Page 34 of Hers to Command

Because I always react to what others do, never take the initiative before I’m forced to.

The realization stings.

Riccardo stays calm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he listens to me rage. “You think I don’t respect you enough to include you? Is that what you think?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t have a response to that. Why should he trust me? Why should he respect me? He has no good reason to. Besides the fact that he can get me off like no one else, we barely really know each other.

All I know is that I’m furious with him, with myself, with everyone. It feels like the ground is shifting beneath me, like I’m losing control, and all I want to do is lash out. At Riccardo, at Mikhail, at Dmitri, at my dead father.

“This is my family, Riccardo. My brother. My business.” I point to my chest, as if reminding him. “I should have been there.”

It’s easier to focus on the one thing he fucked up, then to address the shit-storm of thoughts attacking me.

Riccardo’s expression darkens as I stand there, chest heaving, waiting for him to snap back. I don’t even know when I pushed my chair back and stood. Part of me expects him to yell, to remind me exactly who he is—Riccardo Angelo, boss of the Angelo syndicate, the man who could command a room full of killers with nothing but a look. Probably has done so a number of times. He’s not used to being questioned. His reputation precedes him. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience from anyone. But instead of shouting, instead of trying to overpower me, he just stares, his lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, I think I’ve pushed him too far. Maybe I’ve gone too far and this whole thing is going to blow up in my face.

But then, something shifts in his gaze, something darker, hotter. He gets up and steps forward, slow and deliberate, the intensity in his eyes making my heart pound for an entirely different reason. His eyes sweep over me, like he’s measuring the fire that’s coming out of me, taking it all in. The tension between us thickens, the air crackling with it. It’s like a goddamn movie.

“You’re angry,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. It’s not a question. He knows.

His fingers brush against the table as he leans in, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I went behind your back, and you’re not wrong to be mad, Anya.”

His words surprise me, but it’s not an apology. He takes another step, his presence dominating the space between us. My pulse quickens, but I refuse to back down.

“But let me remind you of something.” His voice drops lower, filled with the kind of authority that could make anyone else fold. “I do what needs to be done for us. For you.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts me off, his fingers gripping my wrist, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space between us. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t know who you are. Don’t mistake me for my father.” The mention of his father doesn’t make sense, but Riccardo’s gaze only hardens, something fierce in it. “My mother never questioned him like this. She never challenged him.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, something raw, something painful. But then his grip tightens, and the heat between us shifts. “You’re not fragile, Anya. You’re not like her. And I like that. I fucking like that a lot.”

His words send a jolt through me, a mix of anger and something far more primal. Something needy. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his control is fraying. My breath hitches as his other hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

“I’m not fragile,” I bite out, my voice sounding defiant even though I’m agreeing with him. I’m not some delicate woman who will sit on the sidelines and watch men make decisions about my life. Not anymore.

“No,” Riccardo murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re not.”

And then, before I can say another word, his lips crash down on mine, rough and demanding. The anger, the tension, thefrustration between us—all of it explodes in that kiss. My hands instinctively grip his shirt, pulling him closer, as if I can’t get enough of him.

Because I can’t.

His hands roam over my body, fierce and possessive, and I meet his intensity, pouring every ounce of my anger and frustration into that kiss. I bite his lip, suck his tongue, do everything to show him that I can give as good as I can take. Desire makes my nipples harden and my pussy pulse with the need to be filled.

Riccardo lifts me effortlessly, pushing me onto the table, ignoring the glass that tips over and spills wine on the tablecloth. His mouth never leaves mine, his hands roaming down my waist to find the hem of my shirt. There’s no gentleness in the way he touches me—just raw, unrestrained need. I arch against him, matching his pace, my own body demanding more.

He pulls back for a moment, eyes dark and burning as he looks at me, his breath ragged. “You drive me crazy,” he growls, his hand cupping my face roughly.

“Good,” I whisper back, my voice breathless as my pulse races through my body.

And then, without another word, his mouth lands on mine again, and I forget everything except the way his body feels against mine. The fire between us burns hotter, consuming us in the heat of the moment, right there in the dining room, as if nothing else matters but this.

His hands don’t slide up my bare skin to explore. No, he grabs the hem of my shirt and rips it open so his mouth can claim my breasts and nipples as he pulls down my bra, exposing my tits.

Riccardo’s lips close around my nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, sending jolts of pleasure straight through me. I gasp, my head falling back, giving him more access as his teeth scrape against the delicate skin.

I should keep yelling at him, butdamn, it feels so good.

My hands tangle in his hair, gripping hard enough to make him grunt. The sound sends another wave of heat through me, and I tug his head back, forcing him to look at me. His pupils are blown, his lips wet and slightly swollen.

“Is this your way of apologizing?”

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