Surrendering to the Don's Dark Desires - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
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The woman approaches with slow, deliberate steps, her stilettos clicking like gunshots against the marble floor. Gold chains glint around her ankles under the dim lighting, a sharp contrast to her simple black silk dress. She stops just inches away—so close I can feel her breath—her head barely reaching my collarbone.
"Capo," she murmurs, dipping her chin in that practiced show of respect. "I was told you requested me."
"Did you now?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
When her green eyes flick up to meet mine—framed by those thick lashes—my chest tightens like a vice.
Jesus Christ.
It's her.
The woman from my dreams—the one with emerald eyes and raven hair whose phantom touch still burns my skin. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, to see if she's flesh and blood.
But she's not.
This woman smells all wrong—like cheap perfume, too sweet, too fucking artificial. It clings to the back of my throat, turning my stomach.
"Who sent you?" I snarl, gripping her chin hard enough to bruise.
She flinches but doesn't pull away. Instead, she tilts her head toward the lounge where Matteo's sprawled on the couch, arm draped over some moaning woman. The bastard smirks at me, raising his glass in that mocking salute of his.
Motherfucker.
He thought this was funny? Sending me some dollar-store knockoff of the woman who haunts my dreams?
"Strip."
The command leaves no room for argument. She obeys without hesitation, letting the dress slide off her shoulders to pool at her feet. Disappointment coils in my gut like a snake. No fire in her gaze. No defiance in her posture. Just another paid body waiting for orders.
"Turn around. Hands on the glass."
She presses against the window, arching her back like she's been trained to do. I should want this. My body refuses to react.
Frustration burns through me. I force myself to touch her, but the moment my fingers make contact, revulsion crawls up my spine. Too soft. Too wrong.
"Get out." I shove her away harder than necessary.
She scrambles for her dress, confusion flashing across her face. Marco frowns from his post by the door. "Boss?"
"Not now."
I storm to the bar and pour myself a double of Macallan 25. The burn does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
Why the hell did I come back? To prove a point? To take what's mine? Or to finally bury the bastard who tried to bury me first?
The Kane Firm's spreading through the city like cancer. And my dear old father—Don Vittorio—expects me to clean up his mess. But I've got my own plans. Plans that need alliances. Power. Control.
And her.
The woman who doesn't exist.
A sharp laugh escapes me. Maybe I am losing my damn mind.
"Training," I mutter, heading for the exit.
Marco steps forward. "Alone?"
"I don't need a fucking babysitter."
The streets are deserted this late, the cold air sharp against my skin. My knife rests heavy at my side—an old friend.
Then I hear it—footsteps. Too close.
I spin, blade already drawn. The first idiot lunges. My knife finds his gut before he can blink. Number two comes at me bare-handed. Amateur. I break his nose with my elbow, then sweep his legs out from under him.
The third actually lands a punch—stars explode behind my eyes. I return the favor with a brutal headbutt that sends him crashing to the pavement.
Then arms lock around my throat from behind. Black spots dance in my vision as I drive my elbow into his ribs. His grip loosens just enough for me to flip him over my shoulder. Before he hits concrete, my blade's at his throat.
One quick slash.
Blood sprays. His body convulses, then goes still.
Bile rises in my throat. Since when does killing turn my stomach?
Footsteps pound behind me. Matteo skids to a stop, taking in the carnage. "What the hell happened?"
"Take a wild guess," I rasp, wiping blood from my face.
Cristiano and Lorenzo show up next, Marco right behind them. "Who dares attack the Capo?" Lorenzo demands.
I don't answer. Because I already know. The Kane Firm. Or worse—someone in my own damn family.
Matteo grabs one of the surviving attackers by the collar. "Talk."
The man smirks—then foam spills from his mouth.
"Poison," Cristiano hisses.
"Russians?" Lorenzo guesses.
"Or the Kanes," I say coldly.
Matteo curses. "They'll pay for this."
Alessandro pulls up in my Maserati with Raphael right behind him. "Clean this up," I order Marco before sliding into the driver's seat and flooring it.
