I step inside my new penthouse, a gift from Ettore. He promised no Bianchi would ever find us here. As usual, the house is empty. Chiara doesn’t like all this change and prefers to spend her time in her old hideouts, no matter how many times I beg her to be home.
My feet ache from hours in heels, and my mind is still reeling from the bombshell I dropped in Marco’s lap.
The darkness of the entryway welcomes me, but something feels off. I walk in and smell it—cedarwood.
The cologne I used to breathe in from the hollow of his throat.
My body stiffens just as my heart begins to race. How could it be? I’m not alone.
I reach for the light switch. The soft glow floods the open living area, and then I see him sitting in the leather armchair by the window.
His bow tie hangs undone around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt open to reveal the tanned skin beneath. He holds a glass of scotch, and when our eyes meet, he raises it to his lips.
“Welcome home,” Marco whispers into the night, like this is our house. Like he’s been expecting me.
I stand frozen at the threshold, my hand still on the switch, pulse thudding erratically against my wrist. “How the fuck did you find me here?”
His lips curl into that infuriating half-smile that once made my stomach flutter. Now it just makes me want to throw something at his perfect face.
“You underestimate me, Aria.” He sets down the glass and rises to approach. “I have just as many eyes and ears in this city as you do. More, actually. Did you really think Ettore Greco could hide you from me?”
I drop my clutch on the side table, fighting the urge to retreat as he advances. I will not show weakness. Not again. Not after what happened at the gala.
“Get out,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos inside me. “Or I’ll call security.”
He laughs. “The security that’s currently enjoying an unexpected night off? I wouldn’t bother.”
Of course. Marco never leaves anything to chance. He’s planned this confrontation down to the last detail, just like he plans everything else in his meticulously controlled life.
“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
His green eyes harden, all traces of amusement vanishing. “You can’t possibly be foolish enough to think you can keep my child from me.”
The words land like physical blows. There it is—the reason for this midnight intrusion. Not me. Not us. The baby.
“Watch me,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “I meant what I said, Marco. I won’t raise our child in the shadow of your father’s crimes.”
He takes another step closer, and I find myself backing up until I hit the wall.
“Our child,” he says, emphasizing the word with quiet intensity. “It’s mine and yours. Bianchi and DeLuca blood. You can hate me all you want, you can wage whatever war you think you’re fighting, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have a right to my own child.”
“Right?” I scorn. “What right did your father think my parents had when he ordered their execution? What right did I have to know the truth about my own family while you kept me in the dark?”
A vein flickers on his forehead. “I’ve told you a thousand times—I didn’t know who you were when I proposed the marriage. And when I found out, I was trying to protect you. Both of you.” He gestures around like Chiara might be somewhere. “My father would kill you without hesitation if he knew who you really were. Is that what you want for our child? To be caught in the crossfire of your vendetta?”
“Don’t you dare turn this around on me,” I spit, my fists clenching at my sides. “You lied to me, Marco.”
“And you’ve been planning to destroy me for weeks,” he counters, closing the final distance between us. His hands plant on the wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his body. “Tell me, Aria. Did you know about the baby when you ordered the attack on my warehouse? When you stole my weapons? When you declared war? If I’d been there, were you willing to leave your child fatherless? If I died?”
I swallow hard, refusing to look away from his burning gaze. “No. I only found out three days ago.”
Something shifts in his expression—relief, perhaps, or vindication. “Would it have stopped you if you had known?”
The question lingers between us, unanswered because I honestly don’t know. Would knowing I carried his child have stayed my hand? Would maternal instinct have outweighed my thirst for justice?
“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally. “What’s done is done. You can’t erase what your family did to mine.”
“And you can’t erase this,” he says, one hand moving from the wall to hover over my abdomen, not quite touching. “You can’t erase me from our child’s life, Aria. I won’t let you.”
He stands too close, and suddenly my thoughts scatter like ash on the wind. The air shifts with the weight of him—warm, charged, saturated with a scent I’ve tried to forget but never could.
That dangerous heat between us flares to life, reckless and immediate, drawing me in before I can resist.
My body reacts first, always. It remembers him without permission—the way he touched, the way he took, the way he made surrender feel like power.
