Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
By my men.
By their hands and mouths, their strength and tenderness, their claim that will never let me go.
Luca’s weight presses into my side, solid and grounding. His hand drifts idly along my stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles over my skin. Possessive, even in tenderness. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and damp against my skin, and he kisses me there—slow, reverent presses of his lips—like he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch me like this. “Sweet girl,” he whispers slowly, like he’s on the edge of falling into dreams.
Antonio rests behind me, spooning me, his broad chest forming a wall of safety against my back. One of his arms is thrown heavily over my waist, an anchor that keeps me right where he wants me. His hand cups my breast lazily, thumb lazing stroking over my tight, sensitive nipple as though he has nothing else in the world to do but touch me. His mouth presses softly against the back of my shoulder, rough stubble rasping over my too-sensitive skin, sending a faint shiver down my spine. The gentle scrape of his teeth sends a shiver of arousal through me. “Why do you smell like strawberry ice-cream?” he murmurs, making me chuckle.
And Alexis is sprawling across my legs, his chin propped on my thigh, grinning like the devil. His hair is still damp from sweat, curling slightly at his temples, and his lips are swollen from too many kisses—my kisses. His fingers skate along the inside of my calf, barely touching, just teasing, even though we’re all spent and sated.
“I think you’ve finally killed me, kitten,” he rasps, voice low and drowsy but still full of heat. “I’m a goner. Completely ruined. Dead.”
I smile sleepily and lift a hand, brushing his damp hair from his forehead, then let out a shaky breath. I’m not sure if it’s from their words or their touch.
Maybe both.
Because I feel it everywhere.
Their devotion. Their love. Their claim.
It hums beneath my skin, soaking into my bones, branding me in ways deeper than any mark ever could.
Alexis shifts, sitting up on his knees, the dips of his muscles sculpted by the shadows and I stare at him, no longer shy to take in the raw perfection of his body or the cock that hangs heavy between his thighs.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says, sliding his hand up my thigh and resting it on my hip possessively.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The problem with Cohen… it’s not going to be a problem anymore.”
“How?” I ask, my heart picking up speed in my chest.
“You don’t need to know the details, kitten. Just know that anyone who thinks they can harm you or take you from us will be dead before they draw their next breath.”
Before I have a chance for the information to settle, or to respond, he continues.
“You were made for us, kitten,” His voice is like gravel sliding into silk as his fingers grip my hip. “Every inch of you.”
I shudder at the certainty in his voice, at the reverence in his touch.
“You’re ours,” Luca growls, his voice dark and rough as his lips skim the corner of my mouth.
“Ours,” Antonio echoes against my throat, his hand tightening on my waist.
And I feel every syllable deep in my chest like an iron promise seeping into my bones, binding me to them.
They’ve claimed me. My saviors, my protectors, my mafia kings.
40
ANTONIO
THE MOON’S BLESSING
The night settles over the city like a velvet shroud, wrapping the penthouse in quiet warmth. From the kitchen, I watch Aemelia move beside me, sleeves pushed up, flour dusting her fingertips as she follows my every instruction. Her hands are steady, her focus unwavering. Tonight, she isn't a girl haunted by the blood on her hands. Tonight, she is just Aemelia, learning to make my mother’s pasta recipe as if she’s always belonged in this kitchen, in this life, with us
Alexis leans against the counter, swirling a glass of whiskey, grinning as he critiques our work. “You're letting her knead it too much. The dough’s going to be tough.”
“Shut up, Alexis,” I murmur, adjusting Aemelia’s grip on the dough. She glances up at me, amusement flickering in her dark eyes, and I smirk. “You’re doing perfect, bella.”
She smiles, and it’s a real one. Not the forced, careful smiles she used to give us, but something deeper, something that touches the part of me that has only been awake since she came into our lives. Luca sits at the head of the table, his sharp gaze taking everything in. He doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t need to. He’s content, watching Aemelia fold into our world.
Music hums from the speakers, something low and warm, picked by Alexis, who, despite his antics, has a way of setting a mood. The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes fills the air, wrapping around us like an embrace. For the first time in what feels like forever, there is no threat of violence, no desire for revenge, nothing clouding our thoughts—only the sound of laughter, the clinking of dishes, the quiet symphony of a home being built around a woman who was never meant to stay, but now, we hope will never leave.