Chapter 8

ALESSIO

I woke.

Gasping for breath, I jolted, my heart pounding with the remnants of a dream so potent it clung to me like a second skin.

The sheets twisted around my waist, knotted by the nocturnal tempest that had just torn through my consciousness.

With a start, I realized I was in a bed—not my own.

Blinking to dispel the fog clouding my vision, I darted my eyes around the room.

Sparse shadows played across the walls, thrown by the intermittent light of a waning moon peeking through the window.

A sudden realization pierced the hazy afterglow of sleep.

The weight of another presence pressed close, an undeniable warmth that was not my own. Swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat, I dared a glance to my side.

A body lay in quiet repose, cocooned by the same quilt draped over my waist.

Her breaths were even and deep, the rhythm a silent testament to her slumber. She was real—flesh, blood, and bone.

Cleo.

Fuck, I liked this woman in particular. At least my cock did.

From her jade eyes to her sensual mouth, her graceful hips, hell, all of it.

But she had no clue that her proximity was messing with my head.

Those haunted eyes that had seared themselves into my soul and psyche were now again ratcheting up an obsession in me.

Fotto, her essence was ensnaring me.

Just as it had all those years ago.

Then, she’d been off-limits to me, under my father’s and our family’s protection.

I’d tried to bury her memory below countless others, beneath the lure of beautiful bodies and meaningless sex, but failed.

Yet I hadn’t managed to burn her essence out of me, to extricate the fuckin’ cock jolt I’d felt for her when I’d first laid eyes on her.

Not a soul knew of my lingering obsession with her, not even my brothers – for we Calibreses excelled in the art of silence unto death.

I’d kept an eye on her from afar, confiding only in Mauri, our family’s consigliere, about my clandestine quest.

With her now tantalizingly close yet still out of reach, I leaned against the bedhead, gaze focused on the rise and fall of her chest.

Her essence sent a shiver down my spine, and it had nothing to do with the chill of the mountain air seeping through the log walls.

It was sheer need hitting my cock and hardening it.

‘Cazzo,’ I groaned, the word a half-whisper of both frustration and raw need.

She moved, reached, and flung a hand over my chest.

Her breath was now a whisper on my skin.

Beneath the tangled sheets, her limbs were an intricate weave with mine, as though in sleep, we had found a way to converse without words.

Her tits pressed against my rib cage, her thighs over my own, her scent arousing me like crazy.

My cock jerked and went so fuckin’ stiff and numb in seconds that I thrust my free, unharmed wrist on it, choking it to stop it from erupting, riding the wave of agonizing desire, tamping it down as my dick complained, seeping with the undeniable evidence of my longing for her.

I lifted a knee to hide my dick’s jutting diamond-hard length and throbbing jewels, struggling to keep my chest from heaving and waking her.

I managed an exquisite level of self-control but would pay for it in bucket-loads of blue balls.

Fotto! Why me?

I lay still, not daring to disturb her, cranky for being so close to beauty and not having a touch of it.

My mind went wild, wondering how soft her breasts would be, how turgid her nipples under my tongue, how wet her slit would be for me.

Cazzo, I was losing it .

I fought to calm down by keeping my eyes on her face.

Her silhouette was serene in the delicate dance of dawn’s darkness and light.

I studied the shape of her face, her brow’s soft arch, and her nose’s gentle slope—the restful curve of her lips—all bathed in the gossamer touch of lunar radiance.

Her short, pixie dark hair lay tousled around her head, like the shadow of a raven’s wing against the pale pillowcase.

Her long lashes rested upon her peach cheeks, casting feathery shadows on her skin. Her allure was undeniable—a siren call to my weary soul—and in the dim light of morning, I acknowledged just how beguiling she was.

Even as my soul was drawn in, entranced by the dance of shadows playing across her features, accentuating the delicate frame of her pixie dark hair.

The sensation was intoxicating—strands brushed on me, cool and smooth.

As she cuddled into me, despite my throbbing cock, I found tranquility that I hadn’t realized I was seeking.

I lay still, relishing how she nestled into me with a soft sigh, her body a natural fit fitted to my side, molding to mine in an instinctual search for comfort and warmth.

And I, even in the hazy edges of sleep, welcomed her without question.

There was no guilt, no second-guessing the rightness of it all.

Damn, this yearning was the last thing I needed.

Yet, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to play. To tease, to seduce a woman.

To entice her. Fuckin’ have her horizontal under me. Keening for me .

That shit hadn’t happened in almost a decade.

I threw my neck back, thinking of how to navigate her and my mission as morning seeped into the room.

