Page 80 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Dante’s thrusts become short, hard jerks. “Now, Rosalina. Come for menow.”
His command is the final crack in my dam. The orgasm detonates, a white-hot eruption that seizes every muscle in my body. I scream, a raw, broken sound, as the waves crash through me, endless and devastating. My inner walls clamp down on Dante, milking him as he grinds deep, his own release following mine with a roar, flooding me with his heat.
The world goes white, then blissfully dark at the edges.
When I swim back to awareness, I’m lying on the hard kitchen floor. Someone—Luca—has laid a dish towel under my head. My body feels liquid, boneless, utterly ravaged. Dante is kneeling between my legs, his head bowed, still catching his breath.
Luca collapses beside me, pulling me half onto his chest. Gabriel lies down on my other side, his hand coming to rest on my hip. We are a tangled, sticky, sated mess on the kitchen floor.
Luca's chest vibrates with a low chuckle. Gabriel just presses a kiss to my temple. Dante must have gone to take care of something because I don’t see him.
The house phone rings.
The sound is jarring, intrusive, cutting through our post-orgasmic haze like a knife. For a moment none of us move, still tangled together on the kitchen floor, our breathing gradually slowing.
"Ignore it," Luca mutters, his arm tightening around me.
The phone keeps ringing, shrill and insistent.
"It might be important," I say reluctantly, even though every part of me wants to tell the phone to go to hell.
Luca groans but carefully extracts himself from our tangle of limbs. He grabs a dish towel from the counter and wipes his hands before moving to the phone mounted on the wall by the refrigerator.
Gabriel sits up beside me, reaching for another towel and gently cleaning my stomach. The gesture is tender, intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
Luca picks up the phone on what must be the tenth ring. "Salvatore residence." His voice is still rough, sated, slightly impatient with the interruption.
I watch him from my position on the floor, Gabriel's hand still on my hip, expecting this to be a quick call—someone with the wrong number, or maybe one of Dante's associates with a message that can wait.
But Luca's expression changes.
The easy satisfaction drops from his face like someone has flipped a switch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tightening, and the hand not holding the phone curls into a fist at his side.
"When?" he asks, and his voice has gone flat, empty of all the warmth from moments before. "How long ago?"
My stomach drops. Beside me, Gabriel tenses, sensing the shift.
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.
I sit up, grabbing my discarded shirt from the floor and pulling it on quickly. Gabriel does the same, both of us moving on instinct, covering ourselves as the atmosphere in the kitchen turns cold.
"Luca? What is it? What happened?" I ask, my voice shaking.
He doesn’t answer me, just listens to whoever is on the other end of the line, his face going progressively paler, his free hand coming up to run through his hair in a gesture I have learned means he is processing something he does not want to process.
"Yeah," he says finally, his voice hollow. "Yeah, she is here. Hold on."
He turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes my chest constrict with sudden, terrible fear.
"Lina," he says softly, and he never calls me Lina in that tone—gentle and careful like I am something fragile that might break. "It is for you."
"Who is it?" I ask, taking the phone from his outstretched hand with fingers that have started to shake. Gabriel stands, pulling on his pants, moving to stand beside me in silent support.
"It is Margaret. From the O'Connor estate."
Margaret. The head housekeeper. The woman who has worked for Seamus since before I was adopted, who taught me how to properly set a table and snuck me cookies when I was supposed to be training.
Why would Margaret be calling me here?
