Page 154 of Possessive Sinner
"One?" I echo, a humorless laugh slipping out. "You fucked my sister. You hid it. You let me save that asshole over and over." He smirks. "And you think you get to put a limit on how many times I hit you?"
Damiano studies me for a second, weighing my words. He exhales. Slow. Resigned.
"Alright…" he mutters. "Maybe I deserve a second." He shifts, turning his head slightly and tapping his jaw. "Here." He grins. "But make it count. I'm not doing a third."
Fuck—for a split second—despite everything—I almost laugh. I actually consider it. My chest is still heaving; my pulse is pounding hard enough I can feel it in my teeth. Anger still claws its way up my throat, demanding release. It would be easy. One step forward. One clean hit. Maybe it would take the edge off.
But it's Damiano. What the hell did I expect?
And more importantly, there are bigger problems sitting in the next room. I drag a hand over my face, exhale hard, and turn away from him instead.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Keep dreaming."
I move back to the bar, grab the bottle, and pour myself another glass. Behind me, I hear him shift. He clears his throat. I glance over my shoulder. You've got to be kidding me.
Damiano raises his empty hand expectantly. "You're pouring anyway."
I snort. "Get your own."
His grin is still off. "Had to try."
But that familiar, irritating edge slides back into place like nothing happened. Like he didn't just implode five minutes ago. I shake my head, taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. When I look back at him, he's steadier. Not calm. Not even close. But contained enough to function. For now.
"So," I lower the glass. "You gave Catarina your ring."
Saying the words out loud, I realize something. That ring, that wasn't nothing. That was his pride. His claim. His fucking identity. And he gave it to her. I catch myself before I go any further down that line of thinking.
It doesn't matter right now.
"Then what?" I continue, sharper now. "How the hell does it end up around the kid's neck?"
He just looks at me. Like I'm the one who's lost it. Like I've suddenly become the idiot in the room. It takes me a moment for it to click. I remember what he said outside.That's mine.
Not talking about the ring, but the kid.
My grip tightens slightly around the glass. "…You're serious."
It's not even a question. But I ask it anyway. Because the alternative is a whole different level of problem. Damiano doesn't answer right away. He doesn't need to. The look he gives me says enough. Flat. Certain. Already possessive in a way that makes something cold settle in my gut.
Yeah. He's serious. Which means…
I let out a slow breath, staring into my glass for a second before looking back at him. The ring. Catarina. The kid.
My nephew!
Fuck.
Catarina and Damiano's son.
The next day…
The house feels too quiet. I'm curled up on the worn couch with a mug of coffee—that tastes like acid compared to the coffee I've gotten used to at Gabe's—that's gone cold, staring at nothing, while the weight of yesterday's conversation with Kelly and Maggie still sits like lead in my chest. My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Mom. I almost don't answer, but guilt wins.
"Hey, Mom."
"Sweetheart…" Her voice is softer than usual. "I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have pushed so hard. I just… I worry about you."
"It's okay," I say automatically, even though it isn't. Not really.