I despise how easy it is for him to undo me.
“You don’t get to dictate terms to me,” I say, but the words lack the venom I intended.
“Don’t I?” His voice drops lower, eyes darkening as they flick to my lips. “Your body responds to me even when your mind rebels. I felt it at the gala. I feel it now. You still want me, Aria. You may hate me,” he murmurs, “but I know you want me.”
The words land with a heat that crawls up my spine.
But I don’t melt.
I burn.
My palm connects with his face before I even realize I’ve moved. His head jerks to the side.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, chest heaving. “Yes, I wanted you once. I wanted your voice in my ear, your hands on my skin, your fucking lies to be true.”
His breath shallows as he meets my gaze.
“You betrayed me!” I shriek with rage, swallowing the tremor in my voice.
His hand shoots up, catching my wrist midair as I rear back again. This time, he’s faster.
I gasp, but I don’t retreat.
His fingers tighten around mine, making it clear I’ve crossed a line. I know it, too, but my pride won’t let me apologize quite yet.
“Careful,” he growls. His grip slides down from my wrist to thread our fingers together. “You’re not the only one who bleeds.”
His body presses against mine. His breath is hot on my cheek. The coil of want winds between us, taut and undeniable.
I rip my hand from his—not to escape.
To grab the collar of his shirt.
To drag him to me and kiss him like I mean to wound him with it.
My lips brush his, soft at first, then I pull back, searching his eyes, those eyes that call to me like a siren.
I should push him away.
I should remember why I ran.
I should hold onto my rage, my vengeance—my identity as a DeLuca.
Instead, I melt into him, my resistance crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide of want.
“You destroyed everything,” I breathe. The words tremble, but my grip on him only tightens.
“And I’d do it again,” he says, low and certain—then his mouth crashes into mine, and this time, I let it.
There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling tight. Mine shove beneath his shirt, nails scraping into his skin. He bites my bottom lip—hard. I gasp and kiss him harder.
His lips move against mine with desperate hunger, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue slides against mine, and I wither against his. One hand tangles in my hair, and the other presses against my lower back, pulling me closer to him.
My arms wind around his neck, fingers clutching at his short hair, pulling him like I could absorb him through my skin. A whimper escapes me as his teeth catch my bottom lip again, tugging gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.
He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest as he pushes me back against the wall again, devouring me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can save him.
But no.
Not this time.
This time, I take control.
I spin us around mid-kiss, the momentum catching him off guard, and walk him backward across the room. My hands are fists in his shirt, dragging him with me, step by step. His legs bump into the edge of the leather armchair by the window—the one where he waited for me like a predator in the dark.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I press a finger to his lips and with my free hand, push him down against the chest. He falls back, his breath catching, and looks at me like he’s truly seeing me for the first time.
I swing one leg over his thighs and lower myself into his lap, straddling him.
His hands move instinctively to my hips, but I grab his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair.
“Not yet,” I whisper against his mouth. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with heat, but he doesn’t fight me. His restraint is a challenge, a dare to see how far I’ll take this.
I roll my hips against him, slow and deliberate, and feel him harden beneath me. The friction sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
“You said I want you,” I whisper, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “But maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away. Maybe you’re the one whose body gives away everything you try to hide.”
His breath catches.
Good.
I kiss him again, slower this time. Deep, consuming. I nip at his lip, slide my tongue against his, claiming, not surrendering.
He groans into my mouth, wrists flexing under my grip.
“Aria,” he rasps.
I lean back just far enough to meet his eyes, hips still rolling. “Say please.”
His jaw clenches. His pride wars with his desire, with his throbbing hardness pressing between my thighs.
But I wait.
And finally—finally—he mutters it.
“Please.”
My smile is razor-sharp.
“Good.”
I kiss him again, grabbing the collar of his shirt, yanking with all my strength until the buttons tear free. I run my hands down his chest, the muscles rippling, reminding me of all the times I had been pinned beneath him.
God, I want to see it all. My fingers drag the shirt down his arms while he grips my waist.
The rage has melted into raw, carnal need, and I want to consume him.
He grips my hips as I move against him, the hard line of his cock straining against his pants. I lean forward, my mouth at his ear. “I should make you beg,” I whisper, biting his lobe, “for lying to me.”
