I am Salvatore Gallo. Some call me a kingmaker, and to others, a problem solver. Either way, I get things done. Born into this life, I didn't choose it-but I perfected it. Power isn't given; it's taken, and I take it wisely. Loyalty is my currency. Respect my language. I run a world built on blood and quiet negotiations, but at home? That's her domain. The one person who speaks, and I listen. The only force capable of pulling me back from the edge-when I let her.
************
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face. Knuckles ache, stiff from the night's work. The dried blood on my shirt feels heavier under her stare. Should've ditched it. Hell, should've burned it. But between cleaning up a botched deal and making sure no bodies turned up in the Hudson, wardrobe changes weren't exactly a priority.
Now, standing under Mmasi's scrutiny, I feel like a damn kid caught tracking mud through the house.
She doesn't say a word—just shifts her weight slightly, arms folded, expression carved from stone. I've faced men who would rather put a bullet in my head than shake my hand, but this? This is worse.
I tug at my collar, trying for casual. "Listen, I scrubbed it. Soap, water—whole damn process. Blood just… sticks, you know?"
Nothing. Not even a flicker of mercy.
I step forward, boots quiet against the hardwood. "Look, I followed the house rules. No guns at the table, no mafia before coffee, and I was gonna take out the trash—" My gaze flicks to the overflowing bin near the sink. Right. Maybe not that last part.
Still nothing.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling through my nose. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're mad." My fingers brush the top button of my ruined shirt, loosening it. "Let me clean up, and if you're still lookin' at me like I just kicked a puppy, we'll talk."
Mmasi's expression doesn't waver, those brown eyes locked onto mine. Goddamn, she's good at looking pissed. I've stared down guys twice my size, who flinched with less effort. She's got ice in her veins. In her silence, she reminds me that she's more than just some housewife.
"You want me to beg?" I ask quietly, taking another step closer. "Get on my knees and grovel?"
She lifts an eyebrow, head tilting slightly like a lion sizing up its prey. Still, no words. That damn eyebrow climbs higher, challenging me to keep pushing. I know better than to take the bait, but there's something about her quiet fury that makes my blood hum.
I've seen her laugh, seen her angry, but this is new.
I rake a hand through my hair, knowing I'm bleeding into her damn kitchen with a ruined shirt and bloodstained arms. The sight would piss off anyone else, but she's not just anyone else.
She unfolds her arms, crossing the kitchen with a grace that belied her simmering anger. Her eyes, usually warm, are icy as they run over me. Every drop of blood stains her pristine white tiles like some sick reminder of the life I brought home.
She stops inches away, her scent filling my nose—vanilla and cinnamon.
Still not a word. It's driving me insane.
My fingers flex, the need to touch her, soothe her, outweighing my pride. I could grab hold, spin her around, and push her onto the goddamn table. Show her exactly how much her silence is doing to me.
I don't move, locking my arms at my sides. She'd probably castrate me before the thought fully formed.
Her eyes follow the movement of my fingers. She notices everything—every flex, every twitch. She has the uncanny ability to read me better than I read myself, and right now, she's making use of that ability. Damn it, she knows what I want. Probably knows the effect she's having on me.
She still doesn't speak, and my irritation boils and seethes under my skin. "Can you just say something?"
A flicker of something—annoyance, frustration, or maybe satisfaction—passes over her face, gone just as suddenly. Goddamn her.
She stands there, unmoving, a statue of silent defiance. Her gaze moves over the blood on my hands, my shirt, the tense line of my jaw. I can almost feel her judging me, sizing me up, and finding me lacking.
Another beat of excruciating silence.
My teeth grit together so hard, I swear I hear them grinding. It takes every ounce of self-control not to snap. To grab her, shake her, kiss her, do anything to break this wall between us.
Finally—finally —she moves. But instead of the shouting match I was half expecting, she reached out, her fingertips coming to rest on the collar of my bloodstained shirt.
The touch is so feather-light, I'd deny it if I didn't feel the heat of her fingers searing through the fabric. I freeze, the air catching in my throat.
She smooths her hand over the stiff, blood-soaked material, slow and methodical. A gentle touch in this silent storm of tension.
The action is so tender, so contrary to the frustration crackling around us, I can't help it—my shoulders drop the tiniest bit. My body responds to her like a goddamn flower to the sun, even as my mind screams at me to hold my ground.
She presses her thumb to the curve of my neck—a silent command. I tilt my head without thinking, the motion so instinctual, I'm not even aware I'm doing it.
Her fingers trail over the pulse point, the gesture almost reverent.
The world fades as her thumb strokes a steady rhythm against my neck. I'm hyper-aware of her—her scent, the heat radiating off her body, the sound of her breathing blending with mine. For a moment, all the tension, all the violence, fades into the background.
