Chapter 7: Confessions at 90mph
The safe house wasn’t a prison. It was a tomb dressed as a luxury apartment. Tucked in a bland, high-security building near the docks, it smelled of new paint and silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the relentless river, but the glass was two inches thick and could stop a .50 caliber round. Marco had said nothing during the drive, his eyes constantly moving in the rearview mirror, tracking every headlight.
He led her inside, his bulk filling the sterile space. “Kitchen’s fully stocked. Bedroom’s there. TV gets 247 channels of nothing. Do not open the door. For anyone. Even if you know them. Especially if you know them.” His voice was a gravelly monotone. He placed a new, untraceable phone on the quartz countertop. “This rings, you answer it. It’ll only be him.”
Sofia stood in the center of the living room, arms wrapped around herself. The phantom ache from the warehouse was a persistent throb, a raw reminder of the line she’d let him cross. “How long?”
Marco shrugged, his suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. “As long as it takes. The aunt… it’s messy. He’s cleaning it.”
“Cleaning it,” Sofia repeated, the euphemism tasting like ash.
Marco’s eyes, sharp and distrustful, finally landed squarely on her. “You think this is a game? What he did to you in that warehouse? That’s not him being tender. That’s him marking his territory because other wolves are circling. You’re a liability the second you step out of his shadow right now. A pretty, red-headed liability who knows his face and his… preferences.” His gaze flickered, almost imperceptibly, to the fading bruise on her neck. “Be grateful for the silence. It means he’s still breathing.”
He left, the door locking with a series of heavy, definitive clicks.
The silence was immense. She moved to the window, watching the river’s dark current. She thought of Vito’s wife, of stolen fingers and a coma. She thought of an aunt who loved too loudly and was now a problem to be sorted. She saw Enzo’s face as he’d told her, the cold fury barely leashed. I’ll handle it.
Hours bled into each other. She tried to sleep in the stark bedroom, but the sheets were cold and smelled of industrial detergent. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the cold steel beam against her cheek, the shocking, full ache of his possession, the rough poetry of his words in her ear. Her body reacted, a traitorous heat pooling low in her belly, a throbbing need that shamed her. She was terrified, and she was desperate for him to walk through the door and do it all again.
The new phone rang just past midnight, a shrill sound in the quiet. She scrambled for it.
“Are you hurt?”
Enzo’s voice was stripped bare, all gravel and exhaustion. No hello.
“No,” she said, her own voice small.
“The apartment. Is it acceptable?”
“It’s a fish tank with bulletproof glass.”
A short, humorless puff of air came down the line. “It’s safe. Marco’s outside in the car. He doesn’t sleep. He watches.”
“The aunt?” Sofia asked, dreading the answer.
A long pause. “She’s quiet now. Persuaded.”
“Is she alive?”
Another pause. “She’s no longer a problem.” He changed the subject, the finality in his tone leaving no room for follow-up. “What are you wearing?”
The question, so crude and direct, sent a jolt through her. “A t-shirt. My panties. Nothing else.”
“From the bed. Describe the window. What do you see?”
She obeyed, walking back to the bedroom, phone pressed to her ear. “The window is big. I see the sodium lights on the far bridge. The water is black. There’s a barge moving slowly.”
“Lie down. Put the phone on the pillow next to you.”
She did, the cool cotton against her back. She heard the faint sound of an engine, the squeal of a distant train. He was driving.
“Touch yourself.”
The command was flat, devoid of its usual heated growl. It was a test. A maintenance check.
“Enzo…”
“Now, Sofia.” The exhaustion was gone, replaced by the iron she recognized. “You’re mine. I need to hear it. I need to know that while I’m out here in the fucking mud, you’re still there, warm and wet and thinking of me.”
Her hand trembled as she slid it under the waistband of her panties. She was already slick, her body remembering what her mind was trying to process. She let out a shaky breath as her fingers found her clit.
“Talk to me,” he demanded, his voice closer now, intimate through the speaker.
“I’m… touching myself,” she whispered.
“Are you thinking about the warehouse? About how I fucked that tight little ass of yours against the beam?”
“Yes.” The word was a moan. She circled her clit, her hips lifting off the bed.
“Did you like it? Did you like feeling so full of me you couldn’t breathe?”
