5. Santino

CHAPTER 5

SANTINO

T he scotch burns going down, a familiar heat that does little to chase away the chill settling in my bones. I stare out the window of my study, the city lights blurring together like stars gone to supernova, and try to ignore the ache in my chest where my heart used to be.

Aaron. His name is a whisper in my mind, a ghost of a touch against my skin. I can still feel the imprint of his hands, his mouth, can still taste the sweetness of his kiss. It haunts me, the memory of his body moving with mine, the way he shattered in my arms like blown glass.

I want him. God, I want him with an intensity that terrifies me, that threatens to consume me whole. But I can't have him, can't let myself drown in the depths of his eyes, the warmth of his smile. My world is too dark, too dangerous for someone like him. Someone good and kind and full of light.

I think of Matteo, of the way his little face lights up when Aaron walks into the room. The easy affection between them, the bond that's grown in such a short time. It cuts at me, the knowledge that I'm a poor substitute for the family my nephew deserves. The family I can never give him, not as long as I'm trapped in this web of violence and deceit.

A knock at the door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I down the rest of my scotch and cross the room, steeling myself for whatever fresh hell awaits me.

But it's not Marco or Gia or any of my men on the other side of the door. It's Aaron, his eyes wide and worried, his hair tousled like he's been running his hands through it.

"Santino," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "We need to talk."

I step back, letting him into the room even as every instinct screams at me to send him away, to protect him from the poison that seeps from my pores. "What are you doing here, Aaron? It's late."

"I know." He paces the length of the room, his agitation palpable. "I just...I couldn't sleep. I can't stop thinking about earlier, about the way you kissed me."

I close my eyes, the memory searing through me like a brand. The heat of his mouth, the desperate press of his body against mine. The way he moaned my name like a prayer, like a benediction.

"It was a mistake," I say, the words ash on my tongue. "A moment of weakness. It won't happen again."

He whirls to face me, his eyes blazing. "Bullshit. You wanted it, Santino. You wanted me. Just like I want you, so much I can barely breathe with it."

He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. I shudder at the contact, every nerve ending sparking to life. "Aaron," I warn, my voice a low rasp. "Don't. We can't do this."

"Why not?" His lips brush the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Give me one good reason why we shouldn't be together, Santino. One reason that's not about my safety or your past or any of the other excuses you've been hiding behind."

I grab his wrists, holding him away from me even as my body screams in protest. "Because you deserve better," I grit out, the words like broken glass in my throat. "You deserve someone who can give you a normal life, a future without bloodshed and darkness. That's not me, Aaron. It can never be me."

For a moment, he just stares at me, something fierce and determined hardening in his gaze. Then he surges forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that sears me to the bone.

I groan, sinking into the heat of him, the demanding press of his lips and tongue. He tastes like whiskey and desire, like everything I've ever wanted and can never have. I walk him backwards until his legs hit the edge of my desk, my hands fisting in his hair, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss.

He moans, arching into me, his hands scrabbling at my shoulders, my back. I can feel the evidence of his arousal against my thigh, hot and hard and insistent. It inflames me, ignites a hunger I've never known, a need that threatens to devour me whole.

I tear my mouth from his, panting harshly against the racing pulse in his throat. "I'll ruin you," I rasp, my hands clenching convulsively on his hips. "I'll break you apart and put you back together in my image, until you don't know where you end and I begin."

"Yes," he hisses, his nails digging into my skin, branding me. "Ruin me, break me, make me yours. I want it all, Santino. I want everything you are, everything you're afraid to show the world."

With a growl, I claim his mouth again, pouring all my longing and desperation into the hot slide of lips and teeth and tongue. He meets me passion for passion, his hands tearing at my clothes, seeking skin. I shudder at the first press of his fingers, the rake of his nails down my back. It's too much and not enough, a wildfire consuming me from the inside out.

I strip him with ruthless efficiency, baring him to my hungry gaze. He's beautiful, all lean muscle and golden skin, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. I want to devour him, to brand my name into his skin until there's no part of him that doesn't bear my mark.

"On the desk," I command, my voice harsh and guttural. "I want you spread out for me, want to watch you come apart on my cock."

He scrambles to obey, his eyes black with need, his chest heaving. I take a moment to just look at him, to commit this sight to memory. The way the moonlight plays over his skin, the wanton sprawl of his limbs. The trust and desire shining in his gaze, bright enough to blind.

Then I'm on him, covering him with my body, aligning us from chest to hip. He gasps at the first hot slide of skin on skin, his head tipping back, his throat working. I latch onto the pulse point beneath his jaw, sucking a brutal mark into the tender flesh.