She keeps stroking, and I want nothing more than to press my cheek into her hand.
Her thumb moves higher, tracing the edge of my jaw. It's taking everything I have not to close my eyes, to lean into her touch like some desperate dog. I'm a grown-ass man, a feared mafia enforcer, brought to my knees by a goddamn thumb.
Her gaze flicks to mine, meeting my eyes for the first time since this whole silent stand-off began. There's a mix of emotions in her gaze—anger, affection, and something dark and possessive. It's both a challenge and a promise.
She steps closer, her hand sliding from my neck to the buttons of my stained shirt.
Every nerve in my body is screaming, begging, as she works the buttons with deliberate slowness. Normally, I'd have those damn buttons undone in seconds, but right now, I'm paralyzed. I can't move, can't speak, can't do anything but watch and feel.
Her eyes are locked onto mine as she works, the tension crackling between us like goddamn electricity.
The first button slips free, exposing the skin beneath. Her fingers brush against my collarbone, and I have to bite back a groan. Her knuckles skim over my chest—a barely there touch that sets every nerve on fire.
She's taking her time, unravelling me piece by piece, and I'm letting her. It's the only thing I can do.
Another button, another patch of skin revealed. She's close now, so close I can see the minute details of her face—the slight flush of pink in her cheeks, the way her lashes flutter as her focus flicks to the buttons, then back up to my face.
Her touch is light yet possessive, leaving trails of heat across my skin. It's pure goddamn torture.
The next button slips free with a soft 'pop'. I'm half-naked now, the ruined shirt hanging open, the cool air against my skin doing nothing to douse the fire her touches lit. She doesn't stop, her fingers moving lower, each button coming undone with a sound that's far sexier than it has any right to be.
The shirt gapes open, fully exposing my torso. Her hand flattens against my chest, and this time, I can't stop the low, guttural sound that tears from my throat. It's all I can do not to grab her and pull her body against mine.
She's still infuriatingly stoic, her gaze roaming over the expanse of skin she's just bared.
She moves closer, now less than an inch away. Her fingers trace over the ridges of muscle, an odd mix of tenderness and ownership in her touch. I swallow hard, the need to close that final gap, to take what I want, nearly overwhelming. But I don't move. I'm a man on the edge, held in check by her damn restraint.
Her touch reaches the waistband of my jeans. The air thickens, tension so intense it's almost tangible. I'm a coiled spring, every muscle tense, every instinct howling at me to grab her, to claim her, to show her just what she's doing to me.
Her fingers linger there, and I swear, if they dip lower, I'll snap.
They don't, but the fact that they almost did is enough to make my head spin. She knows exactly what she's doing—teasing me, dominating me, and Goddamn it, I'm letting her.
Her hand flattens against my stomach. I can feel the heat of her palm through the thin denim, and it's all I can do not to buck into her touch.
I've never felt so raw, so vulnerable. She's making me weak, and the damn worst part is, I'm letting her. But as much as I want to blame her for this, I know goddamn well I'm just as much a participant in this torturous dance.
Her hand moves, sliding up to my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of my throat. My pulse is a goddamn drumbeat under her touch.
I'm so close to breaking, to begging her to touch me, kiss me, something. But the stubborn part of me, the part that's still fighting this, refuses. Instead, I hold her gaze, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack.
She seems to sense the battle raging inside me, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. The damn woman is enjoying having me at her mercy.
Her hand drifts back down, her fingertips tracing the belt loop of my jeans. I'm half-naked, standing in my own damn kitchen, practically trembling with need, and she's acting like we're doing nothing more than discussing the weather.
My hands are clenched into hard fists at my sides, a last-ditch effort to hold onto whatever scraps of control I have left.
And then, the worst—or best, I can't decide—thing happens. She moves, her body grazing mine, the heat of her skin so close. I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon that always clings to her, and it's like a drug, fogging my mind and fraying my self-restraint. Her chest brushed against my bare torso, and I almost choke back a curse. It's the first time she's touched me like this since this entire standoff started, and goddamn it feels like heaven and hell at once.
My body reacts instantly, my muscles coiling, my hands itching to touch her. The sound that rips from my throat is a ragged mix of a groan and a curse. My restraint snaps, my fingers reaching out to grasp her hips, pulling her harder against me.
Her gasp is swallowed as I crush her against me, her back slamming into the kitchen counter. Finally—finally—I have her where I want her.
Her eyes widen for just a second, surprise flashing through them before it's replaced by a heat that matches my own. Her hands flatten against my chest, her breath leaving her in a hiss as I pressed her into the counter, my body pinning her in place. Goddamn, she feels good. Soft and warm and so goddamn mine.
My mouth finds her neck, my lips trailing a searing path up to her ear. I can feel her shiver, her body reacting to me like I'm fire and she's a moth. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, clinging to me like I'm her lifeline. Goddamn, I want her so bad it hurts.
