Page 55 of Dark Mafia Heir

The cool sheets contrast with the warmth of his touch, and I shiver slightly.

He notices, of course. Antonio notices everything.

“Don’t move.”

Because maybe, just maybe we’d finish what he started last night.

I fall silent, watching him as he adjusts the blanket over me, his fingers brushing against my arm briefly. The warmth of his touch lingers long after he pulls back, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

He straightens, his expression shifting back to calm, but there’s tension in his shoulders and hesitance as he lingers by the bed.

Then, as if reconsidering something, he turns his back to me, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric falls to the floor, but my eyes are locked on him.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen him like this before—shirtless, perfectly sculpted—but this time, something catches my attention, something I’ve never noticed before.

It stretches diagonally across his back, faint but unmistakable, like a faded line marring smooth skin. The edges are slightly jagged, but healed long ago, and looks deep enough that I know it must have been brutal when it was fresh.

A scar.

“Where did you get that?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He pauses, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me, to brush it off like he does with everything he doesn’t want to discuss.

Instead, he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at me over his shoulder. His eyes are unreadable, dark, and distant. “It’s nothing.”

Standing, the covers fall to the rug behind me, and I step closer to him. “Antonio, it doesn’t look like nothing.” My fingers itch to reach out, to trace the scar, but I hold back. “How did it happen?”

His eyes narrow like the question annoys him. “A long time ago. When I was seventeen. I handled it.”

“Handled it? That’s not an answer, and you know it.”

“Vivienne, drop it.”

It’s the first time Antonio has called me by my name in. . .Ever. Notgattina, or anything else, just Vivienne.

And that means whatever happened was gruesome enough to be kept locked in his big box of secrets.

I search his face, trying to piece together the fragments of his story he refuses to share. As if challenging himself, he stares at me, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on mine. Then, as if deciding against whatever words he might have said, he shakes his head.

He says nothing, picks up his shirt, and slips it back on.

Knowing Antonio, the conversation is over, but I’m sure I’ll never forget the image of that scar.

Why, Vi?

Thisshouldn’t concern me.Ishouldn’t care.

And yet. . .

I do.

I want to know all the secrets that lurk behind those guarded eyes of his, but most importantly, I’m suffocated by an indescribable need to crush whoever hurt him that way.

20

Antonio

“Peter’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

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