In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 23

Letty surfaced slowly, pulled from a deep, black slumber by a faint ache behind her eyes and a dry, cottony feeling in her mouth. She was groggy, slightly hungover, and utterly disoriented, her mind fuzzy on the events of the previous night.

She peeked her eyes open. The room was dark, lit only by the low, ambient gold lines crisscrossing the black paneled walls. The bed was enormous, soft, and smelled distinctly of cologne and raw masculinity. It was then she realized she wasn’t in the guest wing, or in Isabella’s room. She was in the King’s chamber.

A slow panic began to rise, but it was immediately smothered by a powerful, strong arm draped over her body. The weight was heavy, warm, and entirely possessive.

Letty shifted slightly, attempting to move away from the source of the pressure. The arm instantly tightened around her, pulling her small body back against him. Dante’s solid front was pressed firmly against her back, conforming to the curve of her spine.

Faintly, the memories returned: Chloe’s scream, Dante’s command, the feeling of him drying her off and putting his shirt on her, the soft, protective tuck of the covers.

Letty felt him shift again, pushing his hips closer against her butt for maximum contact. It was then she felt it.

Massive, hard, and unmistakably his full erection—his morning wood—was pressed firmly against the gentle curve of her backside. The sheer size and unrelenting rigidity of him against her soft flesh sent a shockwave through her body, instantly chasing away the last vestiges of sleep.

Letty held her breath, every muscle tensing. She gently, slowly tried to move her hips away, attempting to slide from the bed, desperate to escape the intimate confrontation.

His arm tightened again, locking her in place. Then, a low, thick, gravelly voice, heavy with sleep, rumbled directly into the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Where you think you’re going?”

Letty's breath caught in her throat. She hesitated for a long moment, the warmth of his body and the hard presence of his erection pressing against her. She knew she couldn't outrun the command.

She took a deep breath and slowly turned to face him.

He was immense, even lying down. His eyes were still closed, the long, dark lashes resting against his cheek, but his jaw was tight, signaling he was fully awake and awaiting her answer.

"Thank you," she managed, her voice a soft rasp. "Thank you for... taking care of me last night."

Dante slowly peeked his eyes open, the deep chocolate gaze holding hers. He didn't acknowledge the gratitude, only the consequence of the night.

"How are you feeling?"

Letty shrugged slightly, testing the movement. "A slight headache, but... okay."

Dante didn't press the matter of the bed or his arousal. Instead, he slowly stretched his massive body, his muscles rippling under the sheet. He then threw the covers back and stood, walking to the attached bathroom.

Letty took the opportunity to slowly sit up, her head throbbing lightly. The first thing she noticed was his scent clinging to the soft, dark gray T-shirt that fell well past her hips. She was wearing his clothes, sitting in his bed—the reality was stark and intimate.

Dante returned quickly, having splashed cold water on his face. He was shirtless, wearing only the black sweatpants he’d put on the previous night.

He stopped, his eyes fixed on Letty. Her messy hair, the faint smudges of last night's dramatic eyeliner, and the simple fact that she was sitting on his bed in only his T-shirt made her look not only beautiful but incredibly sexy to him. The fabric of the T-shirt emphasized her small size and the long line of her exposed thighs. His throat went dry at the sight of her, and the urge to take her right there, right now, filled him with a potent, familiar hunger.

He took a deep, steadying breath, fighting the raw desire with effort. He focused on the immediate task.

“Come on, little one," he said, his voice dropping to a controlled gravel. "Let’s get you some breakfast. It will help with the hangover.”

Dante guided Letty out of the dark sanctuary of his room. He walked with an effortless pace, but Letty, still slightly groggy and fighting the lingering effects of the alcohol, moved slower, clinging to the edge of the oversized T-shirt that barely covered her.

As they reached the first-floor landing, the bright, airy light of the main foyer made Letty wince. The light was a painful assault on her eyes, a harsh reminder of her hangover.

Dante led her straight to the kitchen—a massive, gleaming space that looked less like a place to cook and more like a high-end showroom. Isabella and Lisa were already there, sitting on high stools at the colossal granite island, dressed in slinky silk nightgowns and sipping coffee, waiting for the staff to finish preparing breakfast.

The moment they walked in, Isabella and Lisa turned their heads. Their eyes immediately locked onto Letty, seeing her messy hair, her smudge of old eyeliner, and the defining piece of evidence: Dante’s gray T-shirt falling to her mid-thigh. Both girls exchanged playful smirks.

