Chapter 42: Sergio takes his revenge on Alma with brutal force, using her body as both punishment and message to Enzo
The jet’s engines were a deep, soothing purr as it carved through the night sky, a steel cocoon of isolated wealth. In the main cabin, Enzo was a fortress of concentration, lit by the glow of a tablet, deep in a encrypted call with Swiss lawyers. His voice was a low, steady rumble about escrow accounts and performance clauses. He’d given Alma a slight, almost imperceptible nod ten minutes ago. The coast is clear. Do the work.
The work was Sergio. He’d been pacing the cabin like a caged tiger, refusing wine, barely glancing at the meal Alma had arranged. The humiliation from Monaco festered around him like a heat haze. He finally slumped into a seat, staring blankly at a film he wasn’t watching, his knuckles white on the armrests.
Alma approached with a fresh bottle of mineral water and a glass. “You should try to rest,” she said, her voice professional, laced with the careful, sympathetic tone they’d agreed upon. Kind, but not intimate. Understanding, but distant.
His hand shot out, not for the glass, but to wrap around her wrist. His grip was ferocious, a mirror of that first day in the strategy room, but now poisoned with knowledge. “I need to talk to you,” he hissed, his eyes wild. “Alone. Now.”
“Sergio, not now. Enzo is—”
“Fuck Enzo.” He stood, pulling her with him, his momentum carrying them toward the private bedroom suite at the rear of the jet. He was stronger than he looked, fueled by a volatile mix of hurt and fury. “We’re talking. Now.”
He shoved the suite door open, yanked her inside, and slammed it shut. The lock engaged with a soft, definitive click. The room was plush, silent save for the eternal hum of the engines. The window was a black rectangle, occasionally streaked with distant, ground-bound lights.
He released her wrist, and she saw the red bands his fingers had left. He saw them too. His breath hitched.
“Look what he does to you,” Sergio whispered, the anger cracking to reveal the raw pain beneath.
“Sergio, you need to calm down.”
“Calm down?” He laughed, a short, brittle sound. He stepped closer, crowding her toward the window. “You let him fuck you on the table where we plan races. You let him use you like a… a receptacle. And you want me to be calm?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Alma?” He spat her name. “Explain it to me. Make me understand this partnership.” He used Enzo’s word like a curse.
She held her ground, lifting her chin. “It’s complicated. It’s private. It doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t!” His control snapped. In one violent motion, he spun her around, slamming her front against the cool, pressurized window. Her cheekbone pressed hard against the plexiglass, the infinite drop a dizzying abstraction below. His body weighed her down, his hips pinning her ass. One hand fisted in her hair, holding her head still.
“You think I’m a child?” he snarled into her ear, his voice thick with venom and something else—a desperate, brutal desire. “You think I don’t know what you are? He’s trained you well. His perfect, discreet little whore.”
His free hand groped between them, fingers clawing at the waistband of her tailored trousers. The button popped. The zipper rasped down. She struggled, a genuine, primal surge of panic igniting in her gut.
“Sergio, stop! Don’t—”
“Why?” he grunted, yanking the fabric down over her hips, his fingers tearing at the silk of her underwear. “Isn’t this what you’re for? Isn’t this your job?” The silk ripped. The cool cabin air hit her bare skin. “He gets to have you. Why not me? I’m the one who pays for all of it. I’m the fucking product!”
He was rutting against her, his cock hard and insistent through his jeans. She could feel the frantic, angry energy of him. This wasn’t desire. It was punishment. An assertion of ownership he felt he’d been denied.
“You’re not him,” Alma gasped, her hands splayed against the unyielding window.
“No,” Sergio agreed, a grim triumph in his voice. He fumbled with his own fly, the sound of his belt a sharp, menacing click in the quiet room. “I’m not. I don’t need your fucking permission.”
Then, a new sound. A heavy, metallic thud against the door. Then another. A muffled shout.
“Sergio! Open this goddamn door! Alma!”Enzo. His voice was raw with a panic she’d never heard before
Another thunderous blow shook the door. “I will break it down! I swear to Christ!”
