Page 6 of Twisted Devotion

And as much as I’d like to bend her over this railing, tear that pretty dress off her body, and take her from behind while grabbing those exquisite curves, I’d sooner die than let Marco catch a hint of what’s running through my mind.

“Aria,” he says, her name clipped as though addressing a child.

She doesn’t let him say anything more. With a briskness that almost feels practiced, she brushes past him.

“I’m sorry. I’ll see you inside,” she says, not sparing him—or me—a backward glance.

I force myself to look away as she walks off, knowing full well I can’t afford to see her retreating form. Her voice alone stirs something in me I’d rather not name. If she weren’t Marco’s sister, I’d already be planning how to have her under me by midnight.

First, I’d fuck her with the dress still clinging to her; then, I’d strip it off and claim her again. After that, I’d leave her in nothing but her silver necklace and earrings—still a princess while I make her mine.

Thank God thoughts can’t be read.

“What were you doing out here with my sister?” Marco demands, yanking me from my thoughts.

I meet his glare with deliberate indifference, knowing it’ll irritate him. His reaction doesn’t disappoint—he steps closer, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with rage.

“You don’t belong anywhere near her,” he snaps.

Leaning casually against the railing, I cross my arms and smirk. “If you keep acting like that, I might take your words as a challenge.”

His jaw tightens further, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I can feel the barely contained fury radiating off him.

“Stay away from her,” he grits out.

“And if I don’t?” I ask, letting the question hang in the air, savoring how his composure cracks a little more.

Marco and I have hated each other for years. It’s hate rooted in territory, blood, and power—a rivalry carved into our families’ histories. Every word he says, every look he gives me, reminds me of the wars we’ve fought and those still waiting on the horizon.

“Don’t test me, Paolo.” His voice drops, likely intended as a threat. To me, it's laughable.

I push off the railing, closing the space between us until we’re eye to eye. “You’re out of your depth, Rossi. You don’t get to threaten me. Don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”

His glare sharpens, but it doesn’t faze me. When he realizes his intimidation is wasted, he backs away, frustration etched into every line of his face. Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides back inside, leaving me alone on the balcony.

I glance out at the city lights, letting my gaze linger on the spot where Aria stood. I hadn’t planned on being caught up in her orbit tonight, but the truth is, I couldn’t stop watching her. Even now, her presence lingers in the air—a faint blend of strawberries and vanilla that feels too intimate, too consuming.

Strawberries. A pity. I liked them once.

The thought pulls a bitter smirk on my lips as I push myself away from the railing. The party’s lost whatever appeal it had. I step back inside, grab my coat, and signal to my men. It’s time to leave.

* * *

The next morning, the rich aroma of coffee greets me as I step into my office building. It’s a small comfort against the day's weight already pressing on my shoulders.

Luca, my assistant, stands waiting just inside the door. A folder is clutched to his chest, and a steaming cup of coffee is in his outstretched hand.

“Morning, boss,” he says briskly, his tone carrying the efficiency I rely on.

I say nothing. I take the coffee, nod, and walk past Luca. Though I’d caught faint murmurs from the employees before stepping off the elevator, the office now falls silent. The only sound is the rhythmic click of my shoes against the polished floor.

Every person I pass straightens as if on command, their movements sharp and purposeful. No one dares to speak, and that’s how I like it.

When I reach my office, I step inside and close the door behind me. The large space is dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the city below. The sunlight filters through, but I barely register it today. The familiar scent of cigars and lemons lingers in the air, a smell that’s become synonymous with the hours I spend here.

The walls are plain, save for a framed photo of me, my father, and the first three families that swore allegiance to us. It’s an artifact of a legacy I’m expected to uphold. A clock hangs on the opposite wall, its relentless ticking cutting through the room's stillness.

I sink into my leather chair, and the creak of the material is a quiet reminder of the weight I carry. Gesturing to Luca, who stands just outside the door, I say, “Updates on the shipment?”

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