The wind whips through my hair as adrenaline sings in my veins. Whoever sent those men made one fatal mistake—they didn't finish the job.
And now?
I'm coming for blood.
"Capo," she murmurs, dipping her chin in that practiced show of respect. "I was told you requested me."
"Did you now?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
When her green eyes flick up to meet mine—framed by those thick lashes—my chest tightens like a vice.
Jesus Christ.
It's her.
The woman from my dreams—the one with emerald eyes and raven hair whose phantom touch still burns my skin. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, to see if she's flesh and blood.
But she's not.
This woman smells all wrong—like cheap perfume, too sweet, too fucking artificial. It clings to the back of my throat, turning my stomach.
"Who sent you?" I snarl, gripping her chin hard enough to bruise.
She flinches but doesn't pull away. Instead, she tilts her head toward the lounge where Matteo's sprawled on the couch, arm draped over some moaning woman. The bastard smirks at me, raising his glass in that mocking salute of his.
Motherfucker.
He thought this was funny? Sending me some dollar-store knockoff of the woman who haunts my dreams?
"Strip."
The command leaves no room for argument. She obeys without hesitation, letting the dress slide off her shoulders to pool at her feet. Disappointment coils in my gut like a snake. No fire in her gaze. No defiance in her posture. Just another paid body waiting for orders.
"Turn around. Hands on the glass."
She presses against the window, arching her back like she's been trained to do. I should want this. My body refuses to react.
Frustration burns through me. I force myself to touch her, but the moment my fingers make contact, revulsion crawls up my spine. Too soft. Too wrong.
"Get out." I shove her away harder than necessary.
She scrambles for her dress, confusion flashing across her face. Marco frowns from his post by the door. "Boss?"
"Not now."
I storm to the bar and pour myself a double of Macallan 25. The burn does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
Why the hell did I come back? To prove a point? To take what's mine? Or to finally bury the bastard who tried to bury me first?
The Kane Firm's spreading through the city like cancer. And my dear old father—Don Vittorio—expects me to clean up his mess. But I've got my own plans. Plans that need alliances. Power. Control.
And her.
The woman who doesn't exist.
A sharp laugh escapes me. Maybe I am losing my damn mind.
"Training," I mutter, heading for the exit.
Marco steps forward. "Alone?"
"I don't need a fucking babysitter."
The streets are deserted this late, the cold air sharp against my skin. My knife rests heavy at my side—an old friend.
Then I hear it—footsteps. Too close.
I spin, blade already drawn. The first idiot lunges. My knife finds his gut before he can blink. Number two comes at me bare-handed. Amateur. I break his nose with my elbow, then sweep his legs out from under him.
The third actually lands a punch—stars explode behind my eyes. I return the favor with a brutal headbutt that sends him crashing to the pavement.
Then arms lock around my throat from behind. Black spots dance in my vision as I drive my elbow into his ribs. His grip loosens just enough for me to flip him over my shoulder. Before he hits concrete, my blade's at his throat.
One quick slash.
Blood sprays. His body convulses, then goes still.
Bile rises in my throat. Since when does killing turn my stomach?
Footsteps pound behind me. Matteo skids to a stop, taking in the carnage. "What the hell happened?"
"Take a wild guess," I rasp, wiping blood from my face.
Cristiano and Lorenzo show up next, Marco right behind them. "Who dares attack the Capo?" Lorenzo demands.
I don't answer. Because I already know. The Kane Firm. Or worse—someone in my own damn family.
Matteo grabs one of the surviving attackers by the collar. "Talk."
The man smirks—then foam spills from his mouth.
"Poison," Cristiano hisses.
"Russians?" Lorenzo guesses.
"Or the Kanes," I say coldly.
Matteo curses. "They'll pay for this."
Alessandro pulls up in my Maserati with Raphael right behind him. "Clean this up," I order Marco before sliding into the driver's seat and flooring it.
The wind whips through my hair as adrenaline sings in my veins. Whoever sent those men made one fatal mistake—they didn't finish the job.
And now?
I'm coming for blood.
End of Surrendering to the Don's Dark Desires Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to Surrendering to the Don's Dark Desires book page.