Enzo burst in, his suit jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up. His eyes swept the scene: Alma at the window, exposed and limp; Sergio, angry and rutting into her through his jeans; the intimate, violent disorder of the room. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space in three strides and wrenched Sergio off Alma before his fist connected with Sergio’s jaw with a crack that echoed in the small space.
Sergio went down, sprawling on the deep carpet.
Enzo didn’t look at him again. He went straight to Alma, his hands suddenly gentle, his voice a low, urgent murmur. He pulled her trousers up, his touch clinical, hiding the evidence. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her away from the window, cradling her against his chest where she shook with a cold that had nothing to do with temperature.
“Look at me,” he whispered into her hair. “Habibti, look at me. You’re here. You’re safe. Breathe.”
Over his shoulder, Alma saw Sergio push himself up on one elbow, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He watched Enzo hold her, his expression one of utter desolation. He saw the profound, unfeigned tenderness in the older man’s touch, the fear in his eyes. He saw the stark difference between what he had just tried to take and what was freely given.
He had wanted to prove they were the same, him and Enzo. That her relationship with his manager was just another transaction. In his violent, clumsy attempt, he had proven the exact opposite.
Enzo finally turned his head, looking down at Sergio. The protective fury was gone, replaced by a cold, contemptuous certainty. “Get out,” he said, the words quiet and final. “If you ever touch her again, I will end you. Not your career. You. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
Sergio stumbled from the room without another word, the door sighing shut on its hydraulic hinge, sealing them into a new, heavier silence. Enzo’s hands, which had been fists moments before, now moved over Alma with a devastating tenderness. He didn’t speak. He led her to the suite’s ensuite bathroom, a space of muted marble and soft light.
He turned on the taps, filling the silence with the rush of water. He tested the temperature with his wrist, then slowly, carefully, began to undress her. His fingers were meticulous on the buttons of her blouse, gentle as he pushed the torn trousers from her hips. He knelt to help her step out of them, his head bowed, his breath washing over her trembling thighs. He discarded his own shirt, the fabric stained with sweat and tension, before guiding her into the deep, steaming tub.
The water was a shock of warmth. He climbed in behind her, pulling her back against his chest, his legs framing hers. He reached for a soft cloth and a bottle of her unscented cleanser. “Here,” he murmured, his voice rumbling against her spine. He began to wash her. Not with desire, but with a sacrameric thoroughness. The cloth moved over her shoulders, down her arms, across her belly. He washed between her legs with a clinical focus, rinsing away all trace of Sergio’s violation, his touch firm yet infinitely careful.
She cried then. Not noisy sobs, but a silent, relentless flood that shook her frame and dripped from her chin into the bathwater. He held her through it, his arms locked around her, his lips pressed to the wet knot of her hair. He didn’t offer platitudes. He just anchored her, his presence a bulwark against the fissure that had cracked open inside her. “I have you,” he whispered, once, into the shell of her ear. “I have you, and I will burn his world down for this.”
When the water cooled and her tears subsided into hiccupping breaths, he lifted her out, wrapping her in a towel so large it swallowed her. He blotted her skin dry, then carried her to the bedroom, placing her in the center of the large bed. He pulled the covers over her and then slid in beside her, still in his trousers, gathering her damp body back into the fortress of his arms. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scents of his skin, his cologne, his rage. The last of the tension leaked from her muscles, and a deep, exhaustive sleep dragged her under.
He held her until her breathing deepened into the unmistakable rhythm of unconsciousness, until the grip of her hand on his arm slackened. Only then did he extricate himself, moving with a predator’s silence. He dressed in fresh, dark clothes from his bag, his movements efficient and deadly calm. At the suite door, he picked up the internal phone and dialed a four-digit code.
