Chapter One

Maeve

“I should have known you would be here!”

Justina’s voice is stern as she chastises me. I know that when I look up from the fashion magazine that I’ve been indulging in for the past hour, I will see her leering at me from the doorway with that specific disapproving look of hers that she seems to reserve only for me. She’s also going to see the large oatmeal raisin cookie I am shoving into my mouth and trying to swallow as quickly as possible, hoping she won’t notice it.

A foolish endeavor, I will admit that, but I’m try it anyway.

I swallow it in one greedy gulp and nearly choke on it before I sheepishly lower the magazine so that it covers half of my face. “Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Justina.”

She doesn’t like my bright smile or upbeat attitude at all. Her lips purse sternly as she folds her arms across her chest. I know she’s waiting for me to jump to my feet and rush off in the direction of whatever work she thinks has yet to be done. However, my shift is almost over and I’m more than efficient. She knows that.

“I do not appreciate staff lounging about on the master’s couch, much less indulging in his private property!” Justina continues.

She’s talking to me like I haven’t spent most of my life inside of this house in one capacity or another. I sigh and snap the magazine closed. “I have already finished all of my chores. Including polishing the banisters you mentioned yesterday afternoon. And I’m allowed to take breaks. Plus, Ada doesn’t care if I read her magazines.”

As I get up to return the magazine to its original spot on the coffee table, traitorous crumbs tumble out of my apron and land all over the plush carpet.
Justina looks like she might blow actual steam right out of her ears. My face burns. I hurriedly bend over to begin tidying up the mess I unintentionally created, feeling the heat radiating down my neck.

“This is what I am talking about! Once again, you’re not in your uniform and you’re creating messes. I still think your mother’s old apron is better than the monstrosity you made for yourself.”

She’s gaining speed and we will both be standing here with her lecturing me for the remainder of our shift if I don’t stop her rant before it gets any worse. We’ll even risk doing overtime, and Justina hates overtime more than anything.

“How about I do the basement for you? As penance?” I offer hastily. I hate the basement. It’s a mostly finished space but it still gives me horror movie vibes. The kind of foolish paranoia that makes me want to bolt upstairs lest something grab my ankle.

But, in terms of cleaning labor, it’s mostly just dusting all of the canned goods that Mrs. Dominio likes to keep down there in case of snow storms or bad weather. She hasn’t been doing nearly as much baking since her husband passed. She’s likely still in bed right now. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve never been anywhere close to getting married before but I grew up seeing the love that the Dominios had for one another and I can’t even fathom her loss.

If nothing else, my offering to clean up the basement that Justina’s been whining about for over a week now means that I can likely clean and read at my own pace before leaving for the day.

Justina is clearly thinking about my offer. She doesn’t want to do it, and I know it. We both know that she would have me do it in any case.

“Fine. But be quick about it,” she finally concedes.

I spring up from the couch and kiss her on her leathery cheek. “I will!”

Oh, I probably just laid it on too thick. She’s going to question why I’m being so nice to her. I drop back down on my heels and quickly scurry from the room before she notices that the magazines have suddenly gone missing.

I think that all of my fondest memories from childhood are wrapped around fashion and my mother. I know that most people would consider these magazines to be a waste of time, but fashion has been my dream for far longer than I can even remember.

We didn’t have a lot of money growing up and my mom made most of my clothes. She taught me everything that I know. Justina complains about the apron that I’ve customized, but I know she only half means it. Just like she’s never going to complain about me wearing my mom’s apron.

Justina’s one of the few staff left in the Dominio estate who actually knew my mother. Loved her like the daughter she never had. Even tough love is the only way Justina knows how to express her affection, sometimes she flatters me by telling me how much I remind her of my mother. Even if we look nothing alike.

My mother could have held her own in any magazine I’ve ever seen. She was shorter, more voluptuous, and breathtakingly beautiful. Blonde hair, gorgeous skin, high cheekbones and wonderful, vivid, green eyes.

Comparing myself to her, I’ve always felt like an alien. Muddy brown eyes, lanky features, and red hair that’s just too brassy for my taste. If they weren’t so freckled, my long legs would be great. I always wanted to look like my mother rather than a dead father who could never be bothered with us, but my mom always urged me not to be so hard on myself about my “angel kisses,” as she liked to call them.

I think that if I had a child who looked like the person who broke my heart, I would not have been able to love them half as much as my mother loved me. And she did. Even now, with her being gone for so many years, I can still feel her love.

My mother wanted so much more for me than what she had. I never saw anything wrong with the way we grew up except for in my weaker moments, when I compared my life to that of family that owned the house that she worked in. The same house that I now work in to save up enough money to go to fashion school.

I know that I have the talent, it’s just a matter of timing and opportunity.

Magazines are just as important as any other study material. I have to keep on track with current trends and fabrics; the fashion industry moves so quickly that it’s basically deadly to fall behind. Another reason I’m happy that my boss, Cristiano Dominio, who is almost like a brother to me, an obnoxious and hot brother, doesn’t make us wear uniforms except for an apron.

My mother’s apron is a mostly plain, beige-colored frock with her initials lovingly embroidered in white and silver stitching toward the bottom hemline. It’s the only thing that I really have left of her. She never believed much in material objects beyond what she could create and I keep it fastidiously clean at all times.

Underneath that, I wear a fairly simple white t-shirt tucked into bright red jeans that fit like a second skin that moves effortlessly and stretches in all the right places, making it easier for me to clean spots that are hard to reach. Paired with sneakers, which make my life even easier. It may not be the most fashionable option, but no one can deny how much I love my colorful touches.

The walk to the basement access is mostly silent. If I hadn’t grown up alongside Ada, Cristiano’s younger sister, while being chased around by him in these very halls, I would easily say this mansion was creepy.

It is quite formal, but then again, his grandparents designed it. A family compound.

I still don’t know exactly what the Dominio family does, but they have always been kind to me so I don’t ask questions. It’s not my business.

I reach the door and fumble for the basement key, tucking a strand of chin-length red hair behind my ear. Justina is the only person with a skeleton key. For the rest of us, there are doors that we can access using our security badges in addition to a few conventional keys. The fact that they don’t just choose a medium and stick with it is another strange thing. However, they pay me enough not to ask obvious questions.

Some doors in this place are still off-limits, even to me.

I unlock the door and am met with voices. Nobody should be in the basement. Other than Annalisa, Mrs. Dominio, who is unlikely to leave her bedroom anytime soon, I don’t think anyone else is home. Who could it be? Nobody could have broken in here since the Dominios have more private protection on their compound than even Jesus Christ would have.

