Forbidden Never Felt This Good

~7

0007

~ Luca ~

In my adjoining room, I paced like a caged animal.

This was insane. All of it. I was supposed to be controlled, professional, above base urges.

Instead, I was completely obsessed with my boss's daughter. Couldn't think straight when she was near. And tomorrow night, I'd have to watch another entitled coglione try to win her over.

I wanted to kill something.

My phone buzzed. A text from Vittorio: How is she settling in?

I stared at the message, guilt twisting in my gut like a knife. What was I supposed to say? She's fine, boss. Also, I'm sleeping with her and losing my mind. Also, I just marked her throat like an animal and came inside her for the third time in as many days.

I typed back: She's adjusting. Strong-willed. She'll do well.

The response came immediately: Good. Keep her safe. That's all that matters.

I closed my eyes, the weight of those words crushing. Keep her safe. That was my job. My only job. The oath I'd sworn fifteen years ago when Vittorio pulled me out of the gutter and gave me purpose.

Not claim her. Not mark her. Not make her scream my name against a mirror while I f****d her like I owned her.

But God help me, I was going to do all of those things anyway.

Because Aria was right about one thing: this wasn't finished. It wasn't even close to finished.

And tomorrow night, watching her with another man, was going to be my own personal hell.

I was very much looking forward to making her pay for it afterward.

My phone rang again, cutting through my dark thoughts. Isabella. My chest tightened as I answered.

"Hey princess," I said, forcing warmth into my voice.

"Dad, when are you coming home?" Her voice was small, worried. Seven years old and already carrying too much. "Mom is crying right now. She said she saw you with…"

The call hung up abruptly.

Fuck.

I stared at the dead phone, ice flooding my veins. Joan had seen something. Somehow, she'd found out about Aria. That stalker b***h!

…

The restaurant was one of those Michelin-starred places that tried too hard—all minimalist décor and pretentious plating. I sat at the bar nursing an espresso I didn't want, my eyes never leaving Aria.

She looked like sin incarnate.

The red dress clung to every curve, the slit revealing a dangerous amount of thigh every time she shifted. The back was cut so low I could see the dimples at the base of her spine. And she wasn't wearing a bra—I could tell from the way the silk draped over her breasts, the way her n*****s were visible when she leaned forward.

She'd dressed like this for him. For Alessio f*****g Marchesi, heir to a shipping fortune and exactly the kind of boring, acceptable man Vittorio wanted for her.

I wanted to put my fist through the bar.

Instead, I sipped my espresso and catalogued every detail. The way Alessio's eyes dropped to her cleavage when she leaned forward. The way his mouth curved in smug satisfaction, like he thought he'd already won. The way he droned on about infrastructure bills and political connections, clearly more interested in hearing himself talk than actually listening to her.

Stronzo. Aria was brilliant, sharp as a blade, and this fool was treating her like arm candy.

My phone buzzed. A text from Aria: Stop glaring. You're being obvious.

I typed back: End it already.

Her response came quickly: Why should I end something interesting? Your job is to protect me, not glare at my date like you want to kill him.

Interesting. She was doing this on purpose. Pushing me. Testing me.

And it was working.

This was my chance.

I stood, pulled out my phone, and made a show of answering a non-existent call. Crossed the restaurant with purpose, my expression urgent. When I reached their table, I leaned down, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear.

"We need to go. Now."

I felt her shiver, saw her pupils dilate. Even angry with me, even on a date with another man, her body responded to mine.

Mine, something primal in me growled. Not his. Never his.

"What's wrong?" she asked, but I could hear the breathlessness in her voice.

"Security threat. I'll explain in the car." My hand was already on her elbow, possessive, claiming. "Miss Santoro, we're leaving."

"What kind of threat?" She didn't move, and I had to admire her composure even as I wanted to throw her over my shoulder.

"The kind we don't discuss in public." My grip tightened. "Miss Santoro, we're leaving."

Alessio stood as well, puffing up like an offended rooster. "What's going on?"

"Nothing that concerns you," I said flatly, my voice cold enough to freeze.

"She can speak for herself…"

"The lady is leaving," I said, each word precise. "You can stay and finish your fish."

His face went pale. Good. He should be afraid.

Aria let me guide her toward the exit, calling back to Alessio: "I'm sorry. Thank you for dinner."