him into the sink—ceramic shatters, splinters fly.

He coughs up blood.

Good.

I raise my arm for another blow, but he grabs a broken rod and smacks it across my temple. The world spins. I hit the floor.

Then he’s on top of me, punching again.

I find a shard of porcelain. I jam it into his thigh. He screams.

We break apart, bloody, panting, staggering.

“Only one of us is walking out of this alive,” Matteo growls, dragging himself upright.

“Then you’ll never see Colina again,” I hiss.

He freezes.

“You’re lying,” he spits.

I smirk. “She’s mine now. My prisoner.”

His fury explodes—he charges forward, but stops himself.

He knows I’m not bluffing.

“What do you want? Money? Power? Just don’t hurt her,” he says, breathless.

I wipe blood from my mouth and walk toward the door. “I want your entire fucking family to burn like mine did.”

“Don Antonio’s next,” I add, gripping the door handle. “And I won’t miss this time.”

I leave him there, slouched against the wall, bleeding and broken.

This time, he survived because I was distracted.

Next time, I won’t hesitate.

⸻

Colina Rosetti

The door creaks open and Santino walks in like a storm.

He’s bruised. Bleeding. Breathing like he’s carrying a mountain on his back.

I stand, heart hammering in my chest.

My wrists are cuffed again. Still a prisoner. Still at his mercy.

He takes a slow, predatory step toward me.

“Your brother’s alive.”

My breath catches. That can’t be.

He was supposed to be dead—everyone said so.

“What did you do?” I step closer, fire in my veins.

His eyes are locked on mine, fierce and unreadable.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that silence terrifies me more than anything.

His eyes flick upward, surprise flickering through his expression before it vanishes behind a smirk—a slow, wicked curve of his lips, laced with dark satisfaction. “He’s breathing… for now.”

My chest tightens as I glare at him, the tension between us crackling like static.

“Oh, I love when you get like this,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “All worked up and full of fire. Makes my cock ache.”

I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. My gaze dipped—just for a second—to the hard outline straining against his black trousers. A quiet gasp escaped my lips before I could catch it. My thoughts betrayed me, flooding with vivid, dangerous images of what that man could do to me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“I won’t waste this second chance,” he continues, voice edged with something lethal. “I’ll finish what I started… this time, properly.” His gaze cuts into me, sharp and knowing, and when he catches me glancing down again, his smirk deepens.

He steps forward. Instinctively, I retreat—step by step—until my back hits the cold wall. Trapped.

I try to shake off the heat climbing my spine. Try to focus on the danger. But my body betrays me, mind stuck on the curve of his mouth, the fire in those golden-brown eyes.

“Santino… stay the hell away from me.”

But he doesn’t listen. He never does.

He leans in, lips hovering just above the sensitive skin of my neck. His breath is warm, intoxicating. I feel every hard inch of him pressed against me, and my knees nearly buckle.

“Sant…”

His tongue grazes my skin, and a tremor races through me. I shouldn’t let him touch me. I shouldn’t let him this close. But then—

His hand snaps around my throat—not tightly, but firm enough to steal the air from my lungs. Before I can react, his other hand slides beneath my dress. I stiffen as his fingers brush against my soaked panties.

A harsh gasp leaves my mouth.

“Wet little cunt,” he growls against my ear, his voice filled with cruel delight.

I can’t think anymore. My thoughts dissolve into static as he strokes me through the fabric. My breath shortens, a soft moan slipping past my lips.

His grip tightens just enough to remind me who’s in control, while his fingers slide inside my panties, seeking the heat of my core. A single stroke. Another. My hips jerk against his hand.

“That’s right,” he snarls. “This pussy’s mine. It always has been.”

He works me with slow, devastating precision, dragging sounds from my mouth I can’t stop. I nod, lost to sensation, unable to form words.

“No one else can touch you like this,” he breathes. “No one else makes you fall apart. Isn’t that right?”

Then he adds another finger, and I cry out, clinging to his arms as my legs tremble.

He wants an answer. He wants control.

“N-no,” I gasp out, barely recognizing my own voice. My body is close—so close.

And then… he stops.

Without warning, he pulls his fingers away, the high he built inside me crashing into frustration.

“Bastard,” I hiss, shoving off the wall.

He just grins, slow and arrogant, and brings his fingers to his lips. He licks them slowly, deliberately. “You’ll be begging me for my cock before long. Again.”

Then, like it was nothing, he turns and walks out.

“Damn you, Santino Romano,” I mutter, dragging my hands through my hair. The plan was to seduce him, manipulate him—not fall under his spell again.

I collapse on the bed, teeth clenched, trying to ignore the ache between my thighs and the cruel edge of denial he’s left me with.

He’s a bastard. A beautiful, infuriating bastard.

I force my mind toward something that matters—someone. Sophie. My daughter. My blood.

As long as I’m under Santino’s thumb, I have to keep her a secret. He can never know she exists. I won’t let him take that part of me too.

Moments later, the door creaks open again.

He’s back.

I stay still, sprawled across the sheets, eyes on the ceiling. I don’t move—not even when I sense him stepping closer.

His hair is wet, droplets sliding down his chest. His bruises are dark, but they do nothing to dull how damn perfect he looks. Half-naked. Fresh from a shower. Still dangerous as hell.

And I hate the part of me that still wants him.