I shouldn’t spy. I know it’s wrong and yet I find myself leaning in anyway.

If something is going on down there, it’s for a very good reason, and I should get out of the way until it’s over. Actually, going to hide in the bathroom for an hour or two to finish reading my magazine would make great sense. It would be the perfect excuse. There is a common understanding that when Dominio business is underway, one must become invisible.

I take half a step back from the door, silently cursing my shoe for daring to squeak at a moment like this and close the door again.

I’m holding the key that is inside the lock. Lock it and go; that’s the only sensible choice. But I have to leave here early today. It’s not like dusting will take a long, right? I can always just slip in and out. I can work around them. There’s no way Cristiano will get upset with me, and even if he did, it won’t last more than a minute or two. He’s far too nice of a guy.

He knows I have to work.

Right?

I’m sure it’s fine.

Since the meeting is being held in the basement, it doesn’t take me long to come to the conclusion that it is probably not of significance. I have sketches waiting for me. Important sketches. I still have a few days till the scholarship application deadline, but I need to make a good impression.

Yes. That’s what I’m going to tell him if he asks me why I’m puttering about during his meeting.

I straighten my back, tuck the basement key back into my apron, and silently push the door open again. I casually saunter down into the basement, holding my bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and a pair of clean dusting cloths in another. With actual dedication, it will just take fifteen minutes.

But then, my shoe slips.

Of course, it does.

One moment I’m confidently strolling down the stairs towards what promises to be an uncomfortable fifteen minutes of work and then the next I’m falling ass over face down to the basement. My bucket of cleaning supplies flies out of my hands and clatters somewhere, leaving the scent of pine cleaner everywhere in the air. My body batters and the air is knocked out of me.

The voices in the basement are silent now.

I can feel the eyes in the room on me. All of them. Before even looking at them, I’m trying to take stock of my situation to see if I have any fractured bones. However, except for a few bruises, I believe I’m alright.

With a shy, apologetic grin that I hope he finds endearing, I turn to look for Cristiano’s eye, only to be greeted with an entirely other scene.

It’s not a meeting.

Well, not what I would call one.

There’s a bloodied and beaten man tied to a chair in the center of the room. The concrete floor is soaked and the metallic scent starts to mix with the pine in a way that makes me think I’m never going to be able to polish floors with that cleaner ever again.

It seems like the man is only two hits away from death. Men who I had assumed to be merely members of Cristiano’s staff are behind him, followed by the man himself.

The charming boy next door that I grew up with is no longer there.

Instead, something else has consumed him. A darkness in his eyes makes me shudder right to my very core. He looks like another person entirely. His face is covered in blood, his hands are swollen, his knuckles bruised, the skin torn. He has tortured that man.

Cristiano. Torturing. He has a knife in his hand, poised directly in front of that man’s open eyeball. If the man so much as inhales too sharply, he will lose his eye.

I must have hit my head way harder than I thought that I had.

The scream starts to build in my chest.

Instead, words come out.

“I’m so not cleaning that…”

Chapter Two

Cristiano

Rage consumes me.

It’s an all-encompassing inferno that has no boundaries and no ends. Just fire; fire everywhere.

I’ve spent my whole life keeping my temper in check. I’ve put in a lot of effort to stay true to my values and goals. I’ve evolved into two flawless versions of the same person, both dark and light. Two distinct halves of the same coin. The public version of me is the ideal brother and community activist. The one who effortlessly supports his family in any situation. The ever-dependable and impeccably poised gentleman.

And then there’s this version.

One doesn’t exist without the other.

I need this side to balance out the other. Without it, I think the perfect version of myself would snap and shatter into a million pieces. Very, very rarely do the two sides happen to see eye to eye. But, at this perfectly harmonious moment, we both want the very same thing. Mostly to make this sorry bastard choke on his own breath.

This Irish bastard is standing in my way and he knows it. The only reason that I haven’t cut the tongue in his otherwise useless mouth is because he has information that I desperately need.

However, that has nothing to do with his teeth. This morning, he had a nice, full set that is now rapidly dwindling into nothing. If he doesn’t get smart soon, he’s going to be a pulpy mess. However, it’s possible that he may enjoy choking on his own teeth when I jam them down his miserable throat.

He will tell me what I want to know before we are done, and only then will I allow him the mercy of death.

This man played a part in my father’s murder. A big part. He only needs to give me the name of who he reports to and then I can end his life. I’m not going to pretend that I won’t deeply enjoy it.

It’s only been a week since my father died. The shock of his loss is still fresh, a festering wound in my chest. It will stay that way for a long time. The man was my hero, my idol. It doesn’t matter that I never really cared for the violent lifestyle that he led, he still was my father.

I know it is naive but, in my eyes, my father was always practically invincible.

And now he’s gone.

Taken before his time by these low-life bastards.

And for what? To weaken us? Did they not think that by cutting off the head, two more would grow in its place? They severely underestimated the strength of my father’s clan. Of my clan. I was born to lead these people. I effortlessly stepped into a role that I had been groomed for since I could walk. The might of my father’s empire wants blood for what was taken from them and I will deliver it, in spades.

The jerk in front of me has been a faithful servant of the Doyle family for more than thirty years. I have him and the Doyles know it. I, on the other hand, know that they won’t attack me in my own house to get him. They will let him fall while they figure out what to do next. They never did reward loyalty. He picked the wrong fucking side.

“Please…” the man sighs. It’s mostly just a flap of his swollen mouth but I understand him all the same. There will be no mercy for him. None was given to my father.

“What was that?” I bend at the waist, cupping a bloodied hand around my ear. A syrupy sweet smile is plastered on my face as I wait eagerly for his answer.

“Pl…” the man inhales, like the effort of speaking is just too much for him to function. Perhaps it is. Perhaps he truly cannot manage to force air into his chest properly given that his ribs have been damaged. Or, perhaps one of those teeth scraped something important on the way down. I cannot feel empathy towards him. Every time I think that my mask of brutality might slip, I hear my mother’s desperate screams as they lowered my father’s coffin into the ground. We could only bury what was left of him. Barely enough for her to say goodbye to and certainly not enough to get closure from.

My mother had practically collapsed. Keeping her upright had required all of my strength. Even my sister wept. I cannot recall her displaying any emotion at all other than when she hangs out with Maeve.

There’s been no time for me to grieve. Not a single moment to process any emotion other than the all-consuming rage that has powered me from the inside out since it happened.

The bastards are feeling proud of themselves right now for doing this to my family, but I’m going to make them pay for it.