Leo, his personal security lead—a compact man with a forgettable face and eyes that noticed everything—was there in ninety seconds. Enzo met him in the sitting area, the bedroom door ajar. “You sit in that chair,” Enzo said, his voice low and absolutely flat. “You don’t sleep. You don’t look away from that door. If anything larger than a fly tries to get near her, you put it down. You don’t wake her for anything less than the plane being on fire. Understood?”
Leo gave a single, sharp nod. He took the indicated seat, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the threshold. He was a fixture, a piece of loyal furniture. Enzo placed a hand on his shoulder for a second, a transfer of profound trust, then turned and left.
The main cabin was dark, lit only by the ghostly glow of standby lights. Sergio sat slumped in a chair by a window, a glass of amber liquor dangling from his fingers, untouched. He didn’t look up as Enzo approached. The drone of the engines filled the space between them.
Enzo didn’t sit. He stood over him, a column of contained violence. “Look at me.”
Sergio’s head lifted slowly. One side of his face was already blooming into a purple bruise where Enzo’s knuckles had connected. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.
“You put your hands on her,” Enzo began, his tone conversational, which was more frightening than any shout. “You tore her clothes. You tried to fuck her like an animal to prove a point to me. Is that the sum of it?”
“She sits on him to ram it so deep that splitting smile makes definition hen peftis dj." Sergio’s voice was shredded. “What difference does it make?”
The backhand was swift, a crack that snapped Sergio’s head to the side. The glass fell, soaking into the carpet. “The difference,” Enzo said, his hand returning calmly to his side, “is that she opens for me. She begs for me. She comes for me. You had to take. You had to hurt. That is the difference between a man and a spoiled child throwing a tantrum.”
Sergio pressed a hand to his stinging cheek, saying nothing.
“You think this is about possession?” Enzo leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of Sergio’s chair, caging him in. “It is. But not of her. Of you. Every part of your life is a lever I control. Your contracts. Your reps. The engineering preferences I have curated for you over a decade. The narrative the press swallows. She is the only thing you have looked at that was truly, solely mine. And you couldn’t stand it. So you broke it.”
“I love her,” Sergio choked out, the words sounding pathetic even to him.
Enzo laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “You love the idea of saving her from me. A story you told yourself. Now you get to live in the reality you created.” He straightened, looking down at the driver with icy finality. “You will race tomorrow. You will win. You will smile for the cameras. And you will never, ever speak to her again unless it is a direct instruction regarding team logistics. You look through her. She is air.”
“Or what?” Sergio whispered, a final spark of defiance.
Enzo’s smile was thin. “Or I release the sensor data from Barcelona last year. The data that shows you missed the apex in turn seven not because of tire degradation, but because you were drunk. The data the team buried. You’ll be uninsurable. You’ll be finished.” He turned to walk away, then paused. “The bed you tried to take her in? I’m going to fuck her in it now. I’m going to make her scream my name so loud you’ll hear it through the door. And you will sit here and listen to what you can never have.”cotected
He walked back to the suite, nodded to Leo, and entered, locking the door behind him. Alma was still asleep, a fragile shape in the vast bed. He undressed, letting his clothes fall to the floor. He slid in beside her, the heat of his body pulling her from the depths. She stirred, murmuring his name into the pillow.
“Wake up,” he said softly, his hand skimming down her side. He needed this. He needed to rewrite the memory in this space, in both their bodies, to scorch away the ghost of Sergio’s violence. “Look at me, Alma.”
Her eyes opened, blurred with sleep and residual trauma. He kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her taste. His hands were not gentle now. They were demanding. He rolled her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one of his. “He tried to take you,” Enzo breathed against her lips, his other hand parting her thighs. “This is mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she whispered, her body already arching for him, the
past hours dissolving into the pure, physical now. His fingers dug into the soft skin of her inner thighs, pushing them wider, exposing her completely. He entered her with a single, brutal thrust, no preparation, no gentleness. The stretch was immediate, a searing fullness that made her cry out into the damp space between their mouths.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips already pistoning, each drive a deliberate hammer strike against the memory of the window, the torn silk, the helpless panic. “This is what you choose. This cock. This claim. Not his pathetic grab at power.” His pace was merciless, the slap of skin on skin a stark, rhythmic counterpoint to the jet’s hum. He was marking her from the inside, rewriting the violation with a possession so total it bordered on annihilation.
