Chapter 0003

LUCIANO

“Why aren’t you telling me your name?” I asked, looking at the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

She looked at me, a sheepish grin stuck to her lips. From the little light we had, I could not make her features correct, but she was beautiful. I would be damned if I did not know her better. Her fingers toyed with the bracelet around her wrist, her brows pressed closely.

In a deeper voice, she said, “You’ll know who I am, that’s why.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything,” she muttered. “I don’t have the best reputation and that extends beyond Cosa Nostra… I think. Even though what people think of me doesn’t matter and what they know of me is nothing but rumours, most people believe them.”

“Why would you let anyone else judge you?” I cocked a brow at her. “But who am I to say? I sure as hell don’t have a sterling reputation, either.”

“But you’re a man and a Capo. No one would dare speak about you the way they do about me.” She huffed. “This is why I hate this world… my life.”

“So do I.” The words leapt out of my lips without a second thought. As the supreme of ‘Ndrangheta, the most powerful gang in existence, I should not be saying this out loud. She twisted her head to meet my gaze. “Everyone thinks I’m cruel and cold and whatnot, but it’s just a part of what I do, not who I am. I’m possessive and domineering, of course, but there are things to life even I enjoy. However, I rarely get to do that now.”

“I know. Maintaining the falsity of your being so your men fear and obey you.”

“Hm. And it works.”

Her eyes were still on mine. This was the longest she had held my gaze. My presence bothered her, irked every inch of her, given her restrained breaths. I could not say I was not enjoying it.

I wondered if she was married. She did not look less than twenty, probably twenty-five or something, and it was highly unlikely for the women in our world to be single at that age. Being chased off by an angry husband at my ex’s wedding would have been a show to watch. Or maybe she was widowed. Perhaps she was not of our world, to begin with. Whatever it was, I was desperate to know her.

“Your name?”

She groaned. “And we’re back to that again?”

“Why are you trying to change the topic? It’s just a bloody name.”

“You know me... kind of.”

She turned her head to me and put on a grin. Pulling my phone out, I turned the flashlight to her face. She squinted her eyes but then looked straight at me. I was right. She was beautiful. Her features were striking—a perfectly oval face, plump lips, and a button nose. I leaned closer to see the colour of her doe eyes, vibrant amber. Her makeup was light, if she had done any at all, and her skin looked marvellously soft.

“You’ve seen me before,” she whispered and I realised how close my face was to hers.

“Have I, though?” I mumbled back, making sure my voice hit every deep nerve in her body.

“Maybe you were too busy noticing Bella.” Shame, I thought. She added, “We haven’t officially met, if that’s what you’re wondering, but we’ve crossed paths over the years.”

The soft wind made the loose strands of her hair land on her face, and she let out a low groan. Before she could push them back, I reached out and swept the locks, my fingers oh so softly brushing her forehead and tucking them behind her ear. Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t pull back or push my hand away, only stared at me.

Drawing back, I exhaled a deep sigh. Taking a long gulp of the whiskey, I kept the bottle aside. I wanted to remain sober, just to get to know this woman better, but I also wanted to drown myself because of the situation I was in.

“Tell me, woman, are you widowed?” She chuckled, the sound so melodious, and shook her head. “Married then?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re a part of the Cosa Nostra?” She nodded sincerely. There was a hint of loyalty sparkling in her eyes at the mention of Cosa Nostra, so she had to be a part of it. It was still strange that she was unmarried. “Who are you running from?”

“Would you stop asking if I tell you?”

“Your name or the person you’re running from?”

She chuckled and said, “The latter.” I crossed my hands over my chest. “I’m running from the man who might be my husband.”

“So, it’s not confirmed yet?”

“I’m low on options here, so whether or not I want to, I would have to marry him. I don’t have a choice.”

“Is he not a... good man?” Strange how I uttered the word ‘good’. For starters, no man in our world was good. She seemed to say the same thing with her eyes that scanned me with a hint of sarcasm. “Wrong question. Why are you afraid of him?”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she claimed. “I’m just afraid of marrying him. Though not him in general. Just of marriage. Love is what I want, not the fairy-tale kind, but the one that makes my heart swell and fill with desire and passion. I’ve never felt that with anyone.”

Her honesty threw me off guard. Often, our women did not utter words like desire and passion, because they knew they were tied to certain rules and would have to abide by them. Love was never an option; unless the person they were feeling it for was their husband or the one they were promised to. Seeing her brave enough to want them was refreshing.

Belle was not like her and neither was Fabiola Rossi. They were both forced to feel for me, though I doubt the younger one, my current fiancée, felt anything other than aversion toward me.

“Have you ever felt that way?” she questioned, and I turned back to her again. “The passion? The desire?”