Alberto, who everybody has always called Al, is standing to my right with black leather gloves on, arms folded over his chest as he watches me work. He’s a simple man. Cut and dry. Black and white. He was the logical choice for me to elevate as my underboss and right-hand man last week. Which is actually saying something because he’s always been a little more off on violence than I am. We have experienced a great deal together, and he shares my need for justice.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” I say as I pull my knife from my back pocket. “Or, perhaps you simply don’t understand the situation that you’re in. You will die. You know that. It’s all a matter of how many days I’m going to drag it out for. If you’re going to choose to be a good little boy and give me enough information to reward you with a quick death.”

I grab hold of the man’s shoulder and lean forward, the saccharine smile never leaving my face for a moment.

The tip of the knife forces his eyelid open as he strains to lean further back into the chair as if there’s anywhere for him to go.

“Were the teeth not enough? Should I go for something a little bit more vital?”

The man is blubbering and blustering and attempting to get away as carefully as possible.

“I suggest that you stop squirming, you wouldn’t want me to slip,” I taunt him.

I grab his forehead, grasp him by his bloody hair, when a body literally falls down the stairs.

Who the hell has the audacity to disturb me?

It takes half a moment longer to recognize the tangle of limbs and stunning red hair before me.

Maeve.

“I’m so not cleaning that…” I hear her mumble.

What the hell is she doing in my basement? One, the staff all know better than to come down here when the door is locked. And two, there’s no way now to stop her from seeing the truth that I, and my whole family, have kept from her her entire life.

It’s like a horror movie. In slow motion.

My instincts scream at me to go over there and help her up, to make sure that she’s unharmed but my feet won’t move. I have blood on my shoes. I have blood on my hands, and likely splattered on my face and clothes. There’s no hiding that.

All I can do is tell Al that he needs to put the gun pointing at her away.

Fuck.

She’s seen everything, there’s no escaping it. And that’s something I didn’t need on my plate right now.

When she lifts herself off the ground and turns to face us, I try to train my features into something impartial and cold. Before I can even put away the knife I am holding, the fucking coward on the chair starts screaming for her help.

“Please! Help! Please! Help me! You have to get me out of here! Please! Let me out!” He blubbers, tears running down his face. I can’t even tell if they are real or performative at this point.

She hasn’t looked at me yet.

Good.

Because I don’t think I could stand the look of disgust in her eyes, or whatever else I might see reflected there.

I should have had guards posted at the door. It was a foolish mistake that might now cost me everything.

Historically speaking, the easiest way to handle situations where people see something about the mob that they shouldn’t be seeing is for them to simply… die.

But I cannot kill my little sister’s best friend.

She looks paralyzed by the situation that she’s gotten herself into.

“Take Miss Cunningham to her room, please,” I order Al in a tight, clipped tone.

Al moves silently to carry out my orders but stops only a moment later as the worm in the chair speaks.

“Cunningham?” He mutters, voice oily.

I can see him looking at her. I should pluck his eyes out. His gaze lands on the apron she’s wearing and the embroidered initials of her mother in the bottom corner.

“You are much younger… you don’t… you can’t be…” His eyes start to widen, assuming who the woman in the room with us might actually be. I can see him moving through the pieces, sorting them out in his mind as he comes to the conclusion that I didn’t want him to come to.

He’s thinking about how familiar she looks. How that shockingly perfect red hair might somehow be familiar to him in ways that I don’t want it to be. I don’t want him looking at her because now she’s going to ask even more questions that I cannot answer. None of the answers that she’s going to demand from me later are going to give her any satisfaction.

This bastard is going to die with his suspicions in his head and that’s a simple enough solution for all of us to reach. But Maeve… fuck, why did she have to come down here?

“It was just a rumor…” he mumbles.

He’s going to lose his tongue too.

“What rumor?” Maeve asks. I feel a knot of dread form in my stomach as she resists Al’s grip. She tries to pull away from him even as he’s dragging her toward the staircase and up into her room .

I can’t let this go on. I have no other choice.

I spin the knife in my hand and plunge it deep into the sorry bastard’s throat. His eyes widen in surprise and the gurgle of his own blood instantly swallows anything else that he might have chosen to say.

I hate that I have to let my current lead go, but he wasn’t going to give me much more that I didn’t already know in the first place.

Maeve screams.

Not only from the terror of witnessing a man die in front of her eyes but also from frustration. I know her like the back of my hand. I can tell the difference.

“Get her out of here,” I command Al as I start to clean my blade.

“What rumors? Cristiano, what rumors? What are you doing, let go of me!” She screams as he starts to haul her up the stairs. He’s going to have to throw her over his shoulder to get her the fuck out of here at this rate. “What did he mean!? Cristiano!”

I can’t answer her.

“Put her in my room,” I order Al as he indeed bends to scoop her up into his arms. “And make sure that she stays there. I can’t have her getting into any more damned trouble.”

Now, instead of one mess I have to clean up, I have two.

Chapter Three

Maeve

When was the last time I was in Cristiano’s bedroom? I can’t recall. I remember being much younger and watching Ada sneak in and out of this room like it was nothing. Thinking back, I never went with her. I had a sneaking suspicion that he might be hiding secrets here. Now that I’m older and looking around the room, it seems silly. Maybe it was just that I always associated a certain amount of authority with him since he was older than me and a boy.

The bedroom is sparsely decorated. It feels like it cannot actually be his room.

The few times I walked past, I clearly remember seeing sports and boxing trophies up on a shelf. The main feature of the room is now a big bed with luxurious bedding in a deep green color that almost looks black. There is art above the headboard, but it seems abstract and colorless to me. A dresser with a box full of watches resting on top, each in a glass-hinged cubby with a velvet-lined interior. A bottle of cologne that I refuse to smell.

As tempting as it is to rifle through his drawers, I refrain.

The closet is the same, unassuming and almost plain-looking. A black leather couch rests against one of the walls, and there is a bare small table in front of it. If I’m being perfectly honest, it doesn’t even look like he spends any time in here at all. This is not a room meant for relaxation. This is a rest stop for sleep and it looks like very little else.

Cold.

Not a word that I would have ever associated with Cristiano before today.

The minutes pass slowly. I explore the ensuite bathroom and the lack of trinkets in there.

It could be a hotel room.

There has to be some sort of secret for me to find in here. There’s got to be a reason that only the housekeeper is allowed access.

My search is over in the first five minutes. Nothing.

I make a futile attempt to count the seconds if only to contain my seething anger. I get distracted and immediately think of what the man in the basement said. Right before Cristiano killed him. Killed him! The man I’ve basically grown up next to… A murderer.

It’s too much.

