empire of sin

Chapter 2:A Gift from the Devil

Florence - The Next Morning

Sofia hadn't slept.

She had replayed the kiss-his kiss-a thousand times in her mind. Her lips still felt bruised from it. Her neck still buzzed with the phantom heat of his touch.

The gallery's morning light was crisp and indifferent. She hated how normal it all looked after last night.

She was drinking her coffee when she heard the soft chime of the front door.

The courier didn't speak. Just handed her a black box sealed with gold wax and a folded card.

Sofia's name was written in flawless, masculine script.

She hesitated before opening it. Her instincts screamed one thing:

Don't.

But she did.

Inside was a painting-small, no more than ten by twelve inches. Oil on canvas. The brushstrokes delicate, centuries old.

She inhaled sharply.

It was a Fragonard.

Authentic. Untouched. Worth millions.

And unmistakably erotic-depicting a woman reclining in a silk-draped chair, her bodice loosened, lips parted, breasts bare, while a masked man knelt between her thighs.

Sofia's breath caught.

Tucked beneath the canvas was a note.

> "You hide fire behind glass. I prefer to see it burn.

~L"

Her hands shook as she set the note down.

He was taunting her. Teasing her. Knowing she wouldn't return it. Because she was an art historian, and he knew she would never resist something like this. It was manipulation. Pure, calculated dominance disguised as generosity.

And it worked.

Her phone buzzed. A number she didn't recognize. She answered it anyway.

"Do you like my gift?" His voice was low, smooth, and intimate. Like a whisper against her skin.

"You can't just send me something like that," she snapped.

"I can. I did. And you didn't throw it away."

"I should."

"Should," Leo said softly. "But won't."

Sofia closed her eyes. "You don't get to play with me, Romano."

"You think this is a game?" He laughed, dark and low. "Sofia, you are the only thing I take seriously."

Something twisted in her stomach.

He went on, voice silk and steel. "I sent the painting because I wanted you to imagine what I'd do to you. The things I'd make you beg for."

"Don't flatter yourself," she lied, her voice thinner than she intended.

"I don't need to. You kissed me back."

Her silence betrayed her.

"I'll see you tonight," he said.

"I didn't agree to-"

"I'll be at the gallery. At closing."

The line went dead.

---

She didn't leave.

She told herself she was only staying to confront him. To demand he stop. To put an end to the insanity. But as the hour approached, she could barely breathe.

At 8:00 p.m. sharp, the lights dimmed in the front hall.

And he was there.

Wearing black again. Like sin walking.

This time, he brought no words. Just presence.

She didn't speak either.

They stared at each other for a long, taut moment.

Then Leo reached for the door and locked it behind him.

Sofia stood frozen as he crossed the floor toward her. He stopped only inches away.

"You wore your hair down," he said.

Her lips parted. "And if I did?"

His eyes darkened. "Then I'll take it as a yes."

"To what?"

He didn't answer.

He took her wrist-gently, but with undeniable control-and guided her toward the back office.

She didn't resist.

She hated herself for it, but her blood was molten under her skin, desire knotting low in her belly.

Once inside, he shut the door, leaving them in dim, private light.

Then Leo turned and said, "I'm going to touch you, Sofia. You can say no. You can walk away. Or you can stay and let me show you how much I've thought about this-about you."

She should say no.

She should walk away.

Instead, she nodded.

That was all he needed.

His hands slid into her hair, tilting her mouth to his, and this time the kiss wasn't rushed or violent.

It was slow. Tormentingly slow.

He tasted her like he was starving and she was the only thing that would ever satisfy him. His tongue flicked against hers, teasing, drawing gasps from her lips.

He lifted her onto the desk in one swift motion, hands cupping her thighs.

"Open for me," he murmured against her mouth.

She did.

His hand slipped beneath the slit in her dress-fingers grazing the inside of her thigh, higher, higher-

She gasped as he found her already wet.

"You're trembling," he whispered, breath hot against her ear. "Is that fear, or need?"

"Both," she whispered.

"Good. Because I want you to feel everything."

He slid his fingers into her, slow and deep, curling inside her. Her hips jerked, pleasure spiking through her like lightning. She clung to him, head falling back, lips parted in a silent moan.

He kissed down her throat, sucking gently at the spot where her pulse throbbed.

"You're so wet for me already," he growled. "I haven't even tasted you yet."

She gasped as he dropped to his knees in front of her-on the gallery desk, in the office where she'd worked for years. And now here she was, legs spread, back arched, being devoured by a man who had the power to ruin her.

His mouth was hot and relentless-tongue teasing her c**t, lips pulling her apart, sucking until her vision blurred. He didn't stop when she cried out. Didn't stop when she begged. He held her hips down and made her ride the waves of pleasure until she shattered.

Her orgasm hit her like a storm, ripping her apart as she moaned his name, hips bucking, thighs quaking.

When he stood, his mouth was wet with her, and his eyes burned.

"I'm not done with you," he said. "Not even close."

And God help her-she didn't want him to be.

---