MIO PECCATO ( My Sin)

Chapter 2

"Look up."

Storm's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a loaded gun. Dove stood frozen in the center of the Grand Hall, her small frame dwarfed by the towering chandeliers and the armed guards flanking the doors.

Slowly, Dove lifted her head. Her huge green eyes met his gray ones. They were hollow, devoid of the fear most new wives displayed. No tears, no trembling lips. Just emptiness. Storm studied her for a long moment, his sharp jaw tightening. She was so fragile—5'2" of porcelain skin wrapped in baggy jeans and a worn jacket, black hair cascading like spilled ink. This one looked like she had already accepted whatever hell awaited her.

He nodded once, satisfied for now. "Take her to my quarters," he ordered a nearby maid, a blonde named Sophia whose oiled breasts gleamed under the lights, her G-string riding high between her ass cheeks. "Prepare her. Bath, oil, the black set. I'll visit soon."

Sophia bowed her head, murmuring, "Yes, Storm," and gently took Dove's arm. The girl flinched at the touch but followed without resistance, her scuffed shoes whispering against the black marble. As they disappeared down the corridor, Storm turned to his brother.

"Let's go, Marco. The Godfather doesn't wait."

The two brothers walked out Citadel. A sleek black armored SUV waited outside. They climbed in, Storm behind the wheel, and drove off into the winding forest roads leading toward the city. The Citadel's gates sealed behind them with a heavy clang, armed sentries watching from the towers.

The meeting was set at a neutral safe house—an upscale Italian restaurant in Manhattan owned by neutral parties, its back rooms fortified for mafia summits. Godfather Vittorio Rossi, the aging patriarch of the Rossi family, had summoned Storm for alliance talks. As they navigated the traffic, Storm's mind flickered briefly to the tiny girl now in his quarters. A wife. Again. But this one felt... off. Like a puzzle missing pieces.

They arrived under the cover of dusk. Guards patted them down at the entrance, confiscating their weapons temporarily. Inside the private dining room, Godfather Rossi sat at the head of a long table, flanked by two of his capos. The old man was in his late sixties, silver hair slicked back, a gold ring glinting on his finger. Wine glasses and plates of untouched pasta filled the air with garlic and basil.

"Storm," Rossi greeted, his voice gravelly from decades of cigars. "Good to see you. And young Marco. Sit."

Storm took the seat across from him, Marco beside him. "Godfather. You wanted to talk business."

Rossi leaned forward, his eyes sharp despite his age. "Straight to it, eh? I like that about you. Word is you've taken a new wife from that orphanage pit. Hope Orphanage, yes? Smart move. The Cartel respects married men—says it shows stability, roots. No loose cannons."

Storm nodded, pouring himself a glass of red wine. "Dove. Delivered today. Quiet one. Obedient."

"Good. Because there's a deal on the table. Big one. The Eastern European pipeline—heroin, arms, diamonds. But the suppliers only deal with established families. Married men. No bachelors. They think single bosses chase p***y and risks. You in?"

Storm's gray eyes gleamed with calculation. This could expand the Black Heart Syndicate's reach by millions. Dock exchanges would triple. Rivals like the DeLucas would be crushed. "I'm listening. Terms?"

They dove deep. Rossi outlined the splits: 40% to Storm's crew for handling New York distribution, protection rackets in exchange for safe passage through Rossi ports. Conversations turned to logistics—how to avoid FBI heat, which judges to bribe. Storm countered on percentages, pushing for 45%, citing his superior enforcement.

For twenty minutes, it flowed smoothly. Laughter even cracked when Rossi joked about old grudges. "Your father was a bastard, but you? You're a storm, alright. This wife of yours—keep her close. Makes you look human."

Then the doors exploded inward.

Gunfire shattered the calm. Russians—tattooed brutes from the Volkov Bratva, Storm's bitter rivals for dock control—burst through, their masks up and their automatic rifles were blazing. "For Volkov!" one screamed.

Chaos erupted. Bullets ripped through wood and flesh. Rossi's capos went down first,their heads jerking back in sprays of blood. Godfather Rossi dove behind the table, cursing in Italian as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

"Ambush!" Storm roared, flipping the heavy table for cover. He grabbed a fallen guard's pistol and returned the fire, his shots were precise and lethal. One Russian dropped, chest blooming red. Marco was beside him, firing steadily.