It’s like my world is being forcibly expanded far too quickly and I can’t keep up. My worldview is ripping at the seams and fraying apart.

I cling to the knowledge that the now-dead man knew my mother.

I sink awkwardly onto the foot of Cristiano’s bed.

I untie my apron and hold it carefully in my hands. It’s still covered in blood. Even the embroidered initials have red flecks on them. I have no idea how I’m going to get it out of the fine thread. My thumbs brush over the stitching reverently. It… it’s ruined. There’s some stranger’s blood all over it.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision before I can properly blink them back. I’ll never be able to get this piece of her back. But I can’t waste my time crying right now. I wish my mother was here. She always knew what to do. No matter the situation. Even now that I’m all grown up, I still wish she was here to help me.

I’ve always loved the Dominio family. There’s no denying how good they have been to me. Ada, Cristano’s younger sister, is my best friend in the whole world. With that, has come some understanding that her family’s life and business are not my business. I have no idea what they do to make their riches. I have always known that it’s illegal, I just didn’t think murder was the order of the day.

Ada has to know.

Everybody has been keeping this from me. Am I a fool? Too naive? Have I been so single-mindedly focused on my dreams for my future that I was blind to everything else?

I summon the image of Cristiano in my mind. The sweet-faced boy next door type who has always been just a few too many degrees hot to be considered brotherly. Annoying, yes. Platonic? Sort of. Then, beside it, swims the vision of him with a feral rage on his face and his olive skin flecked with blood. He enjoyed killing that man. I saw it.

I cannot put the two images together.

They are two wholly different people.

The question that I have to answer is: which one is the real him?

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Chapter One 

Elena

I’d always had a not-so-secret weakness for Italian luxury.

Still—to be spoiled like this on a summer day—it’s impossible not to feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Under the pale wash of a Chicago summer sky, August sunshine glinted off the custom cherry-red paint job of my graduation present, a Maserati Levante X Class. As I wove through traffic, the V8 engine purring and the cream leather wheel soft under my fast turns, heads spun as I flew by. I couldn’t help but giggle. It was a ridiculous vehicle, all sleek lines and precise handling, as though it had been dropped off from the future and not my father.

Daddy pulls it off with the big presents, I thought to myself, trying to hold onto a feeling of warm affection and not trepidation, as I swung down the tree-lined street that led to his industrial park offices on the edge of the city. My father hated austerity and the glitz of modernism, so he purchased several acres in western Chicago and spent a fortune on landscaping to create a green oasis. The massive stone walls in front of his squat office building, however, screamed Soviet architecture.

Knuckles rapped on my window as I pulled the car to a stop and the hulking brute on the other side scowled until the tinted window rolled down enough for Yegor to see me sticking my tongue out at him.

“Blyat,” Yegor crowed as he laughed. No fucking way. “Little Fedulova, gluppy.” He smiled as he called me silly. “I should’ve known. Who else would drive ital’yanka candy?”

“Exactly,” I said, fighting back a laugh at Yegor’s rumbling disdain when he’d said ital’yanka. Italian. “Do you like it? It’s my favorite color.”

“Dramatic,” he said. His deep North Russian accent seemed to get thicker as he continued. “Glitzy. I’m surprised shef would buy you such bright automobile.”

A faint chill went over me at the use of “shef.” Meaning “boss” or “old man,” it was a title that only the most senior and loyal Bratva got to call my father, regardless of rank.

Just another reminder that here, Viktor Fedulov was shef or Boss first and foremost.

He was my dad one day a month.

If I’m lucky.

That was something I’d never had any choice but to go along with as a “Bratva brat.” Never mind how I’d come to understand my father’s organization over the years—how, despite being less organized than their Mafia counterparts, the Bratva considered themselves ten times more loyal and ruthless than the Sicilians. Or from one glance, I could tell the placement of a man on the Fedulov food chain, from the lowest vor or “thief,” to the brigadiers or “captains.”

I bit back a sigh. I’d let myself forget about this world and what it meant to come home over the last few years in California. The scrape of the metal gate as it opened, Yegor’s smile gone as he looked around the street with cold calculation, and the men swarming forward, hands resting on their holstered guns or holding massive rifles were all enough reminders.

Yegor must’ve caught something on my face, because his expression softened and gave me a quick grin as I drove forward and obediently parked in the spot that a frowning Shestyorka, or “security” of the Bratva, pointed to.

The door was opened before I could turn off the engine and I hastily tried to grab everything as Bratva swarmed my car, checking it over for bugs and bombs, while the Shestyorka by my door tapped his foot and clicked his tongue, continuously glancing at his heavy gold watch.

I knew there was no point in telling my father’s men that they were wasting their time even though no one in Chicago knew who I was. No one knew I’d been in California, never mind that I was now back in Chicago employed as a remote consultant for tech start-ups.

Most people had no idea that Elena Fedulova existed.

Moreover, even on the slimmest and most improbable chance they did know who and where I was, no one in their right mind would come near the daughter of the “silent pakchan.” Especially since most people thought the silent Russian “boss” was nothing but a sadistic urban legend floating around Chicago.

No one would believe that such a man could have a daughter, least of all me.

I shivered as a question whispered through my mind.

If the father’s a phantom, what does that make the daughter?

“Little Fedulova, you must move,” the Shestyorka urged, and I snapped back to reality.

Apologizing in clumsy Russian, since I’d always been better at understanding it than speaking it, I slipped out of my car and hurried to the door. My heart pumped faster; in mere minutes, I’d be with my father. I knew I had to take what little time he could afford me, even if over the years, I felt greedier and greedier for every second.

He likes going out with me, I reassured myself. It’s a nice break.

Taking a deep breath, I went to go inside when I remembered that I’d left my overpriced iced coffee sweating in the cupholder. Dammit.

As much as I didn’t want to wade through Bratva muscle and the twitchy Shestyorka, I didn’t want to let it go to waste or risk it getting spilled on the interior.

Before I could turn around, a deep and familiar voice, called out, “There you are, lisitsa.”

A flash of irritation and amusement went through me as I turned. Only one man called me “she-fox,” in his deep voice, with that edge of “city-boy” Russian, as the other Bratva called it.

He offered me a familiar smirk as he approached. “Forget something?” He held up my coffee and my irritation faded as I returned his smile.

“Thank you, Erik,” I said as Erik Dernov stopped in front of me and gazed down, then slowly extended the coffee toward me. I pretended not to notice his deliberate teasing and instead smiled at him. I took a sip from the cup, the caramel and espresso bursting on my tongue. “Were you outside the whole time?”

