Page 71 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I bite my lip as my pussy goes rogue again. “Oh fuck.” And then I can’t help lifting my hips in a plea for more. “Dante, please.”

“Fine.” He heaves an exaggerated, put-upon sigh and stretches my arms high over my head, holding both my wrists in his big hand. I grow tense with anticipation as he drags his callused palm down the side of my face, neck, and lower still, until he cups a full breast. His fingers close around my nipple, and he starts to pinch again, hard. His mouth covers mine, swallowing my cries as he begins slamming his hips into me, deep, fast, and punishing.

Pain and pleasure merge, and another orgasm suddenly crashes over me, so powerful it steals my breath. Dante fucks me through it, hard and relentless.

“Fuck!” he swears, when I start to shudder beneath him again. He bends to trail kisses down my jaw to my earlobe, sucking and biting. When his cock gets even harder and his thrusts are almost violent in their intensity, I know he’s about to come too.

He rears up then, his hair falling in subtle waves around his face as he stares at me. His gaze rakes over me from where his glistening cock sinks in and out of me, to the curve of my belly, to my bouncing breasts and reddened nipples, and finally, his eyes lock with mine, moments before he emits a tortured growl and starts to come.

I gasp at the force of Dante’s release. The pleasure on his gorgeous face is so intense, so overwhelming, it triggers a response deep inside me. I can’t believe how sensitive I am, how easily he’s setting me off again, and I find myself rolling my eyes at my own body’s responsiveness even as another small wave of ecstasy hits me.

“Christ, Addy,” Dante groans through gritted teeth, his voice rough and raw. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth sinking into my skin again and his breath coming in harsh pants as he rides out his climax.

“Tesoro,” he whispers in my ear, his voice still ragged from his release. “You take me so fucking well.”

Sated and exhausted, I bask in the warmth of his praise. But as I lay there, Dante’s substantial weight on me, his words come back. I belong to Dante, and I own him in return.

What the hell does that mean besides the fact that he won’t let me run away from my feelings? Are we back to where we left off two years ago when he was trying to bring me to his world? And if we are, how on earth do I exist in Dante Vitelli’s world without losing my own identity?

As I drift off to a dreamless sleep, a mocking voice asks me what exactly that identity is.

I wake up to the sensation of heat, an insistent itch, then pins and needles rippling out from my right hip as callused fingers trail over my scar. Then the aroma of sex and Dante’s unique scent and the warmth of his skin envelop me.

My lids slowly flutter open to meet his flinty gray irises. He’s leaning on his elbow, watching me sleep. His eyes are glassy with tears, red-rimmed, and there are dark circles under them. Something tightens in my chest at the sight of his grief, stark and unhidden.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” I whisper miserably, the guilt starting to creep back. “About Pietro.”

He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he starts to trace the thin red scar between my breasts, raising goosebumps on my skin. “I’m not sorry.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I have to shut my eyes against the surge of emotion in my chest.

How is it that this man knows me so well? Well enough to utter the words I didn’t realize I needed to hear. Three words that right everything in my world.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I know you two were close.”

He smiles sadly. “I think you would have been good friends, too, if he’d stuck around.”

“Somehow, I doubt that our paths would have crossed again after last night.”

“I was coming to take you away from Boston last night.”

“No way!”

“True. You surprised me by showing up. Although looks like someone wasn’t surprised you were at Resin. They knew which car was yours and rigged it with a bomb.”

Hearing Dante say those words out loud brings a chilling reality to it. I can’t imagine who’d want me dead.

“Your father must have some enemies,” Dante states.

“You mean someone he ripped off?”

Dante’s eyes harden, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. I get the feeling he wants to tell me something, then thinks better of it. An inexplicable urge to snatch the words out of his mouth hits me, and I’m about to demand he tells me what he’s thinking when he flops back onto the pillow and stares intently at the intricately carved murals on the ceiling. “It’s entirely possible.”

“Dante, I don’t think it’s someone from Boston, though.”

He tenses. “Why do you say that?”

“My dad. You know he’s always been paranoid about me leaving Boston. But earlier this week, he specifically told me someone was out to get me. Someone in Chicago.”

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