chapter 39 Sensation

chapter 39 Sensation
Alessandro's POV

I watched from the penthouse windows as Marco's black sedan pulled away from the curb, carrying Carla back to the hospital. She hadn't refused my demand to accompany me to Sicily, but her reluctance had been written across every line of her face. The way she'd pleaded for time with Ricardo, the obvious distress at the thought of leaving him for a week.

It shouldn't have bothered me. She'd agreed to the contract terms, accepted the obligations that came with our arrangement. Her compliance was all that mattered from a business perspective.

So why did I feel this cold knot of anger in my chest?

I turned away from the window and poured myself three fingers of aged whiskey, though it wasn't yet noon. The amber liquid burned as it went down, but it did nothing to ease the unfamiliar tension coiled in my shoulders.

This was Ricardo's wife. My younger brother, the gentle artist who'd never shown anything but loyalty and affection toward me despite our vastly different upbringings. I'd always protected Ricardo from the family's darker realities, ensuring he could pursue his passion for art while I handled the blood and violence that kept our empire intact.

I respected Ricardo. I even loved him, in my own way.

So why couldn't I extend that same respect to his wife?

Manipulating other men's wives had never held any appeal for me. The game was too easy, the victory too hollow. Married women often came with emotional baggage and unrealistic expectations about romance. If not for Carla's desperate plea for help, I never would have considered such a distasteful arrangement.

But something had shifted during our interactions. I found myself paying attention to details I should have ignored: the elegant curve of her neck when she bent over the stove this morning, the way her dark eyes had widened when I'd bandaged her injured finger, the soft catch in her breathing when she was trying not to cry.

She was beautiful, certainly. But I'd never been particularly drawn to her type. I preferred women like the blonde I'd just finished with upstairs. Those with silicone asses and breasts pumped full of saline, hyaluronic acid lips, and desires simple enough to satisfy with money and violence. Women who understood exactly what they were offering and expected nothing beyond the agreed-upon transaction.

Carla was too emotionally complex. The kind of woman who would expect conversation and consideration, who would read meaning into gestures that were purely practical.

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, already reaching for my phone to call housekeeping. The aftermath of my session with the blonde needed to be cleaned away before it began to smell.

But as I entered the bedroom, I stopped short. There, at the foot of the bed, was a small pool of fluid that the woman had left behind during her performance. The sight should have satisfied me.

Instead, I felt nothing but mild disgust.

I dialed Marco's number. "Send the cleaning service up immediately. The bedroom needs attention."

"Right away, sir."

I walked out onto the bedroom's private balcony and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs. The Manhattan skyline stretched out before me, a testament to the power and influence I'd built over the past decade.

So why did it all feel hollow this morning?

The two hours I'd spent with the blonde replayed in my mind. Her surgically enhanced body with its exaggerated curves and artificial perfection was exactly the type that usually stirred some response in me, even if I couldn't achieve full arousal. The ritual of control, of watching her submit to increasingly intense sensations, typically provided a certain dark satisfaction.

But today, my mind had kept wandering to the woman sitting in my living room below. I'd found myself wondering what Carla was thinking, whether she was judging me for what she surely must have guessed was happening upstairs.

By the end of the session, I'd felt nothing but impatience for it to be over so I could return to the more complex challenge of managing Carla's expectations and emotions.

This was dangerous territory. Emotional entanglements were luxury I couldn't afford, especially not with my brother's wife. The Sicily trip was supposed to be business. Negotiations with old family allies who still respected the traditional ways. Bringing Carla was meant to demonstrate the stability of our bloodline, the continuation of Bonano power through the next generation.

But now I was questioning the wisdom of taking her so far from familiar surroundings. A week alone with her in my father's ancestral home, away from the distractions and obligations that kept our interactions safely transactional.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marco: "Mrs. Bonano confirms she has current passport. I've briefed her on appropriate attire for Sicily meetings. She'll be ready for 8 AM departure."

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over Marco's contact number. One phone call would cancel the entire arrangement.

It would be the sensible choice.

But I didn't make the call.

Instead, I finished my cigarette and watched the smoke dissipate into the crisp morning air. Whatever was happening between Carla and me, whatever dangerous feelings were beginning to surface, I would control them.

The Sicily trip would proceed as planned. I would use the time to remind myself exactly what our arrangement was—a business transaction, nothing more.