Chapter 113 Property Laws
Valentina
I heard the door click before I saw it.
Matteo was already out—black jacket, no tie, posture cold enough to bite. Rosco followed a few seconds behind, adjusting his sleeves like he hadn’t just witnessed the implosion of my world.
“Where are you going?” I asked, stepping into the hall.
Matteo didn’t even glance back.
That alone made my stomach twist.
He’d always told me where he was going. Even when I was just a prisoner. Even when he hated me. And now? Silence?
Rosco hesitated mid-stride. “The club,” he said, too casually.
But his eyes gave him away.
There was guilt in them. Regret.
And apology.
This wasn’t a business run. Matteo wasn’t heading out to manage logistics or have some stiff meeting in the VIP. This was about me. Us. The storm we hadn’t named but were both drowning in.
And he was going to punish me for it.
I paced in my room. My stomach turning in knots at the thought of Matteo with someone else. I tried to tell myself I needed to let him do this. That he will come back to me.
It had been about fourty-five minutes since they left and the longer I paced the more my emotions changed.
From sad and heartbroken that Matteo would do this, to slow rising anger.
I clenched my fists, heat rising in my throat.
Oh, no the fuck he wasn’t about to punish me in this way. Punish me any other way, but not this.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in heels, a black fitted dress, hair wild and lips blood red. I looked like vengeance. Like temptation. Like the devil’s favorite sin walking through velvet ropes.
The bouncer didn’t stop me. He knew who I was.
Everyone here did.
And if they didn’t?
They were about to.
I looked around. Didn’t see him anywhere. I spot Rosco between two women and stride over to him.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t have a clue.” He says as he made the slightest gesture of his head toward the VIP room behind him.
The VIP room pulsed like a heartbeat—low lights, deep bass, bodies pressed too close. But I saw him instantly. My storm. My bastard. My husband.
Matteo was sitting like a fucking king. Legs spread, one arm draped over the back of the leather couch, the other holding a whiskey glass he hadn’t touched.
And a girl was on him. Blonde. Thin. Practically climbing into his lap while she whispered against his neck.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink when I marched across the room and ripped her off him by the wrist.
“Who the hell are you?” she spat, stumbling back.
“I’m his wife,” I snapped. “And he’s coming home.”
She looked to him, waiting for denial.
He took a slow sip, then waved her off like she was nothing more than smoke in his eyes. “You heard her. Fuck off.”
She stormed out, heels clacking.
Matteo didn’t move. Just lit a cigarette, exhaled slow.
“Now you want to act like my wife?” he said, voice smooth and cold. “What about my property?”
I stiffened. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m not drunk,” he cut in, reading the protest in my face before I could speak it. “And yes—here.”
“Matteo,” I warned.
He leaned forward, eyes like razors. “You want me to believe you still belong to me? That you’re not playing me like your father played everyone else? Then show me.”
I swallowed. “I will. At home.”
“No.” He stood, towering over me. “Now. Right here.”
He motioned to the pole in the corner, curtained off just enough for the illusion of privacy. My throat tightened. A few heads turned, but no one said a word. They knew better.
This wasn’t a man you interrupted.
And I wasn’t a woman who backed down.
I walked to the pole. One slow step at a time. My hands didn’t shake. My eyes never left his. If he wanted proof—I’d give it. Not because I owed him. But because I chose him.
I was done running.
The dress hit the floor. The music throbbed. And I moved for him like the only body I was meant to dance for was his.
His gaze devoured me—dark and furious and starved.
By the time I reached him again, his breathing had shifted. Heavy. Controlled. Dangerous.
“You want your wife?” I whispered, straddling him.
He didn’t answer with words.
He kissed me like punishment and salvation.
And then he fucked me like both.
In that booth with the curtains barely drawn. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, then pulled his rock hard cock free.
Before I could decide what to do, he leaned forward, grabbed my hip and pulled me on top of him.
He slid his finger down the front of my thong before pulling it to the side.
I raised up enough to line myself up with his dick and started to ease down slowly when Matteo gripped both my hips and pulled me down hard as he thrusted up.
“You better fuck me like you mean it,” he growled.
I know he wanted to fuck hard and rough but he made a mistake putting me on top rather than bending me over. So I rode his cock. Grinding and rolling my hips. Making love to him right there where we were only partially hidden from the others in the room.
He thrust from under me. Hard. Deep. His hands in my hair. Mine clutching his shirt. His breath ragged against my throat, growling mine mine mine.
When it was over—when the world narrowed to the slick heat between us and the broken rhythm of our hearts—I slid off his lap, trembling.
He lit another cigarette.
Didn’t look at me.
“I still don’t trust you,” he said calmly. “It’s going to take time to get that back.”
I opened my mouth.
He cut me off.
“But rest assured—my dick won’t be in any other pussy. Or mouth. Because you’ve ruined it.” He finally turned to me, voice low and lethal. “It only wants you.”
And just like that—
He owned me all over again.