Surrendering to the Don's Dark Desires - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The salty sea air stings my nostrils, heavy with the metallic tang of blood. My gaze lingers on the man bound to the wooden chair at the edge of the garden, where the lawn slopes toward the cliffside. Waves crash violently against the rocks below—nature's own soundtrack to suffering.
No neighbors for miles.
Perfect.
Screams here just blend into the roar of the ocean.
I bought this villa outside Palermo for a reason. The terrace view with my morning espresso? Worth every goddamn euro. When storms roll in, I've got a soundproof basement two floors down. But today? Sunshine.
The man slumps forward, blood dripping from his broken nose onto what's left of his shirt. His breathing is ragged, uneven.
"Untie him," I order.
Marco moves without hesitation, slicing through the ropes. The man nearly face-plants into the grass, but Marco yanks him upright. His eyelids flutter open—then widen in pure terror when they land on me. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
"Bring him to the terrace."
I stride toward the coffee table, flanked by settees. Marco and Cristiano drag him over, dumping him onto the sofa across from me. He sinks into the cushions like a punctured tire.
"Coffee."
"Food."
"Now."
Marco vanishes inside.
Nathaniel—that's his name—stares at me with lips trembling like a leaf in the wind. Early thirties, already losing his hair. His linen pants are still crisp, but his shirt's a lost cause.
"You're a mama's boy, aren't you?" I murmur.
His breath hitches.
"H-how did you—?"
"Only son?"
"Father died young, left you to take care of her."
"She cooks, waits up for you every night."
"Plays cards with friends on Saturdays, comes home buzzed."
"That's your one free night—the night you sneak off to see your fiancée."
His face drains of color.
"D-Don Vittorio… please."
"Don't hurt them."
"That depends on you."
"I didn't do it!"
His whisper is raw, desperate.
"My men disagree."
I tilt my head.
"Your name?"
"Nathaniel."
"My mother calls me Nate."
"Nate."
I smirk.
"Tell me, Nate."
"Who paid you to leak our financials?"
"I didn't!"
"I'm just an accountant—"
"Working for who?"
"For you!"
He presses his palms together like he's praying.
"My family has served yours for generations."
"My grandfather, my father—"
"And yet," I lean in, "suddenly you can afford diamonds for Isabella."
His throat bobs.
Marco returns with a tray—espresso, water, a panini. Nathaniel eyes it like a man who's been starving for days.
"Eat."
He devours the food, gulps the coffee like it's his last meal. When he's done, I pour him water. His hands shake so badly half of it spills.
"Last chance."
"Who bought you?"
He shakes his head violently.
"Matteo's lying!"
Matteo snarls, lunging—but I'm faster.
My knife whips past them, embedding in the grass with a thud. Nathaniel screams, clutching his bleeding ear. The glass shatters on the tiles.
"Please!"
"I swear I don't know anything!"
He collapses to his knees, forehead pressed to the table like a sinner at confession.
"I just wanted a normal life—"
"With a woman who demands luxury."
Tears streak his face.
"She's innocent!"
"I know."
I stand.
"But you're not."
I draw my gun.
"Run."
His knees buckle.
"Don Vittorio—"
"Run."
He stumbles, then bolts across the lawn like a hunted animal. I let him reach the beach, let him think—just for a second—that he's free.
Then—
Bang.
He drops.
Bang.
No loose ends.
Marco jogs toward the body. Matteo steps beside me.
"He was lying, fratellone."
"I know."
I grip his shoulder.
"But you are too."
His jaw tightens.
"What?"
"You said you had a meeting."
I smirk.
"It's a date."
Matteo exhales, scowling.
"Vaffanculo."
I laugh, kissing his cheeks.
"One condition."
Lorenzo grins.
"We're all going."
"Dio cane!"
Matteo growls.
Alessandro claps him on the back.
"No escape, fratello."
Cristiano smirks.
"All of us… or none."
Matteo glares.
"Stronzi."
I holster my gun.
"Let's go."