Chapter 10: The Wager
The engine of the armored sedan was a low purr against the screaming silence between Sofia and Enzo. He hadn’t spoken since they left the safehouse, his focus absolute, eyes constantly scanning the mirrored streets. She watched his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the thumb that stroked absently over the scar on his knuckle—a nervous tic she’d never seen before.
“Enzo,” she started, her voice small in the plush interior.
“Not now, Sofia.” It wasn’t harsh, but final. The discussion was closed.
They arrived at the Grand Vesper not through the glittering lobby, but through a subterranean garage that smelled of damp concrete and exhaust. A private elevator, its walls brushed steel, whisked them soundlessly upward. When the doors opened, it was not into a hallway, but directly into the heart of a penthouse suite.
It was a different kind of fortress. Opulent, vast, smelling of polished wood, expensive cigar smoke, and beneath it all, a faint, familiar trace of espresso. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented the city as a sprawling circuit board of light. But the room wasn’t silent. From behind a set of partially closed double doors leading to the master suite, came sounds. The rhythmic, heavy thud of a headboard against a wall. A choked, muffled cry. A man’s low, guttural grunt.
Enzo’s tense posture didn’t change, but a different kind of energy settled over him. He looked down at Sofia, and for the first time that night, a spark ignited in his eyes—something dark, playful, and utterly devoid of mercy. He placed a hand on the small of her back, his touch proprietary.
“Time you met the team,” he said, and pushed the doors open.
The scene was lit by the city’s glow and a single lamp knocked to the floor, casting long, leaping shadows. Marco, his massive back a tapestry of old ink and coiled muscle, was driving into a woman bent over the disheveled bed. Her face was pressed into black silk, a man’s tie—probably Marco’s—wrapped cruelly tight across her mouth as a gag. Her cries were strained, vibrating hums of protest or pleasure, it was impossible to tell. Her hands were bound to the bedpost with another tie.
Marco glanced over his shoulder, not missing a thrust. Sweat gleamed on his skin. “Boss. Knew you’d be back soon.” He sounded almost casual, if not for the strain in his voice.
“Making yourself at home, I see,” Enzo replied, his voice a low rumble. He kept his hand on Sofia, who stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was a different level of obscenity, raw and performative.
“Just keeping the bed warm,” Marco grunted, slamming forward, making the woman’s body jerk.
Enzo’s gaze slid from Marco to Sofia. His fingers tangled in her fiery hair, not gently, and pulled her head back so she had to look up at him. “You see that, baby girl? My right hand. A man of simple, direct tastes.” He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “You still curious?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked her forward, right up to the side of the bed, the obscene soundtrack of wet flesh and stifled moans surrounding them. Marco’s woman—Kate, Sofia would learn later—turned a tear-streaked face toward them, her eyes wide and blurry.
Enzo looked from Sofia, whose breath was coming in short pants, to Marco, whose rhythm was starting to falter with the audience. A savage, competitive grin split Enzo’s face.
“Tell you what, Hammer,” Enzo said, his voice deceptively light. “Let’s make it interesting. First one to make their girl scream their name wins.”
Marco’s eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto Enzo’s. A challenge. A fucking game. A slow, answering smirk spread across his face. “What’s the wager?”
“Bragging rights,” Enzo said, already unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes never leaving Sofia. “And you do my security detail for a month.”
“Done.”
Enzo pushed Sofia forward, bending her over the foot of the massive bed, right beside where Marco was pistoning into Kate. The proximity was dizzying. Sofia could feel the heat radiating from their bodies, could smell sex and sweat and a hint of Marco’s cologne. Enzo’s hands ran up her thighs, hiking up her dress. He didn’t bother with underwear, just tore the thin fabric aside.
“You’re still loose and wet from me,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, pushing two inside with no preamble. She gasped, arching. “Good. That’ll make this faster.”
