Chapter 23
Vito's POV
She is truly beautiful.
The thought struck me with unwelcome clarity as I watched her kneeling beside my wheelchair, her naked form trembling with the aftershocks of what had just transpired. Everyone believes I am diminished, broken by my accident—blind and helpless, a shadow of the man I once was. But my vision is crystal clear, sharp enough to catalog every detail of her humiliation, every flush of shame that painted her skin.
This was exactly what I had intended. Not the sexual display itself—that had been an improvisation, a cruel test designed to break her spirit completely. What I had wanted was submission. Complete, unquestioning surrender to my will. I wanted Isabella Cohen to understand that in the Romano family, she had no voice, no power, no choice but absolute obedience.
Even in matters of intimacy, especially in matters of intimacy, she would learn to serve.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here she was, believing she was degrading herself for a man who couldn't even see her sacrifice, when in reality I had witnessed every moment of her reluctant arousal, every tremor that had coursed through her body as she'd followed my commands.
She thought she was performing for a blind man's imagination. I knew she was performing for my very real, very hungry gaze.
How dare she try to reject me.
The memory of her words at the café still burned in my chest like acid. The casual way she'd dismissed me, begged me to release her from our engagement, pleaded for the freedom to be with another man. As if Vito Romano was some inconvenience to be negotiated away, some obstacle between her and her precious Dr. Rosenberg.
No one rejected me. No one.
I had built an empire on the principle that what I wanted, I took. What I claimed, I kept. The idea that this trembling creature kneeling at my feet thought she could dictate terms to me was both insulting and laughable.
So I had given her a lesson. A demonstration of exactly how powerless she truly was.
The tears streaming down her face as she'd touched herself, the way her body had betrayed her with its response. Not arousal, not pleasure, but the complete destruction of her illusion that she had any control in this relationship.
She needed to understand that when I spoke, she obeyed. When I commanded, she complied. Whether that command was to spread her legs for my amusement or to say her wedding vows, the principle remained the same.
Absolute submission.
But something had gone wrong with my carefully calculated demonstration.
I had expected her to break completely, to dissolve into sobbing compliance after realizing how thoroughly I could humiliate her. I had expected disgust, horror, perhaps even hatred—all emotions I could use to maintain the proper distance between us.
What I hadn't expected was my own body's reaction to her performance.
The sound of her breathing as it became ragged and desperate, each exhale a soft whimper that she tried unsuccessfully to suppress. The sight of her back arching off the desk as sensation overwhelmed her, her spine forming a perfect curve as her head fell back in abandoned pleasure. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, muscles quivering with the effort of holding herself open as I commanded.
Her nipples had hardened to tight peaks in the cool air, and I could see how her touch affected every part of her—the flush that spread from her chest to her throat, the way her lips parted as she struggled to breathe through the intensity building inside her.
And Christ, the way she'd come apart completely, her release so powerful it had reached across the space between us to mark my clothing.
My cock had hardened despite every intention to remain detached.
The thought was unwelcome, dangerous. I couldn't afford to see Isabella Cohen as anything more than a political necessity, a breeding vessel to carry on the Romano bloodline. Attraction would complicate things, would make me vulnerable in ways I couldn't afford.
But watching her discover her own capacity for pleasure, seeing her face as she realized what her body could do—it had been the most erotic thing I'd witnessed in years.
Now she knelt beside my chair, using her ruined blouse to clean the evidence of her arousal from my suit, and I could feel the careful control I prided myself on beginning to slip.
When her hand steadied itself against my thigh to maintain balance, when her fingers encountered the proof of my response through the expensive fabric of my pants, everything changed.
The shock on her face was immediate and complete. Her hand froze against me, her eyes widening as she processed what she was feeling.
She knows.
I spun my wheelchair around, presenting my back to her before she could voice whatever questions were forming.
"Good. Now, put on your clothes," I commanded, my voice carrying none of the satisfaction I'd felt moments before.
The silence behind me stretched for several heartbeats. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, uncertain, but with an undertone of something that might have been hope.
"Sir. You had a reaction, didn't you?"