“Yes, god, yes.” Her fingers moved faster. The shame was there, but it was being burned away by the sheer, isolating pleasure, by the sound of his voice claiming her from miles away.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his own breath hitching slightly. “Come thinking about my cock. Think about how deep I was. How you’re gonna let me do it again, anytime I want. However I want.”
It crashed over her, brutal and fast, wracking her body in a silent, shuddering wave. She cried out, biting the pillow to muffle the sound. She rode it out, her toes curling, vision spotting.
Silence stretched on the line, save for the sound of her ragged breathing and the distant purr of his car.
“Good,” he said finally, the word soft. Spent. “Now sleep. I’ll be there by morning.”
The line went dead.
She lay in the afterglow, feeling used and hollow and paradoxically, more his than ever. The orgasm hadn’t been a connecting thread; it had been a leash, yanked to remind her of its presence.
Dawn was a gray smear on the horizon when the locks disengaged. Enzo stepped inside. He looked like he’d been carved from the night itself. His black coat was streaked with what might have been rain or something else. A fresh cut, stark and red, ran along his jawline. His eyes were dark holes, burning with a feverish intensity.
He didn’t speak. He dropped his coat, toe-kicked his shoes off, and walked toward her. He reeked of cold air, gasoline, and a faint, coppery undertone.
She stood frozen by the kitchen island.
He stopped before her, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in her rumpled t-shirt, her bare legs. He saw the phone on the counter. A flicker of something—satisfaction?—passed over his worn features.
“You obeyed.”
Before she could answer, his hands were on her, lifting her onto the cold quartz of the island. The shock of the stone against her thighs made her gasp. He pushed her back until she was half-lying, propped on her elbows. He shoved her legs apart, stepping between them, his belt already unbuckled.
“I need to feel something real,” he growled, and it was almost a plea. The control was there, but it was frayed, held together by sheer will.
He wasn’t gentle. He pulled her panties aside, not even bothering to remove them. He was already hard, jutting arrogantly from his open flies. He spat into his hand, gave himself two rough strokes, and guided himself to her entrance. He watched her face as he entered her in one deep, claiming thrust.
She was still sensitive from earlier, and he was thick, hard, unyielding. She cried out, her head falling back.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his. He began to move, a harsh, piston-like rhythm, his hips slamming into her with a force that shook the island on its foundation. This wasn't about her pleasure. This was about exorcism. About wiping away whatever he'd seen, whatever he'd done, in the heat of her body.
“You’re the only clean thing,” he rasped, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “The only thing that doesn’t smell of blood and lies. Fuck.”
He bent over her, his mouth crushing down on hers, his tongue plunging in time with his cock. The tast of coffee and something darker—whiskey, perhaps—filled her mouth. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back, feeling the tension there, the coiled violence seeking release.
He fucked her with a desperate, brutal clarity. The sounds were raw: the slap of skin, the grind of his body against the stone, their mingled, ragged breaths. He pulled her leg up over his shoulder, deepening the angle, hitting a spot that made her see stars.
“Come with me,” he grunted against her neck, his teeth grazing the old bruise. “I need to feel you come. I need to know I can still make something alive.”
His words, more than the friction, tipped her over. She shattered, a sharp, consuming climax that clenched around him like a vise. He groaned, a sound of profound relief, and followed her, his thrusts becoming erratic, then ceasing as he emptied himself deep inside her with a long, shuddering growl.
He stayed there, buried in her, his forehead resting on her collarbone, his entire weight leaning into her. His breathing slowly evened out. The metallic, foreign scent on him was now mixed with the intimate smell of their sex.
After a long moment, he carefully lifted her leg down and withdrew. He gently pulled her panties back into place, a bizarrely tender gesture. He helped her sit up on the edge of the counter. He didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the gray light now filling the windows.
“The aunt is in protective custody. Federal. It’s… a compromise.” He spoke to the window. “Vito’s wife died an hour ago. Without regaining consciousness.”
Sofia’s breath caught. She reached for him, her hand hovering over his arm.
He finally looked at her, his expression unreadable. “The world out there… it’s all rot. You’re in here. You stayed.” He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. “Now you know the cost of the air you breathe with me.”
He turned and walked toward the bedroom, a king returning to a fortress that suddenly felt very small. “Come to bed. I need to sleep. And I sleep better when I’m holding you.”
She slid off the counter, her legs unsteady. She followed him, not into the light, but into the darkness he carried with him, understanding now that the bruise on her neck was the least permanent mark he would leave.