Page 53 of The Scars We Keep
But even as pleasure crashes over me in waves and my muscles shake with the force of my release, I don’t look away from her.I keep my eyes locked on hers, watching her lips part with soft gasps, watching her stare back at me with something that looks dangerously close to love.
“Fuck,” I breathe.“Fuck, Bella.”
My entire body is shaking, and it has nothing to do with the physical release.It is about the emotional weight of this moment.This is not just sex or me claiming what is mine.This is me giving her everything I have, everything I am, everything I never thought I could give anyone.
I stare into her eyes and let her see it all.Let her see the man who would burn the world down for her.The monster who would kill anyone who tried to take her from me.Let her see the broken boy who lost everything and never thought he would feel this way again.
I love you.I would die for you.I would kill for you.You are mine, and I am yours.Nothing will ever change that.The words remain trapped in my throat.
When I finally pull out of her, I don’t roll away or get up as I normally would.Instead, I gather her to my chest and hold her close, my hand stroking her spine.She tucks her face into my neck and sighs.
This is what I have been missing my entire life.This feeling of wholeness instead of brokenness.And I will do whatever it takes to keep it.
A couple of hours later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the board that has taken up every spare moment.
The door behind me is wide open, something I have never done before.Isabella has changed everything, and keeping her locked out of this part of my life feels wrong.Besides, she would have just broken in anyway.This woman has no concept of boundaries when it comes to what she wants to know.
I trust her.Against every instinct I have honed over the years and against all logic and reason, I trust her completely.
In the center of the board is a photograph of Matteo, my cousin, the man I plan to kill.
I stare at his face, at the dark hair and sharp features that, in some ways, mirror my own, at eyes that once held patience and understanding.Eyes that looked at me with something other than cruelty when I was just a boy trying to survive in a world that wanted to break me.
Next to his photo is one of Emery Morretti, the woman he chose over everything.Over family.Over legacy.Over the empire that was supposed to be his birthright.
The De Luca empire went up in flames because Matteo decided that love was worth more than power.Now it falls to me to clean up this mess, take control of what is left, and rebuild what he tore down.
But I can’t do that while he remains alive.
As long as he breathes, questions will always remain.Questions about succession and legitimacy.Questions about whether the empire belongs to him by blood or to me by right of conquest.The families will never fully accept my authority as long as the true heir is still out there somewhere, living his life, a constant reminder that I am not the rightful Don.
I know what needs to be done.
Matteo has to die.He is the only thing standing in my way.I should have already sent men and had him eliminated the moment my contact confirmed the location.A bullet to the head.Quick and clean.No suffering.Just business.
But for some reason, I can’t seem to give the order.
I stare at his photograph, at the face I’ve known my entire life, and I feel something close to doubt.
Can I actually do this when the time comes?Can I kill the man who saved me?
I am ten years old again, standing at the shooting range of the De Luca compound.The gun in my hands is too heavy, too foreign, too much like the weapon that killed my family just months prior.
My hands shake.My vision blurs, and I want nothing more than to drop the gun and run, but I know I cannot.This is my life now.It is what I must become if I want to survive.
“You’re holding it wrong.”One of the men barks the words at me, disgust dripping from every syllable.“Jesus Christ, did your father teach you nothing?”
The gun wavers in my grip.I try to steady my hands and aim at the target, trying to prove that I am not weak, that I belong here even though every part of me wants to be anywhere else.
I pull the trigger.
The recoil jerks my arms back and the shot goes wide, missing the target by at least two feet.Then comes the laughter.
Shame burns hot in my chest.Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously because crying will only prove that I am weak.That I don’t belong.
I raise the gun with trembling hands.I aim, fire, and miss again.
More laughter and cruel comments.More confirmation that I am nothing but a burden they are stuck with by blood and obligation.