Alma’s cries were not of pain but of raw, catalytic release. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, meeting every plunge. “Yes! God, Enzo, yes!” Her fingers tore at the sheets, then clawed at his shoulders, anchoring herself in the storm he was conjuring. The earlier fear, the violation, transmuted into a feral hunger, a need to be consumed so utterly nothing else remained.
He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and her world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined. A coil, tight and white-hot, snapped in her core. Her back bowed off the bed, a broken scream tearing from her throat. “Enzo! Fuck! I’m coming!” The orgasm ripped through her, wave after convulsing wave, her cunt clamping around him in frantic, pulsing squeezes.
Through the door, in the silent, dark cabin, Sergio heard it. The scream was unmistakable—ecstatic, surrendered, fraying at the edges into a sobbing laugh. It was not a sound of distress. It was the sound of a soul being unmade and remade. He flinched as if struck, the glass in his hand trembling. He knew that sound. He had dreamed of eliciting it. Now it was a blade twisting in the wound Enzo had carved.
Enzo felt her climax, felt her inner muscles milking him, and it pushed him over the edge. With a ragged, guttural roar that was pure triumph, he buried himself to the hilt and came. He spilled into her, a hot, endless rush, claiming the very space Sergio had tried to desecrate. He collapsed on her, both of them slick and heaving, the air thick with sex and spent rage.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. Then, Enzo moved. He withdrew gently and rolled to his side, pulling her with him. He cradled her face, his thumbs brushing away tears and sweat. The brutal mask was gone. His eyes, in the half-light, were pools of exhausted, undisguised devotion.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Just look.”
She did. The connection was absolute, a silent communion in the wreckage.
Then he kissed her. It was slow. Deep. A tasting, an exploration, a silent apology for the necessary brutality. He began to move against her again, but this was different. This was a languid, rolling dance of hips. His cock, still half-hard, slid along her soaked folds, nudging her sensitive clit before pressing back inside with a tender, inexorable pressure.
“Again,” he murmured against her mouth, a soft command. “We go again. Slower.” He rocked into her, a long, sweet slide that made her whimper. He worshipped her with his body, kissing her shoulders, her breasts, her throat. “Mine,” he whispered, not as a threat, but as a sacred truth. “My heart. My ruthless, perfect girl.”
He made love to her for what felt like hours. There was no frenzy now, only a relentless, slow-building tide. He took her from behind, his arm wrapped tight around her waist, his lips on her spine. He lifted her atop him, watching her ride him with heavy-lidded eyes, his hands guiding her hips in a gentle circle. Each time she neared the peak, he would slow, drawing it out, until she begged.
“Please, Enzo. Let me come. I need to.”
“We have time,” he’d breathe, flipping her onto her back once more, entering her with that same devastating slowness. He was imprinting himself, stroke by patient stroke, erasing every echo, filling every shadow Sergio had left.
Finally, as the first grey light of dawn bled around the window shades, he allowed it. He was on his back, Alma straddling him, her body a sleek silhouette. She moved with a tired, sensual grace, taking him deep, her head thrown back. He reached between them, his thumb circling her clit with a perfect, practiced pressure.
“Now,” he said, his voice thick. “Come with me.”
She shattered silently this time, a breathless, shuddering collapse that pulsed around him. He followed, his own release a warm, quiet flood, a sealant poured into their joined shapes. She fell forward onto his chest, their hearts hammering against each other, a syncopated rhythm of absolute spent.
Outside the door, the sky lightened to a pale, sterile blue. Sergio hadn’t moved. The sound had stopped, but the silence that replaced it was worse. It was the silence of a door forever closed. He stared at the polished wood, knowing what lay behind it was not a victim and a monster, but a fortress. And he was irrevocably, and terribly, outside.