"Get the Godfather out!" Storm barked. He grabbed Rossi by the collar, hauling the old man toward the kitchen exit while Marco laid suppressing fire. Glass shattered. A waiter caught a stray round and crumpled.

The Russians pressed hard—four of them, well-armed. One lobbed a grenade that Storm kicked back mid-air, exploding in their faces and buying seconds. He dragged Rossi through the swinging doors, while Marco was covering the rear. In the alley behind the restaurant, their SUV waited, but more Volkov men were circling.

"Traitors in my own house," Rossi growled, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "This deal dies if I do."

Storm shoved him into the back seat. "Not today." He fired again, dropping another assailant. Marco sprinted toward them, but a sniper round cracked from a rooftop. It hit Marco square in the chest, the impact threw him backward like a ragdoll.

"Marco!" Storm's voice tore raw. He sprinted out, bullets whizzing past his head. One clipped his arm,a burning pain seized him, but he ignored it. Lifting his unconscious brother—blood soaked through Marco's shirt—Storm fired blindly with his free hand, killing the sniper as he dropped from the roof. Adrenaline pumped like fire in his veins. He tossed Marco into the passenger seat, slammed the doors, and peeled out,his tires screeching into the night.

The drive back to the Citadel was a blur of madness. Storm weaved through traffic at 120 mph, horning at any car who tried to block him, cursing under his breath. "Stay with me, brother. f**k! Don't you dare." Marco's head lolled,his was face pale and his breathing had gone shallow. Blood pooled on the leather seats. Storm's hands were slick with it, his own wound throbbing but compared to his brother? He's was secondary.

They burst through the Citadel gates. Storm didn't stop at the main house. He drove straight to the medical wing—a reinforced building on the compound grounds equipped for emergencies like this. Guards scrambled as he kicked open the doors, carrying Marco's limp body up the stairs two at a time.

"Doctor!" he bellowed. The on-call surgeon, Dr. Hale, a middle-aged man with nervous eyes, rushed forward with nurses. "Gunshot to the chest. Operate now."

Dr. Hale paled at the blood. "We need to—"

Storm grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. His gray eyes burned with feral rage. "If my brother dies, you and every nurse here dies with him. Slowly. Understand?"

The doctor nodded frantically as Storm released him. Nurses wheeled Marco into the OR. Storm stood there a moment,his chest was heaving, before turning away. He walked back to the main Citadel, blood staining his suit, dripping from his fingers. Maids scattered at the sight, one dropping her tray with a clatter. A guard being pleasured by a bent-over maid paused, eyes wide.

Storm ignored them all, pushing into his private quarters. The door slammed behind him.

Dove was there.

She stood near the massive bed, dressed in the black lingerie Sophia had prepared— a sheer babydoll that clung to her tiny frame, the fabric translucent enough to hint at her small perky breasts and the curve of her hips. No G-string underneath, just smooth skin and vulnerability. Her green eyes widened in horror at the sight of him—covered head to toe in blood, his own arm wound still seeping.

She nearly fainted, swaying on her feet, hand flying to her mouth. The world seemed to tilt for her. This man, her husband, looked like death itself.

Storm didn't even glance at her. He stalked straight into the ensuite bathroom, stripping off his ruined clothes and stepping under the scalding shower. Blood swirled down the drain in red rivers as he scrubbed mechanically, jaw clenched. Marco's face flashed in his mind. The deal with Rossi hung by a thread now. Russians would pay. Everyone would pay.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, towel around his waist, water beading on his scarred, muscled torso. Tattoos of black hearts and storms glistened. His c**k hung heavy, stirred by the adrenaline dump. That's when he noticed Dove fully—standing there in that black lingerie, fragile and silent, eyes downcast but body on display for the first time.

The anger, the fear for his brother, the ruined meeting—it all coalesced into a dark need. s*x, raw, controlling s*x. It would cool the storm inside him.

In a low, icy voice that sent chills through the room, he commanded:

"Strip."

Dove felt the world spin at the word. Her hollow eyes flickered with something unreadable—dread, resignation, a hidden spark?—as her fingers trembled toward the hem of the lingerie.