Page 83 of Of Lies and Shadows

I don’t regret it. Not the act itself. I wanted it, wantedhim. Maybe I needed to prove something to myself or to silence the part of me that still wondered what it might’ve been like if things had been different.

But I didn’t expect to love the way he touched me. The way he kissed me. The way he said my name like it was a promise instead of a punishment.

I didn’t expect to feel… cherished.

And now, with the cold settling back into my bones and the shadows creeping in, I feel the sorrow creep in with it. The ache of knowing that for one hour, I let myself believeit could be more. And now I have to bury it.

Because I couldn’t stay.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to when he asked. But I knew if I stayed, he would have made love to me again. And I would’ve let him. Gladly. I would’ve forgotten again the man he truly is. The man who spit on me. Threatened me. Broke me.

I can’t afford to forget.

Sex has to stay sex. A transaction. A surrender. A way to keep him calm and me protected.

But now? The lines are blurred. And the only person I can blame is myself.

Chapter Eighteen

Dante

Sex with Francesca brought me to my knees. Physically, metaphorically, and in every damn way that matters.

I’ve had sex before. I’m not a monk. But this? This wasn’t sex. This was something else entirely. She was with me the whole time, really with me. Responsive, alive, open in a way I’d never seen. Not even during our kiss in the kitchen. Not even when she touched my cheek the day I spit on hers.

She moaned my name like a promise. She came apart on my tongue like she trusted me. And when I took her, slow and deep, then hard and desperate, she didn’t disappear. Not once.

And fuck, I’m ruined.

There’s no turning back now. I’m never letting her go. And it has nothing to do with revenge. Nothing to do with contracts or punishment or the bloody mafia war her father brought into my home. It’s her. All of her. Her fire, her stillness, her silence, even her sorrow. I want it. I want her.

But if I have any hope of keeping her, of making this more than trauma and power and lust, I have to do something different. Something I’ve never done before.

Not control her. Not buy her. Not threaten her.

I have to tell her the truth.

Not just about what I want but about everything. Even the parts I’ve buried deep. Even the things that still taste like blood in my mouth when I say them.

I know her. I know shiny gifts and apologies won’t work. She won’t fall for flowers or flattery. What she wants, what she deserves, is honesty. Real, painful, soul-cutting truth.

So I wait for her.

Not like a man in control. Not like a capo used to being obeyed.

But like a man holding his breath… hoping the woman he loves will choose to hear him out.

When she returns from dropping the kids off at school, I’m pacing the hallway like a caged animal. I’ve stared down loaded guns and negotiated with men who’d slit theirmother’s throat for less, but I’ve never been this fucking nervous. Not even the night I lost my virginity.

She walks in, cheeks pink from the cold, curls tucked into a loose braid, followed by Bruno like a goddamn shadow. And despite knowing he’s her brother, I still feel the familiar flicker of jealousy crawl under my skin.

Then she sees me and flinches. Not overtly, not dramatically. Just a split-second tightening in her shoulders, the barest hesitation in her step. But I catch it, and I hate it.

“Dante?” she asks cautiously. “Is everything okay?”

My eyes flick to Bruno, who clocks my mood instantly. He doesn’t argue when I say, “Can you give us some time?”

He nods, but not before throwing me a look that saysHurt her, and I will end you,and I don’t even blame him.

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