Page 14 of Vows Made in Silence
Suddenly, he hauled me up as though I weighed nothing, my pants tangled around my ankles, one leg hooked over his shoulder. The cold wall bit into my back as his arm locked around my waist, anchoring me to him.
"Mine," he growled against my throat.
And then he was inside me—deep—his thrust brutal and claiming. I gasped, nails clawing at his shoulders as my body surrendered to him completely.
"Luca—" I sobbed, head falling back.
Every inch, every snap of his hips sent shockwaves through me, pleasure sharp and dizzying. "You were always mine," he groaned.. "And you always will be."
I shattered around him then—as my climax hit like a wrecking ball. I sobbed his name again, body arching, helpless beneath the onslaught of his need.
But just as I tipped over the edge again—
A click. Subtle. Sharp.
A sound that didn’t belong.
The front door.
Someone else was here.
5
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Painted Lines, Drawn Guns
The moment the front door creaks open the sound alone is a threat, an unspoken declaration: power doesn’t need permission.
I follow his gaze instinctively, heart slamming against my ribs. The confession I’d just ripped from my chest still hangs in the air between us. We’re both still reeling—until the sound of those deliberate steps shatters the fragile silence like glass.
Whatever was unraveling between us vanishes. In its place: razor-wire calm. A tension I can taste. Luca shifts beside me, no longer the man who’d just heard the truth about our son. A predator. A protector. The don.
The man who enters wears confidence like armor. Geno Roselli. He strides into the gallery as though invited, his polished shoes clicking against marble with each calculated step. Cufflinks glint like threats under the dim lights. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.
His gaze slides straight past Luca and lands on me.
“Julia,” he says, voice dripping with amusement and a wolfish grin. “I see I've come to the party late. I didn’t expect to find you giving Mr. Moretti a private tasting in the dark.”
Geno drawled, eyes sliding over me like I was already on his plate. "Word was, this gallery served art. Not after-hours appetites."
His smirk deepened as his gaze lingered shamelessly on where Luca’s body still hovered too close to mine—where the air stillpulsed thick with everything Geno had clearly walked in on. "Though I suppose some men always get the first pour. And some of us… are left watching the stains."
Luca shifts beside me. The temperature in the room plummets.
He steps forward, voice low and lethal. “You picked the wrong gallery, Roselli. Unless you’re ready to die surrounded by art.”
—
Geno’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.
“Relax, Luca,” he says, lifting both hands as if in surrender. “I didn’t come to spill blood. Not tonight.”
“Then talk fast,” Luca growls.
“I came for a conversation. Civil, of course,” Geno says, tone mocking. “But I admit I’m enjoying the scenery. And the company.” His eyes cut to me again. That stare—it doesn’t just strip layers, it devours. It traces every inch of skin like a memory he never touched, carving through the present with the hunger of what almost was.
There’s lust in it—undeniable. As if he’s still pissed, he didn’t claim more than art the first time we met. And now, that look says he’s not here for pieces—he wants everything he didn’t take.