He freed himself from his trousers, the heavy weight of him slapping against her thigh. He was already fully hard. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and positioned the broad head at her entrance. At the same moment, Marco, energized by the contest, redoubled his efforts, his thrusts becoming shorter, more brutal, making the bedframe shudder.
“You ready?” Enzo growled into Sofia’s ear.
Before she could form a thought, he drove into her in one deep, claiming stroke. She cried out, a sharp sound lost in Kate’s muffled screams. Enzo set a punishing pace from the start, no warm-up, no tenderness, just a ruthless determination to conquer. Each deep plunge forced a punched-out gasp from her lungs. Beside her, Kate’s rhythmic wailing climbed in pitch as Marco hammered into her, the sound of his hips slapping against her flesh a syncopated beat to Enzo’s.
“You gonna scream for me, Sofia?” Enzo grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Or are you gonna let his whore win?”
The crude language, the visceral humiliation of being used in a competition, the raw, overwhelming physicality of him—it coiled a dark, shameful pleasure tight in her gut. She was melting around him, her body betraying her, welcoming the brutal rhythm. She turned her head, her cheek pressed against cool silk, and saw Marco watching them, his eyes glazed with effort and a feral pride.
“Fuck, Enzo, she’s taking it like a champ,” Marco rasped, never slowing.
“She’s mine,” Enzo snarled, his thrusts turning jagged, possessive. “She’ll scream it.”
His hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, urgent circles. The dual assault was too much. Pleasure, sharp and debilitating, began to shred her control. A broken sound escaped her, part sob, part moan.
“What’s that?” Enzo taunted, bending over her, his chest hot against her back. “I can’t hear you.”
“Enzo—” It was a gasp, ripped from her throat.
“Louder.”
He pinched her clit, sending a lightning bolt of sensation through her core just as he slammed particularly deep. Her vision whited out. “ENZO!”
Her scream echoed in the room, raw and real, drowning out the other woman’s muffled protests. It was immediately followed by a cascade of convulsing pleasure that clamped down on him, milking his length.
With a roar of triumph, Enzo spilled into her, his own release triggered by her climax and his victory. He pumped into her, grinding deep as he emptied himself, his body shuddering against hers.
A second later, with a final, brutal thrust and a choked grunt of “Marco!”, the other woman’s body went rigid, a high, desperate whine escaping around the gag. Marco followed, his roar joining Enzo’s, his big frame buckling over Kate’s bound form.
The room descended into a heavy, post-apocalyptic silence, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Enzo slowly pulled out of Sofia, leaving her feeling hollowed and used. He turned her around, his eyes blazing with victory and something softer, a proprietary warmth. He kissed her, deep and claiming, tasting of salt and her.
He looked over at Marco, who was untying Kate’s wrists with a surprising deftness. The woman, freed, immediately curled into a ball, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.
“Told you,” Enzo said, his voice hoarse but smug.
Marco just nodded, wiping his face with a discarded shirt. “A month of details. Fuck.” But he was smiling, a real one. The competition, the shared brutality, had cemented something. Sofia understood, with a chilling clarity, that she had just passed an initiation. She was no longer just Enzo’s secret. She was, in this raw and ugly way, part of the crew.
Enzo led her to a vast ensuite bathroom, leaving Marco to tend to Kate. He turned the shower on hot, steam billowing around them. As he washed her with a strange, clinical tenderness, his hands gentle on her bruises, he spoke quietly.
“Vito hit one of our warehouses. Took a shipment. Hurt two men.”
She looked up at him, water streaming down her face. “What happens now?”
He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking over a mark his teeth had left on her shoulder. “Now, we hit back harder.” He looked at her, his gaze unwavering. “You’re in this. You understand? There’s no walking away after tonight.”
She understood. The screams in the bedroom weren’t just about sex; they were a declaration. A line crossed. She was his, bound not just by curiosity or lust, but by blood and silence and the echoing memory of her own voice screaming his name into the dark.