“Yes, imp. How dare you not say hello?” Erik reached out and pinched my cheek, just a little too hard. We’d been sort-of-friends, sort-of-family since my father brought him from Russia almost nine years ago, an intense and whip-thin boy who was nothing but high cheekbones, floppy ice-blonde hair, and burning green eyes.

Only his eyes remained the same. Everything else had filled out in cords of muscle and steel, his sharp jaw covered in a neat beard, his ice-blonde hair shaved down almost to the bone, and his boots lending him almost a foot and a half on me.

“How could I see you in that mob?” I nodded at the Bratva still swarming my Maserati.

“You and your Italian fixation,” he teased. I rolled my eyes. “Hey. Knock it off or I won’t tell you how much I missed you.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

“Did I?” He slung his hands in his pockets. “Probably not as much as you missed me, though.”

“Oh yes, very true,” I said glibly, with a small and painful pinch of guilt.

As always, when I was with Erik, I couldn’t shake the sense that our friendship was nothing but geography. We were in each other’s orbit and the same age, both indulged by my father, as much as a man like my father could be indulgent. Beyond that, it was so hard to say. Was I an obligation more than I was an actual friend to Erik?

Or was it vice versa?

Because while Erik and I had kept in contact over the past five years that I’d been in school, I’d forgotten about him more often than not. It had nothing on the agonized separation between me and my bestie Clara. We’d kept up a fervent, near-daily text chain, calling and facetiming each other for hours on end, whether to chat or watch a movie or do homework together.

“Hmph.” Erik got that slightly superior look on his face and narrowed his gaze at me from behind his glasses, made from a thin, almost invisible metal frame. “Not as much as Clara, huh? I’ll have to make sure to change that.”

“Sure,” I said with a laugh and quickly spun on heel. “Well, my father’s expecting me.”

Erik said something, but I missed it because I was already through the front doors and on my way to the elevator bank. Only there was a quick, heavy sound of boots behind me, and Erik reappeared by my side, his eyes now narrowed at me, and he was about to speak when his name was called, causing him to slow down.

“Lisitsa, wait,” Erik commanded in a soft voice.

My shoulders stiffened. No one bosses me around. I cast a glance over my shoulder and when his stern and annoyed gaze met mine, I stuck my tongue out.

Erik’s mouth thinned into an invisible line, but someone grabbed his arm, speaking in urgent Russian, and I heard something that sounded like, “…fucking Scorpion, do you know what this means? Erik, you have to—”

The elevator dinged and I hopped on. As the doors closed, I caught a quick glimpse of Erik and the man speaking to him, who’d lowered his voice. I noted that the cords in Erik’s neck were standing out like he was a boxer being held back in a ring from tearing some guy’s head off.

Can’t tell me what to do, not sorry, I sang out in my head.

Just as the doors were about to close, Erik shook himself and glanced over in time to see me flash a smirk and the peace sign, then I was zooming up to the top floor.

I left my thoughts about him on the ground floor and instead began to think about the coming hours spent with my dad. First, we’d head to Moth Hill Stables, exclusive stables tucked against a river to the north, riding our favorite horses on our favorite trails. After, we’d split up briefly to go to the spa, indulging in a steam or a soak, then meet back up for a lunch at the restaurant. Later, we might drive to a little town in the middle of nowhere and dig through a thrift shop, which was a secret weakness of my father’s. He found it hilarious how Americans were such cluttered, extravagant capitalists.

If he was in a really good mood, he might tell me stories of North Russia and the horses he rode on the plains, the way the light hit the winter snow and the open, windy skies. He hadn’t lived there long, but it still made an impression on him and sometimes if I caught him staring into space, I thought he was back in the tundra, trying to race toward freedom and avoid the bloodied Bratva destiny that his family had already decided for him.

For, in a cruel twist of fate, the Fedulov family sent young Viktor to the country for the first fourteen years of his life, only to abruptly remove him from the only world he knew to be trained in cities across Russia before being shipped to America to join a father he barely knew.

Or is that just the story he told you? Whispered a husky voice in my ear as the elevator smoothly pulled to a stop and the doors slid open. What did I always tell you? I hurried off as though I could escape it, but it kept going, dropping to a hiss.

Don’t let him fool you, daughter.

I stopped dead and rubbed at my forehead, glancing out the window to the waving green and sparkle of a little pond behind this hulking building. There was a memory out there, waiting and flickering, and I tried to only remember the bright spots.

My father with his white shirtsleeves rolled up and his gray suit jacket tossed onto the grass. His big and capable hands tearing off chunks of bread to hand to me so I could feed the ducks. Then, catching me up in a hug and laughing, making me squeal as he tossed me toward the blue sky and caught me before gravity could even catch up.

No more. A sharp burst of pain went through my temple. I didn’t want to remember the rest. It had been one of the few times that my mother and I had come to this office to visit him.

Why am I thinking about her? I asked myself angrily, and a little helplessly.

For the most part, I’d done a good job tamping down her voice, but in times of stress or sleep deprivation—of which I’d had neither recently—my mother’s poison returned in full force.

I’m displacing my anxiety about seeing Daddy, I told myself and shut my eyes, swallowing against a sudden tightness in my throat. That’s all.

Stop lying to yourself, Elena, she snarled in my ear and a burning sensation rose behind my eyelids. I was going to scream, I was—

The elevator dinged behind me, and I jumped, moving out of the way and toward the window, when Erik’s drawl wrapped around me like a metal net.

“Ah. I see you’ve figured out your father doesn’t want to see you.”

Your First Name:

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I want to read CRUEL CRAVING

Prologue

Tommaso

As we approach the restaurant’s entrance, the air shifts with an ominous weight. I stop and pull Ella back towards me. “What’s wrong now?” her tone is stern. There is a split second of confusion before I am able to respond.

Then, a deafening roar shatters the bustling scene.

I feel the heat and pressure, and then everything goes silent for a heartbeat. The world pauses, and I realize I’m on top of Ella, shielding her from the explosion.

The shockwaves ripple through the air, and I struggle to make sense of the devastation around us. Black smoke clouds the air, making it difficult to breathe. I cough and struggle to regain my bearings. She lies beneath me, and uncertainty settles on my chest like a suffocating shroud.

My hands tremble slightly as I reach for her. Why isn’t she moving? God, no. Please. No.

The choking trail of burning wood and the distant wail of sirens form a jarring opus, drowning out any hope of clarity. I try to wake her up but she remains unresponsive. I look at my phone on the ground. Fuck! The screen’s completely shattered.

I search for Francesco but see nothing past the smoke. “Open your eyes, Ella,’ I pick her up and bring my head closer to her chest. Before I can check her heartbeat, a woman runs out of the wreckage, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her voice gets gargled with the blood oozing from her throat, and she falls at my feet.