“Make me,” he dares, voice like gravel.
So I do.
I lean back just enough to grab the zipper of my dress and yank it down in one motion, baring the flushed swell of my breasts. I shrug the fabric off my shoulders until it pools at my waist, and then his hands are on me, rough and starved.
His mouth crashes down on my breast, tongue swirling over my nipple until it stiffens under his teeth. He bites—not gently. I moan, sharp and helpless, as he sucks hard, leaving a dark bloom in his wake. The pain twists into pleasure, and I arch my spine, offering more.
I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, but he beats me to it—fingers hooking beneath the lace, and with one savage rip, he tears it off me. The sound alone makes my pussy clench.
“You always were better ruined,” he mutters against my skin, and then he’s back on me—biting, licking, devouring. One hand cups my breast while his mouth works the other, tugging and sucking like he means to leave me trembling.
I’m already wet. Dripping. My thighs are slick where they press against his pants, and when I roll my hips again, he groans into my skin.
I lift slightly and shove my dress up over my hips, exposing the thin black lace of my panties. His eyes go molten at the sight.
“Take them off,” he rasps.
I do it slow, dragging the wet fabric down my thighs while his hands roam my ass. I’m bare now, dress bunched at my waist, my slick heat inches from his cock, and I don’t wait. I reach between us and start unbuckling his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency.
He lifts his hips just enough for me to yank down his pants and boxers in one go. His length springs free—thick, flushed, heavy—and my mouth waters at the sight.
I wrap one hand around him, stroking from base to tip, watching his jaw clench as I do. My thumb swirls over the bead of pre-come. His grip tightens on my hips like he’s trying to keep control.
Good.
Let him lose it.
I shift my weight, hover just over him. His length nudges against my entrance, slick with anticipation. I lower myself an inch, let the head slide in, and then stop—teasing.
His eyes blaze. “Aria—”
“I said,” I whisper darkly, “you don’t get to dictate terms to me.”
Then I slam down onto him in one savage stroke. We both gasp, the sound punched from our lungs as he fills me, stretches me, splits me open in the most perfect way.
“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping back. “You feel—Jesus—so goddamn tight.”
I ride him slowly at first, grinding my hips in circles, feeling every vein, every inch of him rub against my walls. His hands grip my ass, guiding my pace, but I don’t let him lead. This is mine.
I start to move faster, hips snapping, the wet slap of our bodies obscene and delicious. My breasts bounce with every thrust and his mouth finds them again—biting, sucking, claiming.
The chair rocks with our rhythm, leather creaking. I dig my nails into his shoulders, hips rotating for pleasure.
My thighs burn from the pace I’m setting, but I don’t slow. I don’t want soft. I want to wreck him the way he wrecked me—make him remember this every time he closes his eyes.
His head tips forward, breath hot against my collarbone. “You’re torturing me.”
I rotate my hips, let my pussy slide all around his cock. His hips buck to drive into me, but I push him down, my nails raking down his shoulders. He drives his hips up to meet mine again, and god, the pleasure seeps through deeper, rougher. I can’t fight myself any longer.
I need more.
His hands grip my ass so tight I’ll bruise, but I don’t care. I want the ache. I want the mark.
I feel him everywhere—filling me so deep. Every nerve is lit. Every inch of me feels his.
“Harder,” he grits, voice hoarse in my ear. “I need to be deeper—need to fuck you properly.”
But even as my body begs for more, my mind stumbles.
What the hell are we doing?
I swore I’d never let him have this again—this power, this access to my soul.
And yet, here I am: open, aching, desperate for him to split me in half.
This isn’t surrender.
This is exposure.
And I don’t know which scares me more.
Before I can answer, he grabs my hips and stands.
With me still on him.
A startled gasp rips from my throat as his hands lock under my thighs, my back arching as he lifts me off the chair, still buried deep inside me. The sudden shift only makes me clench around him, and he groans like he’s dying.
“Fuck—Aria—”
For a moment, we just breathe.
His forehead presses to mine, slick with sweat and heat and something harder to name.
“I should let you go,” he whispers. “But I don’t know how.”
