Page 49 of Broken Mafia Prince
“I didn’t know you’d be at the airport,” he replies.
“Did Father know?” I ask carefully. If he knew I was there and still went ahead with the hit, it either meant he didn’t care about how I’d be affected, or hewantedme to be. Neither option sits well with me.
Emilio hesitates, and it’s enough of an answer for me.
I clap him on the shoulder, signaling that I don’t expect an explanation. The day my father starts giving a damn about anything other than power plays or this damn blood feud is the day pigs will fly. I’m not holding my breath.
I leave him standing in the hallway, making my way through the house to my quarters. I should’ve moved out by now; in fact, I’ve even looked at a few places, almost paid for one. But the thought of leaving this house, of leaving behind the last few good memories of my mother, keeps me rooted here. Even now, I can still feel her presence in the halls—the sound of her quiet laughter, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. It’s a strange comfort, one I can’t quite leave behind.
I swipe my thumb across the scanner next to the door. There’s a soft click, and the door swings open. My quarters are a modest sanctuary of sorts, with three rooms and a bath. I had the space customized to fit me, a personal retreat that feels like home.
I remove my tie and cross to the sideboard, pouring myself a drink. Today has been a rollercoaster—starting with the high of wiping out the Irish in Las Vegas, then coming face to face with Giulia after so many years, and almost losing her.
Her wide, terrified eyes flash in my mind again. I curse under my breath.
“Fuck!” I bite out, grabbing the bottle and bypassing the glass. Tonight, I need something stronger than a glass or two.
I take a swig from the bottle while unbuttoning my shirt with the other hand and making my way to my walk-in, sunken-tub bathroom. Dropping the bottle on the sink countertop, I step out of my pants and boxer briefs and turn the water on. I stand there and allow the incredible pressure to beat against my back and relieve some of the tension.
I’m not surprised when my mind slips back to her. I’m not ashamed to admit that I did some loose digging into her. Since that day at the retreat, she’s become a permanent fixture in my mind, albeit a background one. I have a feeling that’s all about to change.
The surprising thing now is feeling blood rush down south. I glance down at my straining erection.
“No fucking way.” I don’t know if I’m telling my little head or my big one, but there’s no way I’m giving in. I’m just going to shower, ignore it, and go straight to bed. That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.
Bright eyes flecked with the most stunning shades of gold, green, and brown flash through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, but there’s no escape. Behind my eyes, I can see her poutylips and the way they had pursed in annoyance; I can see the way her dress strained over her curves, the way it rode up while she was seated across from me.
I imagine her slipping into the shower now with me, wearing a little smile and nothing else.
A sound of defeat tears out of my throat and I wrap a fist around my cock, my other hand slapping against the wall for support. Giulia Montanari has a body that can make even a saint sin, and I’m far from being a saint. I imagine her pressing up to me, nipples hard and eyes glassy with lust.
My hand moves faster and faster, hips pumping as I imagine her going down just like she had done at the airport. I’m not proud to announce that when she had glanced up at me from where she’d been counting the cash in the case, I’d imagined her staring up at me in a whole different, less-clothed setting.
My palm against the wall twitches, remembering how soft the skin of her thighs felt beneath my touch when I had her over my shoulder. She’d felt like silk against my fingers, and I imagine tracing every inch of her, molding, kneading, and committing every curve and contour to memory.
I throw my head back as my orgasm builds.
“Giulia,” I grunt, hips pumping into my fists, racing for the edge. I imagine biting into the pronounced bow on her upper lip, hearing her moan.
I kept my name from her back then to hide my identity, but now that she knows it, I want to hear her say it over and over again. I want her to cry my name while I bury myself inside her, I want her to chant it like a desperate prayer.
The tingling begins in my spine, rising to an all-consuming roar, and then I’m coming, painting the tiled shower walls with evidence of my pleasure, her name falling from my mouth as soft as a sigh.
I’m so fucked.
15
GIULIA
“How do you even eat this late and still call it breakfast?” I ask my cousin, raising an eyebrow at the plate in front of her.
She lifts her head from her toast and shoots me an amused look. “Sweetheart, I’m not talking to someone who spends all day grazing.”
I gasp, feigning outrage, as I pick up another cookie. “I don’t graze.”
Her eyes flick down to the cookie jar, one eyebrow arching in silent judgment. “You’ve had at least three different snacks since breakfast. How are you not the size of a barn?”
I grin at her with all the pride of a woman who knows exactly what to say. “Superior genes.”