I gather Ella into my arms, her minute body light against my chest. The rhythmic thud of sirens merges with the cadence of my racing heart as I carry her away from the remnants of the explosion to the nearest bench. Its surface is cool beneath my fingers. Gently, I lay her down. Her eyes remain closed, a haunting stillness that raises my concern.

“Fuck! FUCK!” I can’t hear my own voice. I gambled with her safety. My heart starts hammering in my chest. And I lost.

“Say something, please.” I press my fingers against the pulse point on her neck, seeking a reassuring throb. Nothing. I hover over her, my gaze fixed on her face.

I cannot name my own feelings.

Despair isn’t even close.

It is as if somebody has ripped my heart out.

Chapter 1

Tommaso

Two weeks earlier

“Your guests are waiting in the VIP lounge, Don Tommaso,” my underboss informs me.

I step into the VIP loft. It provides a discreet perch to observe the night’s proceedings.

So far, so good.

I smile from the loft at my esteemed guests—a high-profile real estate magnate known for his connections in construction, and a stock trader with ties to the highest financial circles.

“Buonasera, gentlemen. I trust the evening finds you well.” I step down into the VIP lounge, acknowledging their presence with a nod.

“Tommaso, always a pleasure. Your establishment never fails to impress,” Vincent says with a wry grin on his face.

“I’m glad you like it,” I pat him on the shoulder.

“Tiberio would have been proud,” Antonio smiles at me. I smile back at hearing my father’s name. Antonio was his closest friend and is the person I have trusted the most since his death.

“The papers for the new plaza construction have been a hassle, but I’ve greased the right palms. Everything’s on track,” he adds.

The dialogue shifts seamlessly between business and the night’s entertainment. A server approaches with a bottle of fine Italian wine and pours it into crystal glasses.

“Salute,” I raise my glass first. “To alliance and success,” I remark, a nod to the code governing our interactions.

The conversation with them continues, disrupted by the occasional clink of wine glasses and the low hum of the club below. The fragrant haze of cigars lingers in the air. Lorenzo, my arms dealer, comes in with a message.

“Signore,” he whispers, “the new shipment is here. Your approval is needed for the handover.”

I maintain my composure, leaning in to respond. “Deal with it discreetly. I’m occupied with our guests.”

Later, I excuse myself and leave the VIP lounge, the muted hum of the conversation now fades into the distant echo of the music from the club below.

Descending the staircase, the noise intensifies. I navigate through the dimly lit hallways. My gaze lingers on the restroom area. “Luca,” I call, catching the eye of one of my men patrolling the vicinity. “Head to the restrooms. Make sure nobody’s indulging in anything they shouldn’t be.” Luca nods to the other men, urging them to follow.

The Odeon is more than a club, more than a business; it’s a legacy.

The past of my clan lingers in these walls, and I won’t allow it to be tainted.

As I scan over the room, my eyes catch the delicate movement of a lone figure at the club’s counter—a girl, lean with dark brown hair cascading in loose waves. She’s a vision, her black cocktail dress blending flawlessly with the club’s ambiance.

Though she is blending in perfectly, and her familiarity would deceive any onlooker, I know she’s not a regular at Odeon. Her aura, distinct and cautious, sets her apart. She is scribbling something on a notebook sprawled open before her. Some mischievous part of me is dying to find out what she’s writing about.

As I approach, I notice her gaze fixated on the pages, her pen moving with purpose. The air is thick with the scent of cigars and fine spirits, yet her world seems insulated. Strange.

She doesn’t look up when I reach the counter. Settling onto the stool beside her, I glance at the notebook. “Odd preference of a workspace, I must say.”

“Maybe,” she continues to write but then stops midway, “How do you know its work?” She smirks to herself, not looking up yet.

Damn. She’s beautiful.

My gaze traces the delicate lines of her face.

Her features are a toxic blend—eyes that hold a universe of blue hues, a nose that curves in a perfect arc, and lips that carry a soft, inviting curve.

She could easily work in the movies. It’s not just her physical charm but the authenticity that radiates from her being. She looks carefree and happy, two things I hardly come across now.

She finally raises her head. Her eyes, those blue beads, are on me now.

There’s a warmth in that gaze, a familiarity that tugs at the corners of my heart.

I am glad she is come here tonight.

“There are no creative pursuits on a Saturday night. Especially in a busy club. At its bar counter,” I smile back. “Must be something serious.”

“Good guess, but not really. In fact, I’m a food blogger for the Bel-Air Magazine,” she reveals, her dark blue eyes holding a spark of passion. ‘Ella Hart, pleasure to meet you.’

“Ah,” I reply, feigning surprise. “Tommaso,” I take her hand in my own “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine”. There is a surprising softness in her touch that catches me off guard. Her skin is velvety, and it feels like a balm to the rough edges of the world I’m used to. “Ever sampled the offerings of this fine establishment?”

“Doing exactly that. That is my current assignment, reviewing The Odeon,” she grins.

“A luxury club?” I scoff.

“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” she says. “A little too ritzy, though. But places like these host the best parties in all of Los Angeles,” she winks at me.

She’s flirty, too.

I play along, “Parties, yes. But when it comes to food, I’m not so sure.” I signal to the bartender and he gets a bottle of Merlot. “What’s your take on it?”

She smirks, her eyes narrowing playfully. “To be honest, you’re right. I’ve tasted better.”

“Have you tried the specialties?” I take a sip of my wine, not moving my eyes from her.

“Oh, you mean those dishes that are only pleasing to the eyes. Those fancy, overpriced, things taste like shit, trust me.”

So, hiring the best chef in the city with three Michelin Stars was just a waste of money.

“No escorts, though, that’s strange enough,’ she looks around. ‘Every other lavish club I’ve reviewed is crawling with them. I guess every powerful man wants a pretty woman on his arm.”

I admire your taste and your sharp tongue, Ella. But it is too distracting for my business dealings.

“I don’t think your review is going to be on the positive side, Ella,” I sneer.

“Honesty is the essence of a good review,” she says, putting her notebook in her bag.

Don’t leave, Ella. Not yet.

“Well, if you want a unique angle for that review, you can always add an exclusive interview with me,” I beam.

“And you are?” She raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk on her dark red lips. “If you’re trying to charm me into a secluded corner with that line, it won’t work.”

I chuckle, playing along with her teasing. “Well, I thought it was worth a shot. I don’t get to have gorgeous food bloggers review my club every evening.”