“I have. Every time I kill someone, I’m driven by those emotions. The desire and passion for blood.”

She knitted her brows together. “It’s very concerning how your face lit up while saying that. I meant romantically. Have you ever felt such?”

“Romantically, no. Maybe. But physically, yes.”

“I don’t believe one can truly understand the drive of physical intimacy unless they’re romantically involved in it. Many people have sex, but... with someone you love, everything just heightens.”

“You seem pretty sure about that.” She shrugged. “Maybe because you’ve never had sex,” I mocked.

Her cheeks turned to a darker colour in the shallow light. She was blushing. Was I right? I had a hard time believing that a girl as beautiful as her had never been touched.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” she questioned in a shaky voice.

“Because you’re naïve about the whole physical intimacy thing.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

I smirked. “There’s only one way to find out.”

I would have loved to touch her, make her scream my name while I tasted her, fingered her, fucked her. I wanted to show her what it felt like to be desired and how even a small touch could ignite passion and fire, even without the love factor affecting it. In my opinion, the whole satisfaction thing depends of how well the people are at sex.

She leaned in to take the bottle of whiskey from my side. But I had other plans. Perhaps it was the whiskey or the tension in the air. I grabbed the bottle and straightened my arm, taking it farther away from her reach. Her shoulder blade pressed to my chest as she tried to pull my hand back. Her laughter filled the gaps of tension.

“What are you doing, De Luca? You—”

Her voice choked the moment I wrapped my free hand around her waist, and her laughter hitched. My grip was firm, keeping her against my chest. Her face was inches away from mine. Her breathing picked up when I looked down to meet her eyes and leaned in, so close our noses brushed.

“Even the slightest touch can sear passion.” My voice sounded guttural, much deeper than my regular voice, than my commanding tone. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Her mouth opened, but she did not protest. She could have pulled back but she did not. Seeing it as a sign, I captured her lips with mine. A different current coursed through my body. I wanted to devour this woman. She smelt like roses and her lips had the mixed taste of the whiskey we had drowned together and vanilla.

God, I did not like vanilla or roses, but right about this moment, I did.

Her body was rigid with hesitation. I pulled back and stared at her, uncertainty and vehemence floating in her eyes. I bent down again and planted a small peck on her lips. It could not be that she had not kissed before. Maybe she had. Maybe she was afraid to act because of who I was.

I withdrew again, only to return to her lips, determined to make her give up control this time. And she did. Her lips slightly parted and I slid my tongue in. Resting the bottle back on the ground, I gripped the back of her neck to keep her from pulling back, even though I was certain she would not. One could never be too sure.

She tried to match the movements of my tongue with hers and massaged it with the same intensity as mine. While one of her hands held my arm, the other rested on my outer thigh, too close to the growing bulge in my pants.

She should have stopped me, given who I was, but she did not, and I was too far out of control to pull back. She moaned against my lips, and every bit of sensibility I had left shattered into tiny pieces.

I pushed her to lie on her back on the ground with her head resting on my lower arm while I mounted her. Her legs straddled my hips. Even though we were hidden from prying eyes, this was still a public place, the thought of which was a bigger turn-on.

With our lips still intact, I trailed my hand down her jaw to her neck. Lingering on her pulse point for a while, I moved further down. Her breathing was ragged, matching the pace of my own.

She wrapped her hands around my shoulder to pull me closer to her body while I kneaded her firm breast. My cock strained against the fabric of my briefs and those tight slacks.

Her scent, her taste and the indistinct sounds at the edge of her throat pushed me to the brink of my willpower. She had admitted she was to be married, and I would be married, though it was the thought of the prior that bothered me more.

“Tell me to stop,” I groaned against her lips, almost desperately, but she did not utter a single word.

Her hold on me tightened. I shoved a hand between our bodies and pulled her gown up to brush my fingers on her inner thighs. Her skin was velvety. The moment I touched her lace panties, my insides swelled with need. The fabric was wet from her juices and sticking to her folds. She enjoyed this.

Unable to control the sudden outburst of carnal emotions inside me, I rubbed her over the fabric and ground my hips against her inner thighs. She gasped, clutching the back of my hair. I pulled back from the kiss, just to steal a look at her.

“Look at me,” I said, and she obeyed, shooting her eyes open to meet my gaze.

She wanted passion, and I was certain she was getting that. Her desire for more was clear in her eyes. She bit her lips to contain her moans.

She shook from the pressure of my finger against her pussy, the lace only heightening her sensations. Her eyes snapped shut and her head rolled back as her orgasm tore through her, making her shudder at the intensity. I stroked her through the vibrations of her body a few more times before pulling my hand away.

“I think I’ll call you Rose,” I mumbled while she stared at me blankly, “because you smell like rosewater.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “And incredibly delicious.”