A tendril of light grew bolder as it stretched across the floorboards and climbed to where we lay.

When dawn’s chorus began its symphony outside, I disentangled myself from her, cool air rushing in to fill the space I vacated.

‘Fotto,’ I hissed at the pain from the back of my head.

Confirming Cleo’s assessment that I must have hit it on something during the gunfight.

Her breath hitched at my vocalization, yet she remained in slumber.

I lingered beside the bed, staring down at her for a beat before I turned and left.

My muscles protested each movement, and the ache in my shoulder was a constant reminder of the previous night’s chaos.

The cool wooden floor grounded me as I crossed the room.

I found a jug of water and drank straight from it with thirst, liquid splashing down my chin and chest, restoring a fragment of myself.

Only then did I look around. Seeing her cabin bathed in a new light.

The space was simple, practical, and ordered.

Books lined the shelves, their spines perfect in alignment.

A small dining table displayed a single, vibrant potted plant, and no stray paper or utensil was in sight.

Cleo valued order, perhaps as a counterbalance to the unpredictability of the outside world. Her environment was austere but warm, inviting an appreciation for simplicity .

I trailed my fingers over a plush throw on the sofa, then winced as a sharp twinge shot through my side. With a sigh, I tested the limits of my discomfort.

At least I could still manage the basics. Pouring water, reaching for something on a high shelf, and even driving if necessary. However, I had to stabilize my joint to prevent further pain.

Gritting my teeth, I found Cleo’s first aid kit.

The contents were organized, just like everything else in her home. I fumbled for a moment before grasping the bandages, then fashioned a crude brace across my chest to immobilize my shoulder. My free hand did most of the work, tightening the fabric and securing it with a pin.

As I leaned against the cool sink, another discomfort demanded attention—I needed to piss.

A quick scan of the shack revealed no bathroom. I pushed aside a sheer window curtain, my gaze settling on a small outhouse adjacent to the cabin.

With a sigh of resignation and amusement, I shook my head at Cleo’s rustic lifestyle.

Finding my boots beside hers at the door, I tugged them on and slipped outside, careful not to wake her.

The early dawn greeted me with a biting chill that stung my cheeks, oddly purifying. The trill of birds pierced the silence, a symphony of wild calls.

As the sun crested the horizon, painting the heavens pink and orange, I understood the primal allure of this isolation.

This stunning wilderness contrasted the urban chaos that had often ruled my life as a Son of Honor and one of the Kings of Omertà.

How easy it would be to lose oneself in the embrace of such solitude, to become a mere echo among the trees and the endless sky.

The morning chill nipped at my skin as I made my way to the outhouse.

As I entered, the door creaked on its hinges.

The smaller shingled structure was unique. Its floor-to-ceiling window canted over the green valley, capturing spectacular views and plenty of natural light.

After lingering on the stunning dawn panorama for a beat, I attended to nature’s call and, minutes later, trekked back, my boots crunching on the frost-kissed grass.

I powered into the modest kitchen, where a coffee maker squatted next to a canister of aromatic beans.

A longing for the rich, dark brew tugged at me.

But then I glanced back at Cleo’s bedroom and cursed my craving.

The rattle and hum of the machine grinding would wake her, and she deserved this rare surrender to sleep.

Instead, I focused on the alternatives; a compromise presented itself as a tea caddy nestled among the pots and pans.

With care not to clink metal against metal, I selected a brew that promised robust flavor.

The kettle burbled, and I filled the billy tin mug with steaming water.

I dropped it in an infusion bag, and it began to steep, releasing its earthy scent into the air.

When the brew was ready, hot, black, and dark the way I preferred, I stepped out onto the veranda.

A long outdoor lounge stretched across one side of the space.

With socks muffling my footsteps, I made my way over and eased into a corner of the three-seater, crossing an ankle over a knee.

Leaning back, I sighed, luxuriating in the stillness of nature and the company of my thoughts.

The scenery was fuckin’ out of this world. The wind was crisp, filled with the subtle fragrance of pine and the fresh earthiness that followed dawn’s dew.

The tea in my hand radiated warmth, and I sipped, taking my time and letting the strong brew work its soothing magic.

The rhythmic hum of turbine blades in the distance swirled through the air, mimicking the ebb and flow of ocean waves.

In Cleo’s domain, I found a moment of pure peace.

In this quiet awakening, there was no rush to move, no immediate pull towards action or thought.

This was the embodiment of ‘la vie et bella.’

My cynical, dark heart demurred.

It wouldn’t last.

Nothing this beautiful ever did.