I don’t answer. I just hold tighter.
He staggers to the bedroom, carrying me. I wrap my arms around his neck, legs around his waist, dizzy from the sheer filth of how good this feels—how completely he owns my body in this moment with his face nestled between my breasts, my head thrown into his neck. I bite. He growls.
We crash onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, but he’s already moving, already pressing me into the mattress with his weight. His hips pound upward, each one rougher than the last. I cry out as he pounds into me, raw and brutal, his breath ragged against my cheek.
“Jesus, you feel like you were made to fit me,” he groans, each thrust harder than the last, like he’s chasing something just out of reach.
My nails rake down his back, catching on the ridges of muscle as we move together in a rhythm that’s frantic and wet and raw.
“You feel this?” he growls, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. “Feel what you do to me?”
“That doesn’t change what you did. You still don’t get to keep me,” I pant, but my legs lock tighter around him, dragging him deeper.
“You love this,” he says through gritted teeth, and he’s not wrong. Not with the way my body arches to take more, not with the way I’m trembling under him, already close again.
He pins my wrists above my head and drives into me so deep, I see stars.
“Is this what you needed?” he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “To be fucked like this? To be reminded who you belong to?”
I whimper.
“Say it,” he growls again, each drive of his hips hitting deep, brutal, and perfect.
“You,” I gasp, writhing beneath him. “You’re making me come—fuck—Marco, I—”
He angles his hardness higher, hits me right where the coil sits waiting to spring free. I scream out in pleasure, throw my head back.
“Yes,” I cry, the word ripped from my throat as he drives me closer to the edge. “Yes, God, yes.”
“You’re mine,” he growls, the possessive claim sending a thrill through me despite everything. “Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to love.”
The word “love” slips out, hanging in the air between us, but before I can process it, he pounds into that perfect spot inside me that makes coherent thought impossible.
My body arches off the bed, his name torn from my throat in a half-sob, half-snarl. I clamp down around him, shuddering, “I’m close,” I warn, feeling the tension building to an unbearable peak. “Marco, I’m going to—”
“Come for me.” He licks my neck. “Let me feel you come around me.”
“I should hate you,” I gasp, clinging to his back, lost in the rhythm.
“Then do it,” he growls, “but know this—if hating me means keeping you close, I’ll take it. Every time.”
He thrusts deeper, punishing, reverent.
“Because you were always the only thing that mattered.”
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, starting at my core and radiating outward until even my fingertips tingle with pleasure. My legs tremble against his hips as waves of pleasure tear through me, fast and wild and all-consuming. My inner walls clamp down around him, waves of ecstasy washing through me. I cry out his name, the sound raw and broken, as my body convulses beneath his.
He follows me over the edge moments later, his rhythm faltering as he drives into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he empties himself inside me. His groan is animalistic, primal, a sound of complete surrender that matches my own.
We collapse together onto the mattress, his weight pressing me into the sheets for a moment before he rolls to the side, keeping one arm draped possessively across my waist. My body feels boneless, sated in a way I haven’t experienced since I left him.
His fingers trace idle patterns on my skin, skimming over my hip, my waist, my stomach—where our child grows. The tenderness of it pulls something tight in my chest, a lump rising in my throat before I can stop it.
“You don’t hate me, Aria. You’re just afraid you still love me. Whatever happens next… I’ll never stop protecting you.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The ache in his voice blends with the warmth of his touch, softening something inside me I thought was locked shut.
Sleep takes me between one breath and the next, my body too exhausted to fight it. The last thing I feel is Marco’s lips at my temple, a flurry of kisses like a promise I’m too tired to believe—but too desperate to push away.
When I wake, sunlight streams through the partially opened curtains. I reach across the bed before my mind fully registers what I’m doing, searching for his warmth, his solidity.
My hand meets cold sheets. He’s gone, leaving only the scent of his cologne and the ache between my thighs.
No note. No explanation. Just the silence of my beautiful, empty penthouse.
I curl into myself, one hand resting protectively over my stomach, and try to ignore the hollow feeling expanding in my chest.
This changes nothing, I tell myself fiercely. This was just sex. Just a moment of weakness. And yet I feel like I’ve handed him a piece of my soul.