In a fraction of a second, her playful and flirty expression changes into an incredulous one. She gawps at me with those big blue eyes.

“I need a drink.” She chokes out.

Chapter 2

Ella

He flashes a smug smirk at me. Oh God.

Why didn’t I get the hunch? He’s tall, handsome, charming, dominant, why did I mistake him for someone ordinary?

I blush and look at my fingers. “I… I didn’t know, Tommaso, listen–”

“It’s not a big deal, Ella,” his laugh is masculine and deep. Fetching. I blink in surprise, the realization dawning, “I appreciate your honest review,” he winks at me.

“You really own this eight-story hulk of a place?”

He nods, the smirk on his face growing. “Don’t worry. This is not a deal-breaker. By the way, my offer still stands if you happen to have changed your mind.”

I burst into laughter, a mix of shock and embarrassment. “Well, this just took an unexpected turn. Interview it is, I guess. Let’s see what the man behind the curtain has to say.”

“How about somewhere less ritzy? And more private?” He steps closer to me, the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes. It’s so overwhelming I feel dizzy from his proximity alone.

“A private interview?” I say, attempting to regain my poise. “You certainly know how to keep things interesting.”

His virile scent is intoxicating. He smirks, a glint in his brown eyes. “Alright, let’s say I wouldn’t want to pass up on a golden ticket.”

“Oh, really? And here I thought you were just trying to spice up my review,” I ease my shoulders.

“Can’t blame a man for wanting to savor the mystery a little longer.”

The drawl in his voice is attractive. He closes the distance between us, his movements deliberate. A subtle brush of his fingertips against my shoulder sends a tingling sensation through my skin.

“You know,” he starts, his voice a velvety whisper that sends a shiver down my spine, “I must say, you have a way with words. Quite the talented writer. I read what you were jotting down.”

I meet his gaze, refusing to let the intensity of his stare unravel me this time.

“Flattery won’t change the fact that I’m not here for pleasantries.” I scoff.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “Feisty. I like that. But business and pleasure can coexist, can’t they?”

I shudder, the proximity between us feeling too intimate. “I’m not here for games, Mr. Handsome. I have a job to do.”

Tommaso takes a step closer, his presence commanding the space now. “Oh! So, you do think I’m handsome! Come on. It doesn’t have to be all work and no play. We could make quite the team.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Team? I don’t recall signing up for that.”

He smirks, undeterred by my resistance. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Miss Hart.”

My eyes narrow. “Save your charm for the night ahead.”

He tilts his head, studying me with an almost predatory curiosity. “You know, resisting only makes the chase more exhilarating.”

Damn. He won’t give up. I’m not sure I want him to, anymore.

I scoff, pushing back against the rising tension. “I have an article to write and a strict deadline to follow.”

Tommaso leans in, his proximity unsettling. “I’m not saying you won’t get your interview. All I want is for you to consider that the most captivating night might be just around the corner. I mean, life is meant to be experienced. But it’s your call.”

He places his hand on mine and traces it back to the length of my arm. Holy Shit. Why do I want him so badly? It is so unprofessional.

“Well, you are very convincing, and I do want that interview…” I look him in the eyes. He got me, and he knows it.

He smirks again, lowering his voice. “Think you can stand the ritz for the night, Ella?”

I feel a shiver of anticipation rush through my spine.

“If the owner himself insists.” I smile, finally allowing myself to give into his charm.

Tommaso, with a lingering gaze that hints at both mystery and invitation, extends his arm. “Shall we?” he suggests. I take his hand, and he pulls me closer for a moment before turning to lead the way. He takes me to a dimly lit mechanical doorway. It looks like an elevator, but it has a lock on it. With his free hand, he takes a metallic key out of an inner pocket of his jacket.

He inserts the key into the lock, and the small screen on the wall beside the mechanical door lights up. The heavy metallic doors open and he enters the small space first.

I get in the private elevator after him. As soon as it closes, he suddenly sweeps me to the side, abruptly pushing me up against the cold metal. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent, determined eyes. I gasp, and his mouth swoops down.

He’s kissing me, violently. Oh God, I’m not supposed to like it so much, am I?

Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth. Desire explodes like fireworks on the fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his meticulously styled curls, pulling them, hard.

He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the dress.

He breaks off the kiss. He’s panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. I lean against the wall, panting as well, trying to find my balance.

Right then, the doors open, revealing a luxurious penthouse adorned with plush furnishings, dimly lit to create an intimate ambiance. In the hall, there is a life-size portrait of someone with his child by his side. Both people look somewhat vaguely familiar, and I eventually realize that the child must be Tommaso, while the older man might be his father.

The place has floor-to-ceiling windows offering a spectacular view of the city. “Wow,” I warble. The skyline sparkles.

With a dominant touch, he guides me to his bedroom, the door closing behind us in a hushed whisper. He looks at me, eyes darkly amused, “Chocolate chip ice cream? One of our specialties. Good ones. Not the fancy overpriced things that taste like shit.”

We both laugh. He opens a drawer and grabs a spoon. When he looks up, his eyes are hooded, and his tongue skims his top teeth.

Oh, that tongue.

“We’re going to have fun with food, Miss food-blogger.” His voice is deeper, sexier. “Hope you’re warm,” he whispers. “I’m going to cool you down with this.” He holds out his hand, and I place mine in his.

He places the ice cream on the nightstand. My body practically convulses.

“I want to tie you up,” he says. I blink at him for a moment. “You can say no if you don’t feel comfortable, Ella. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Okay,” I whisper, already feeling myself getting wet.

“I’m serious Ella. I will check in with you regularly, and you will say green, if you’re good with what I’m doing, yellow when you want me to slow down and check up on you, and red to stop me.” He looks me dead in the eyes as he explains a safe word code that reminds me of a stoplight. “Understood?”

I nod, but it seems to not be good enough for him.

“Use your words.” He commands, and it’s thrilling.

“Yes, understood.” I hurry to reply. I don’t know what has gotten into me, but I am dying to obey him.

“To the bed. I need you to be still. Your hands.”

“Okay,” I whisper again, incapable of anything more.

He strolls over to me, not taking his dark eyes off mine. He takes hold of the ribbons in my dress and with delicious, teasing slowness, releases them one by one from the back.

My dress falls open while I stand paralyzed under his heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes it off my shoulders. It fills and pools at my feet so that I’m standing naked before him. He strokes my hips with the backs of his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my groin.

“Lie on the bed, face up,” he murmurs, his eyes burning into mine.

I do as I’m told. The room is shrouded in darkness except for a soft, insipid light from a red lamp. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles me.

“Arms above your head,” he commands.