I press closer, my body flush against hers, so close I can feel every damn breath she takes. My mouth finds her pulse point, and I bite down, just hard enough to feel her gasp. The sound makes me want to take her right here, right now, on this damn kitchen counter.
She's driving me goddamn insane, and she knows it.
Her hands move down, slipping past the open shirt and over my bare chest. It's like electricity, every nerve on fire under her touch. I growl against her neck, my hips pressing into hers, letting her feel just how much I want her.
She's panting now, her body arching against mine, her fingers leaving a trail of heat across my skin. If this is what losing my goddamn mind feels like, I don't ever want to be sane again.
I lift her up, her legs wrapping around my waist without hesitation. She's light as a feather in my arms. I move her to the counter, setting her down on the smooth surface. She's all soft curves and flushed skin, her eyes dark with desire.
She's still silent, still maddeningly in control, even as her hands roam over my body. My self-restraint is hanging by a damn thread.
My hands move under her skirt, gripping her thighs. She's wearing something soft, the fabric doing nothing to hide the heat radiating off her body. I swear, I can feel her trembling as I push her skirt up, my thumbs tracing patterns on the sensitive skin there.
She inhales sharply, her back arching, her eyes meeting mine—dark, challenging. She wants me just as badly as I want her, but she won't make this easy.
I move closer, pressing my body between her spread legs, my hips pinning her in place. I can't take it anymore. I need more, need her now. My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is a collision of need and desire, all pent-up frustration and unbridled heat.
She tastes like cinnamon and something I can only describe as 'her'. It's a damn drug, and I'm fully addicted. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails leaving marks I'll feel later. But I don't care. In this moment, the world could burn to ash, and I wouldn't notice—not when I have her, gasping and panting, her body arching into mine like she's trying to become a part of me.
She breaks the kiss, her head falling back as I trail my mouth down her neck. The sound of her ragged breathing is like music, a damn symphony I could listen to for eternity. I kiss, bite, and suck at the sensitive skin, marking her as mine. She's a goddess, and I am her damn devoted worshiper.
My hand slips up her skirt, finding the edge of her panties. I swear, if I find out she's been sitting in that damn kitchen with nothing on under her skirt, I'm hauling her up and taking her right then and there.
Her hands move down my chest, the touch so light it's almost maddening. She's teasing me, pushing me closer to the edge, and I can feel my control slipping more and more with every second. Damn woman...
The doorbell rings, the sharp sound jolting me back to reality. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, burying my face back into her neck and picking up where we left off. But then, it rings again, insistent and loud. Goddamn it all to hell.
I growl, my head dropping to her shoulder. She's still breathing heavily, her body trembling, her heartbeat echoing my own. We're both torn between frustration and need, caught in a damn stalemate of our own making.
"Damn it," I mutter into her skin. Then, reluctantly, I pull back, slowly untangling our limbs. Her legs unwrap from my waist, her hands falling from my shoulders. The loss of contact is like a cold shower, the absence of warmth leaving me feeling damn cold.
She sits there on the counter, her skirt riding up her thighs, flushed and panting, looking like a goddamn work of art. I want to toss the doorbell into the sun and go back to touching her, tasting her.
But the damn doorbell keeps ringing, insistent, and annoying. I reach for my shirt, shrugging it back on with impatient movement. She straightens her skirt, smoothing it back down her thighs. We're both a damn mess—her hair tousled, her skin flushed, my shirt hanging open, stained, and wrinkled. We look like we just spent an hour in bed, not a few minutes wrestling on a kitchen counter.
The doorbell rings again, and I swear under my breath. Whoever's on the other side is about to lose some damn fingers. I grab my jeans, yanking them up and zipping them up. My eyes flick over to her. She's still sitting there, looking like she's just been thoroughly ravished. Goddamn, if the sight of her doesn't make my damn jeans feel a couple inches too tight.
I press a hand to my face, trying to get myself under control. But the image of her sitting there, flushed and messy, is burned into my damn brain. It takes everything I have not to say hell with the doorbell and just lock her legs around my waist again.
"Stay here," I say gruffly, my voice even rougher than usual. I'm not sure if I'm telling her or myself. Her eyes meet mine, a silent challenge in them, and my traitorous body reacts like it always does.
But somehow, I manage to tear my gaze away, heading for the front door. Whoever's standing on the other side better have a goddamn good reason for interrupting us.
As I approach the door, I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. My muscles are still coiled, my body humming from the damn near-miss. With her sitting in the kitchen, looking like she does, it's a miracle I found the willpower to untangle myself from her.
Finally, I reach the door, yanking it open. The person on the other side is one of my men, Marco. He takes one look at me, his gaze flicking over my dishevelled appearance, and smirks. Damn smartass.