"Santino, please." His voice is wrecked, desperate. "Need you inside me, need to feel you."

I groan, the words igniting a fire in my blood. I reach blindly for the drawer where I keep the lube, finding it by touch. Then I'm slicking my fingers, pressing them to his entrance, feeling the tight furl of muscle quiver and yield beneath my touch.

He cries out as I breach him, his body clenching around the intrusion. I gentle him through it, murmuring praise and reassurance into the salt-damp skin of his throat. "That's it, baby," I rasp, working him open with slow, deep thrusts. "Let me in, let me feel you."

By the time I have three fingers buried inside him, he's writhing beneath me, his hips lifting to meet every press and retreat. "Enough," he pants, his eyes wild and desperate. "I'm ready, Santino. Fuck me, claim me, make me forget my own name."

I don't need to be told twice. I slick myself up and position the blunt head of my cock against his entrance, feeling the flutter of his body trying to draw me in. Then, with a slow, relentless push, I breach him, sinking into the tight, clutching heat of his body.

We both groan at the sensation, the feeling of being joined so intimately, so completely. I pause when I'm fully seated, giving him a moment to adjust, to breathe through the stretch and burn. Then, when he nods, I start to move.

It's slow at first, a deep, rolling rhythm that ignites sparks of pleasure with every thrust. But soon the heat is building, the need cresting like a wave, and I find myself driving into him with increasing urgency, chasing the release that coils hot and tight at the base of my spine.

"Touch yourself," I command, my voice rough with strain. "Want to feel you come around me, want to hear you scream my name."

He obeys with a whimper, his hand flying to his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts. I can feel him tightening, can feel the telltale flutter of his impending orgasm. It spurs me on, makes me snap my hips harder, faster, until the room is filled with the obscene slap of skin on skin and the broken melody of his cries.

"Santino," he sobs, his back bowing, his body clenching like a vise around me. "Oh god, I'm gonna come, I can't hold on."

"Don't," I growl, biting down on the tender juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Let go for me, baby. Come for me, give me everything."

And he does, with a ragged scream that echoes off the walls, his release pulsing hot and wet between our straining bodies. The force of it, the unbearable tightness of his climax, is enough to send me hurtling over the edge after him, emptying myself deep inside him with a guttural cry of his name.

In the aftermath, as we lie tangled together on the sweat-damp surface of the desk, I can feel reality starting to seep back in, cold and unforgiving. The weight of what we've done, of what it means for him, for us, settles like a stone in my chest.

"Aaron," I start, my voice scraped raw. "We can't...this can't happen again."

He stiffens in my arms, pulling back to look at me with wounded eyes. "What? Santino, what are you talking about? I thought...I thought this meant something to you."

I close my eyes, hating myself for the pain I'm about to inflict. "It does. God, Aaron, it means everything. But that's why I have to let you go, why I have to end this before it's too late."

He sits up, his expression hardening. "Is this about my safety again? About your fucking martyr complex? Because I told you, Santino, I don't care about the risks. I want to be with you, whatever that means."

"You should care," I snap, anger rising to cover the ache in my chest. "You have no idea what you're asking, the kind of danger you'd be putting yourself in. My world...it's no place for someone like you."

He flinches like I've struck him, hurt and disbelief warring on his face. "Someone like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I turn away, unable to bear the devastation in his gaze. "Someone good. Someone kind and caring, someone with a fucking conscience. You're too pure for the filth I walk in every day, Aaron. Too bright to be tainted by my darkness."

For a long moment, he's silent, the only sound the harsh rasp of our breathing. Then, slowly, he starts to gather his clothes, pulling them on with jerky, uncoordinated movements.

"You're a coward, Santino Ricci," he says softly, the words like a knife to the gut. "You're so afraid of being happy, of letting yourself have something real, that you'd rather push me away than fight for what we could be."

He walks to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I hope you're satisfied with the choices you've made," he says, his voice thick with tears. "I hope your fucking empire keeps you warm at night, because you've just lost the one person who sees past all your bullshit to the man beneath."

And then he's gone, the slam of the door like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. I stare after him, my heart shattering in my chest, the pieces razor-sharp and cutting. I want to go after him, to fall to my knees and beg his forgiveness, his understanding. But I know I can't, know I don't deserve the absolution he'd offer.

Because he's right. I am a coward, too afraid of the light he brings to chase away my shadows. Too afraid of the hope he represents, the promise of a future I can never have.

So I let him go, let him walk out of my life and take the best parts of me with him. And as I pour myself another drink with shaking hands, as I listen to the sounds of the city that owns my soul, I tell myself it's better this way.

Even if it means living with a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.