I comply and he fastens his tie around my wrists and to the bed stand. He pulls it tight so my arms are flexed above me.

“Color?”

“Green,” I reply, staring up at him, and he visibly relaxes.

“Good girl.”

Then he stands and takes his coat and dress shirt off. He undoes his pants and drops them to the floor. He is gloriously naked. I guess we both disdain undergarments. He has a physique drawn on classical lines: broad muscular shoulders, narrow hips, and abs. He obviously works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the end of the bed and grasps my ankles, pulling me swiftly and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out and unable to move.

“That’s better,” he mutters, his voice getting deeper.

Picking up the pint of ice cream, he climbs smoothly back onto the bed. Very slowly, he peels off the lid and dips the spoon in.

Scooping out a spoonful of the chocolate chip dessert, he pops it into his mouth. “Not bad,” he murmurs, licking his lips. He looks so freaking hot, sexy, and carefree – sitting on me.

What am I doing here? I should be working! What about the interview? My boss is going to kill me. But then my eyes fall back on Tommaso’s lips, and my anxious thoughts are silenced again.

Taking a spoonful, he lets the ice cream slowly melt on the spoon so that it will drip onto my throat, and between my breasts. He dips down and very slowly licks it off. My body lights up with longing.

“Tastes even better on you, Ella.”

A breathy moan escapes my lips and I pull against the tie around my wrists. The bed creaks loudly, but I don’t care – desire is consuming me. He takes another spoonful. Then with the back of the spoon, he spreads it over my boobs and nipples.

“Oh…” I gasp, and then moan, as each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool metal of the spoon.

Tommaso bends to lick and suckle all the ice cream off me once more.

It’s torture, his hot mouth on me contrasting with the cold.

“Want some?” And before I can accept or deny his offer, his tongue is shoved in my mouth, and it’s cold and tastes of chocolate chips and wine. Mmh, delicious.

He kisses my lips and then lowers his head to suck each of my nipples hard. And I try; I try to stay still, but it’s hard to ignore the blend of cold and his inflaming touch. But my hips start to move involuntarily, jumping to their own rhythm, caught up in his thrall.

I moan again. A deep and long groan. It’s cold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing, he doesn’t stop. He sucks farther down my body, into my pubic hair, onto my clitoris. I cry out, loudly.

“Hush now,” he says softly as his magical tongue sets to work, and now I’m keening quietly.

“Oh… please…” I beg him.

“I know,” he breathes against my most sensitive part as his tongue works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and my body is climbing, higher and higher. He slips one finger inside me, then another, and he moves them with agonizing slowness in and out.

“Here,” he whispers, and he steadily strokes the front wall of my vagina while he continues the harsh, relentless licking and sucking.

A mind-blowing orgasm stuns all my senses, eliminating all that’s happening outside my body as I writhe and groan. Holy cow, that was quick.

Chapter 3

Tommaso

She shivers under my touch. Her breasts dangling and bouncing to her sides. I feel her cum on my fingers. Warm and sticky. From the corner of my eye, I see her clutching the sheets. Feel the pleasure, Ella. As if on cue, she cries out.

Fuck. That voice.

“Say my name, tell me how much you want me,” I demand, pulling her hair.

“Tommaso… please–”

The way she moans my name as she begs for my cock makes me even harder. I pull her hair again, to make her open up for me, and I thrust into her mouth.

“Suck it.” I order. She eagerly obeys as I repeat the motion of thrusting into her mouth. Then again. And again. She tries to suck it harder each time, and it feels like I might explode from how good her mouth feels. Once I’m too close to coming to keep going, I pull out of her mouth and hover over her abruptly. I slide on a condom and thrust myself in her pussy in one brutal thrust.

She cries out again. Fuck, she’s so tight. Did I hurt her?

“Tell me your color, baby.” I groan, as I struggle to keep myself still until I’m sure she’s okay.

“Fuck – green, Tommaso! Green!” She sounds desperate, and so am I.

“Oh yes. That’s my good girl.” I groan as I finally slam into her again.

A few thrusts later I pull out of her again and flip her over.

“This way,” I murmur and push my cock inside her vagina. I can feel the walls of her pussy squeeze around my dick. Looks like she loves the manhandling just as much as I do. I lean over, and release her hands, and pull her upright so she is sitting on me. I palm both of her boobs, tugging gently on the nipples.

She groans, tossing her head back against my shoulder. I nuzzle her neck, biting down, as I flex my hips, slowly, filling her again and again. I spank one of her tits. She moans, but the moan becomes a cry when I pinch the nipple I just spanked hard.

“Harder,” she says it like an order.

Oh, she thinks she can tell me what to do. Cute.

“Be a good girl and take what you are given.”

She groans as I pick up speed. I feel like I’m going to burst in her. She cries out. I twist her to face me again, keeping myself pressed inside her.

“That’s right, I want to hear you.”

Her mouth is open in soundless exaltation. She squeezes my upper arms and groans without a pause. What a wonderful sound it is.

I place my hands firmly around her neck to hold her in place, then ease myself out of her, then slide into her again. As forcefully as I can. Her fingers find my hair, and I move slowly, feeling her tight, wet walls around me as I enjoy every single fucking inch of her.

Her eyes are dark, her mouth sagging, as she gasps beneath me. She looks gorgeous.

“More. Please,” she begs. That’s more like it, baby girl.

Her wish is my command. My mouth devours hers, and I start to shove, really move, thrusting deeper. And I lose myself, thrusting my cock in her over and over again.

I am so close. I’m trying to hold back, but then her walls tighten around my cock as she comes, squeezing me and taking me to my own orgasm right after hers.

“‘Oh, fuck – Ella!” I feel my cum spurt inside her as it leaks out of me. I fall on her, pressing her into the mattress, and shove my face in her neck, inhaling her delicious, lavender perfume.

Once I’ve caught my breath I lean up as her eyes flutter open. They are the bluest of blue, clear and gorged. She gives me a shy smile and I trace the tip of my nose down the length of hers. I half-heartedly ease out of her.

“Miss Hart?” I call for her, after a minute of silence. “So,” I quip with a smirk, “is this part of the interview? Should I expect a detailed review of my performance?”

She just chuckles.

“Oh, this is definitely going in the review.”

“Well, don’t forget to rate the host. Five stars, I hope?” I joke.

“Excellent hospitality, though I’ll reserve the final rating until after this interview is over. For now, it’s a solid three stars,” she says, playing with her hair.

God. She looks like a dream.

“So, you want more?” I grin at her as I ask, hopeful she will consent for a round two.

“Green?” she teases and winks at me.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”