"Hey boss," he says, a smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like you've been...busy."
I glare at him, not in the damn mood for his smart mouth. "What do you want, Marco? This better be damn important."
His smirk widens, his gaze darting past me into the house. I know he's gotten a damn good look at Mmasi, still sitting on the countertop, looking like a thoroughly debauched angel. I resist the strong urge to slam the door in his face.
He refocuses on me, his smirk now turning into a full-blown grin. "Just brought the week's reports," he says, holding up a manila envelope like a damn peace offering.
I snatch the envelope from his hand, my patience damn near nonexistent. "Thanks."
His eyes are still on the kitchen, where I know Mmasi is likely still sitting. I can practically see the smartass comments forming in his head. It takes all my self-control to not punch that look off his damn face.
"Seems like the house has been a bit... lively." He drawles, the innuendo clear in his tone.
I roll my eyes, fighting the urge to throw him down the damn stairs. "Anything else?" I grit out, my knuckles turning white where I'm gripping the envelope.
He holds up his hands like a goddamn surrender. "Nah, just the reports. You know, the usual."
He's still looking past me, still grinning like a damn fool. I swear, he's seconds from whistling. I have to force the next words out through clenched teeth. "Thanks. Now get lost."
"Alright, alright, I'm going." He says with a chuckle. He starts to turn away, but before leaving, he pauses, looking back at me with that damn smirk back in place again. "Oh, and boss?"
I narrow my eyes, knowing whatever's about to come out of his mouth is going to be damn infuriating. "What?"
His smirk widens. "Have a good night."
The words are innocent enough, but the damn tone tells me everything I need to know. The bastard has a pretty damn good idea of what just almost happened in the kitchen, and he's enjoying every damn second of my irritation.
I grind my teeth, my knuckles turning white around the reports. "You're a goddamn pain in my ass, you know that?"
He just grins, clearly enjoying my frustration. "Yeah, but you love me anyway."
I resist the strong urge to throw the damn envelope at him. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind and put a bullet in your goddamn head."
He raises his hands again, still grinning like a damn fool. "Alright, alright, I'm goin'," he says, finally starting to walk away.
But before he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he looks back over his shoulder, his eyes finding mine once more. "Oh, and one more thing, boss?"
I'm already at the end of my damn patience. "What?" I bark, my hand itching to slam the door shut in his face.
He gives me the cheekiest damn smile I've ever seen, the one that says he knows he's pushing every freaking button and enjoying every second. "You should probably fix your shirt before you go back in the house."
My eyes dart down to the damn shirt, still open, and my jaw clenches so hard I swear I hear something crack. The smartass bastard just winks, turning away and strolling off down the walkway.
I stand there for a moment, the envelope crumpling in my hand. I'm about to march back inside when I remember his last goddamn comment.
I look down at the open shirt, the fabric hanging open, leaving my chest exposed. Damn it. The smartass is right. Mmasi's not the only one looking like a damn mess.
I close the door, cursing under my breath.
As soon as the door shuts, I resist the urge to curse loudly. Marco, the damn smartass, has just ruined my night. It's like he has a sixth goddamn sense, always showing up right when things are about to get... interesting.
I glance down at the open shirt again, cursing inwardly. He's right, goddamnit. I look like a damn mess. But worse, he now knows what Mmasi and I were up to before he interrupted.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Mmasi's still sitting on the countertop, waiting for me. I can't go back in there looking like this. I have to compose myself, to put the damn shirt back on like a normal goddamn person.
I run a hand through my hair, raking it back from my face. Goddamnit. This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
I glance down again, taking in the sight of my half-naked body. The urge to just say to hell with it is so damn strong, it nearly knocks me backwards. I want to go back in that kitchen, pull her back into my arms, and finish what Marco so rudely interrupted.
But I know I can't. I have to act like a goddamn adult and put the damn shirt back on.
I reach for the shirt, pulling it back on, buttoning it up. It feels wrong, like I'm closing the door on something I really wanted. But I force myself through the motions, forcing the shirt over my shoulders, pulling the fabric together.
When I'm done, I look down at myself. Damn it. From the outside, I look almost normal. No one would ever know I was seconds away from taking Mmasi on a damn countertop.
I let out a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The desire is still there, coursing through me like a goddamn wildfire. But I have to push it away to act like a damn grown-up.
I take one more look in the mirror, straightening the shirt. I look every bit the part of a goddamn professional. No one would guess the thoughts that are still racing through my mind.
I take one more steadying breath, squaring my shoulders. I can do this. I can go back in there and be a reasonable person. I can forget about the way she felt in my arms, the sound of her gasping my name.
Damn it. I have to stop thinking about it. I can't let my thoughts go down that dangerous path.
I turn away from the mirror, heading back toward the kitchen. I'm a master of self-restraint. I can handle this. I can do this.
