Chapter Ten

The Taste of Control

The silence in the car on the drive back from Catania was almost erotic.

Not the soft kind. Not the safe kind.

It was the sort of silence that sizzled beneath skin, made the air feel too thick, too charged. Amara sat beside Luca, her legs crossed, one finger toying with the edge of her red dress still kissed with moonlight and the memory of Sergio Vitale's cheek beneath her lips.

Luca hadn’t spoken since they left.

Not one word.

But the tension coming off him was primal. It wrapped around her like wire — tight, hot, unavoidable. 

When they reached the estate, he didn’t even wait for the guards to open the gate. He slammed the cat into park and got out, stalking around to her side. By the time she opened her door, he was there. 

Amara stepped out with controlled grace, heels hitting the stine like gunshots. She could feel the burn of his eyes on her.

Still, she walked ahead of him — not because she was unafraid, but because she wanted him to chase her.

And chase he did.

By the tine she reached the top of the stairs, his hand slammed against the door above her head, cutting her off.

“I told you to play nice,” he growled, voice thick with fury.

She turned slowly, chin tilted. “And I did.”

“You whispered a threat in Vitale's ear.”

“I whispered the truth.”

He stepped in, crowding her. “You think I brought you here to start a war?”

“I think the war already started. I just wanted to show them I'm not afraid to get bloody.”

Luca's eyes darkened. 

She expected him to yell.

To grab her.

To dominate.

But instead — he smiled.

And it was worse than rage.

“You liked it,” he said softly.

She blinked. “What?”

“You liked being seen. Being feared. You liked that they were all watching you in that dress. In my  dress.”

Amara’s breath caught. 

He didn't wait.

He shoved the door open and pushed her inside. Not roughly. Not gently. 

Deliberately. 

They stumbled into the hall, her back against the wall. His hand snaked up her thigh, past the slit in her dress.

“You wore a dagger to a mafia ball,” he murmured. “You're insane.”

“And you still want me,” she whispered. 

His lips ghosted her jaw. “That's the problem.”

He kissed her then — hard, raw, full of heat and hunger. Her head tipped back, mouth parting for him, and she melted into the wall. His hands roamed like they remembered the shape of her, his thigh slipping between hers. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“I hate you,” she whispered. 

“I know,” he breathed. “Hate me harder.”

She bit his lower lip.

He groaned and lifted her. 

They barely made it to the nearest room. She didn't know where they were — a guest suite, maybe, or one of the countless sitting rooms. She didn't care.

All that mattered was the way he dropped her onto the velvet chaise, dragging her dress up to her hips.

“No rules tonight,” he said. 

“I wasn't planning to follow any.”

He sank to his knees.

Her breath shattered.

He pulled her thighs apart and buried himself between them like a sinner come home.

She cried out, hand slamming against the wall, body arching as he consumed her — lips, tongue, teeth. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. 

It was savage.

He tasted her like she was his religion and punishment in one. When she came, it was with a curse on her lips and his name right after. 

He rose over her, mouth wet, eyes feral. 

Then he kissed her again.

And she knew, deep in her bones, that they weren't making love.

They were declaring war.

Later when the storm inside her settled, they lay on the chaise tangled together, silent. 

Amara’s fingers trailed lazily down his chest.

“I'm not afraid of them,” she murmured. 

“I know.”

“But I need to know if I can trust you.”

His jaw tightened. 

“You want the truth?” He asked. 

“Always.”

“I will lie to everyone.  I will kill for you. But I will never lie to you.”

She looked at him, heart thudding.

“I don’t believe in happy endings,” she said. 

“Neither do i.”

They didn't kiss again.

They didn't need to.

They understand each other in the places that no one else had dared touch.

The next morning came wrapped in pale gold light and the low voices of murmur in the hall.

Amara rose before Luca, dressing in silence. She wore black this time — a silk blouse, high-waisted pants, her dagger hidden beneath the hem.

As she passed the door, she heard Luca's men speaking in hushed tones.

“...one of the guards saw Vitale's car parked at the docks.”

“Last night.”

“No. This morning. He's moving something.”

She stepped out before they noticed her.

The guards stiffened. 

She walked past them like a queen. 

The moment she reached the study, she grabbed her burner phone from the drawer and dialed a number she'd memorized long ago — a number from Juarez. 

It rang once. 

Then: “You shouldn’t be calling this line.”

“I need intel,” she said. “On Vitale's port activity. Now.”

Silence. 

Then: It'll cost you.”

I'll pay in blood.

A pause.

Then: “You'll have it in an hour.”

She hung up.

Behind her, Luca stepped into the room.

“Who were you talking to?”

“An old friend.”

He studied her. “Someone I should kill?”

“Not yet.”

He crossed to her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re planning something.”

“We are,” she corrected. “Bit I need to do part of this alone.”

He scowled. “You're not walking into that alone, Amara. Not again.”

“I walked into hell once,” she said. “This time, I'm lighting the match.”

“You trust me,” he said. “But not enough.”

She leaned in. “I trust you to burn the world for me, Luca. But I need to set the fire.”