Isabella leaned forward, her voice laced with deliberate amusement. “Did you have a ‘good night,’ Nicolette?”

Letty, still disoriented and trying to adjust to the blinding light, missed the implied s****l taunt entirely. She simply registered the relief of the soft bed. She nodded sincerely, her voice still raspy. “I slept really well, thank you.”

Isabella and Lisa chuckled, finding the genuine naivety hilarious.

Dante shook his head at his sister and Lisa’s cruelty. He pulled a chair out for Letty at the island, and as she slid onto the seat, he leaned down close to her ear, his breath warm and familiar.

He whispered, his voice a low, gravelly current, “She meant if we had s*x, little one.”

The explicit clarification hit Letty like a physical blow. The shame, the realization of her compromised state, and the shocking intimacy of the situation sent a scorching wave of blood to her face. Letty’s entire face instantly turned a deep, painful fifty shades of red.

Lisa giggled, finding Letty’s intense embarrassment deeply entertaining. She then leaned in, her wicked smile turning conspiratorial. “We’re just kidding, Nicolette. We know you didn’t have s*x with Dante.”

Letty felt a confusing mix of relief and fresh humiliation.

Lisa pressed the point, delivering the final, brutal assessment with absolute certainty. “Cause if you did, you wouldn’t be able to walk after, specially if it was your first time.”

The explicit, casual confirmation of Dante’s immense physical and s****l power made Letty feel like her face was going to burn off. She sank lower in the chair, unable to look at anyone. The shame was total, but the words held a dark, perverse promise: she was safe, for now, but her eventual surrender would be absolute.

Just as the silence stretched thin, the French waiter from the day before approached the island. He placed a plate of perfectly prepared breakfast—fresh fruit and delicate pastries—in front of her.

Letty took a steadying breath, found the strength to look up, and offered a soft, genuine smile.

“Merci,” she said simply.

The waiter paused, smiled, and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before retreating back into the vast kitchen.

Isabella watched Letty with a mix of amusement and curiosity, finally asking the question lingering from their tutoring arrangement. “Where did you learn French, Nicolette?”

Letty paused, her mouth slightly puffed out with food.

Dante smiled softly at the sight. Letty quickly chewed, swallowed, and dabbed her mouth with a napkin—subtly showing the proper manners.

“My mother was French and Spaniard,” she explained. “She taught me. She said learning languages would be good for me.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “I have a little bit of French, but mostly I’m Italian.”

Isabella scoffed, rolling her eyes at her friend. “b***h, you’re American.”

Letty stiffened. The moment of factual inaccuracy, the confusion between cultural lineage and legal citizenship, was a gravitational pull her eidetic memory could not resist. She couldn't help herself.

“Actually,” Letty said casually, taking a sip of coffee, her voice carrying the quiet certainty of a research paper, “ethnicity is different from nationality.”

Isabella raised a genuinely confused eyebrow. “What?”

Letty dove into the explanation, her slight hangover momentarily forgotten, replaced by the cool clarity of her intellect. “Your ethnicity is your cultural provenance—your shared sociocultural matrix, founded on common historical antecedents. Your nationality, conversely, is your jure soli—your legal affiliation to a sovereign political entity. And race, distinct from both, constitutes your inherited phenotypic characteristics.”

Lisa and Isabella just stared at Letty, their morning buzz instantly sobered by the intellectual onslaught.

They looked like she had just sprouted five heads.

Dante, who had been quietly eating his breakfast next to her, set his fork down. He looked at his twin and his friend, then simplified the entire lesson, perfectly translating Letty's complex thought into terms they could grasp.

“She means this,” Dante said, his voice flat, asserting his control over the information. “Dad was born in America, but Nonno Elio was born in Italy. And Mom was born in Puerto Rico. That means we have Italian and Puerto Rican ethnicity but American nationality. You bitches were born here. She’s saying you’re American, and she’s right.”

Isabella scoffed, looking at Letty with a grudging, astonished interest. “Are you the female version of Rain Man or something?”

Letty, instantly shrinking from the public spotlight and the intense classification, sank down slightly in her seat. She whispered the true source of her ability, her voice barely audible.

“I have an eidetic memory,” she admitted. “I remember everything I read.”

Isabella just scoffed, amused and utterly intrigued by the revelation.