Page 55 of Until You Break
The steam wrapped us close, heat blurring everything into haze. He rested his forehead against mine for a beat like he was catching his breath on the edge of me. His hand never left my waist; even when he reached for the soap again, his thumb stayed at my hip, idling small circles as if his touch had forgotten how to stop.
When he was finished, he wrapped a towel around my waist and hauled me back to bed.
Soft music drifted from the corner speaker, low and steady, a bass line like a slow heartbeat, strings that never demanded. The bed was wide, the sheets dark, cool and smooth against my overheated skin; the pillows held a faint trace of his cologne and smoke. Lamps glowed amber instead of harsh light, turning the room into warm shadow. The window was cracked open. From the garden below, a rosemary breeze ghosted in, carrying the last salt thread of the sea.
He slid in behind me, chest pressed to my back, arm heavy around my waist, his leg hooked over mine to keep me close. He tugged the sheet up, then the light blanket, tucking me under with an absent-minded care that felt older than either of us. His breath warmed the curve of my neck, steady as the music.
For once, I didn’t fight. Orgasm still hummed through me, sweet and heavy. The ache between my legs pulsed, but I let thewarmth carry me. My muscles unwound one by one. The room smelled like soap and heat and him. His heartbeat thudded slow against my spine; I matched it without meaning to.
His mouth brushed my ear again, voice low, final. “Look how beautiful you are when you’ve given yourself over to me.”
I shuddered. He smiled into my skin.
“Every inch of you belongs to me, and you know it.” His hand spread against my stomach, firm, grounding. “Sleep,piccolino. Even your dreams answer to me.”
He kissed the hinge of my jaw, unnecessary, indulgent, then settled. The sheet whispered when I shifted. His hand tightened a fraction when I tried to turn; not a warning, just a reminder that he wanted me where I was.
“They’ll never touch you,” he added softly. “They’ll only ever see what I’ve already claimed.”
I stayed. Not surrender. Not defeat. Just rest. And for one brief, impossible moment, I let myself have it,warmth, weight, music, the soft drag of breath. Satisfaction rolled through me like a tide turning.
Sleep almost had me when the sound from the roof came back, shouts, fists, the crack of one on glass. Not in my ears but in my chest, echoes I couldn’t scrub out. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Damiano’s breath brushed my hair, his voice steady but edged with pride. “You wanted answers? That terrace tonight—that’s ours. Blood keeps the numbers clean, keeps men afraid to cheat, keeps money flowing back into our hands. They come for the spectacle, but they stay because it’s the only place that matters. That’s the Bellandi way.”
His thumb pressed harder at my hip, claiming. “And tonight you stood there with me. You held the cash, you placed the bet. My husband. My mark on the game. Every man saw it. Every dollar they lost made me richer because of you.”
His mouth ghosted my ear, heat and teeth. “Earned your answers tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll earn more on your knees.”
The words curled in my chest heavier than the arm he kept across me. I shut my eyes, but the warmth didn’t stop the noise from replaying anyway. The roar of the crowd, the smear of blood, the crack of bone on glass. I carried it with me into sleep.
CHAPTER 18
EMILIO
The next morning I woke to the smell of strong coffee and warm bread from the kitchen.
The place smelled alive. Steam fogging above the moka pot, butter sweetening the air. Nonna’s herbs stood in a glass like a bouquet that had decided to work for a living, green scent threading through sugar. A basket of warm cornetti sat in the middle of the table, glaze catching the light like thin ice.
Alessandro sat at one end with the paper folded in thirds, clicking his tongue at the headlines. “Everyone’s an expert on last night’s numbers,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Half of them couldn’t add without their fingers.”
He flicked the sheet straighter, irritation tucked neat in the motion. “Shipments go missing, and suddenly everyone’s a mathematician.”
Luca snorted, stacking another coin. “That’s poetic. You practicing for Nonna’s eulogy already?”
Alessandro didn’t look up. “If I was, you wouldn’t recognize it.”
“That’s generous,” Luca said from across the table. He had a neat stack of coins in front of him, sliding them into taller stacks, the faint clink marking his rhythm. “Some lose track after five.”He smirked. “Valenti guards too. Can’t even count what they’ve lost.”
“Five’s optimistic,” Alessandro murmured without looking up.
I hovered at the edge, unsure if I should sit. Damiano hadn’t been in the bed when I woke, and part of me expected him to already be here in the kitchen, but he wasn’t. Alessandro finally glanced up, catching sight of me. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, the paper lowering a fraction. “Ah. Sorry. Good morning,” he said, the words too neat, like they cost him. He went back to the paper a second later, but the edge of it had softened.
Nonna solved the rest by sliding a plate in front of the nearest chair. Her hand lingered a second, a light pat against my wrist before she let go, the smallest gesture of claiming space for me. “Eat,” she said in the tone that made the decision for me.
I sat. The chair was warm, probably from the radiator pipe running along the wall.
“Did you sleep?” Luca asked, tipping his chin at me, eyes glittering.
