I lift my free hand, grabbing his forearm.
He doesn’t waver.
Doesn’t flinch. The gun barely moves an inch.
I hold his cold, empty gaze, pressing on his arm, forcing it down.
He lowers it inch-by-inch, lower and lower, until the gun is at his side.
Those vacant eyes become cloudy. They glisten. They’re heavier.
“You didn’t give me a chance to say what I had to say,” I whisper, and my throat thickens with want. With need.
“Back away from me, Gianna,” he growls. “I swear I will rip you to fucking shreds.”
I ignore him and clasp his face in my hands, forcing his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for setting Henry free. I’m sorry that I made your life worse. I—I’m sorry about…Thiago. It was all my fault. I know it. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I know you hate apologies, but I’m telling you now. I’m so, so sorry about everything.”
He stares so hard, I feel like he’s looking right into my soul. He’s do damn quiet that I panic inside, begging him to say something with me eyes.
Then something happens.
Something that both terrifies and relieves me.
Something I didn’t think could ever happen.
A wet trail slides down his cheek through that blank stare. I’m sure it’s the only tear that has left him since his father died.
He vowed to never look weak—to never reveal. To always be like a vault.
Guarded.
Solid.
Hard to break.
The Jefe doesn’t cry.
He doesn’t show weakness.
He doesn’t…he can’t…
“I want to hate you,” he grumbles, grabbing my face, holding it much tighter than I expect. One of his hands wraps around the back of my neck, the other clutching my ponytail. I gasp when he yanks on it, exposing my neck, forcing me to look at the sky. The tip of his nose starts at my collarbone and trails up to my earlobe. “I want to fucking kill you just as much as I want to love you.”
My heartbeat goes unsteady, my breaths a tattered mess when his lips touch my chin. On his breath, I smell the liquor even more now. It’s strong, like he drowned himself in it before finally coming to face me.
He eases up on my ponytail, and I lower my head, eyes dropping to his. Our lips are close. So close.
His warm, familiar scent is way too comforting to me. His lips touch mine, just a soft, feathery-light touch.
“I want to fuck you. Kill you. Hate you…love you.” He frowns, looking me deep in the eyes. “Do you see what you do to me? You confuse the fuck out of me.” He releases my hair and pushes me away.
My breath comes out winded, chest working hard as I focus on him.
He stares right at me.
“Well, hate me first,” I say, breathless. “Hate me for as long as you need to, just promise to love me just as much as I love you later.”
His chest works harder, his breathing uneven.
I take a step, and so does he.
And before I know it, I’m rushing to him, my body slamming into his. I’m wrapped up in his strong arms, my legs hooking around his waist.
His groan is heavy and solid, humming through my body, sparking the illicit flame inside me again. He spins around, marching away from the pool.
My back slams onto a cold glass table, and he shoves my skirt up. I sit up, clawing at his belt buckle, unzipping his pants in the process.
He shoves my hands away, reaching down and gripping my blouse, ripping it apart at the collar. The buttons fly, scattering on the ground.
He forces my back down on the table, drags my hips to the edge, and maneuvers between my legs, bringing a hand up to my throat and gripping it. His hot, thick cock presses on my thigh, eyes fierce—blazing with hunger.
Ah, there it is.
The fire.
The power.
That sweet, sweet domination.
The Jefe I know and crave.
No words are spoken as he uses his other hand to lift me up, getting a better hold around my throat—just enough for me to breathe, but not too much. It’s like he wants to strangle me, but by the way his thumb caresses the crook of my neck, it’s like he wants to keep me forever.
He holds the back of my neck tight, and then he’s inside me, filling me up.
His strokes don’t start light and easy. No, they are hard, quick, almost frightening. The hand around my throat moves up to lock my face between his fingers, eyes still trained on mine. His nostrils flare as he thrusts powerfully, hips propelling, pounding so hard the legs of the table rattle.
Soft, sweet moans escape me.
I shouldn’t be so pleased.
He’s not fucking me with love.
He’s fucking me with pure, violent hatred.
He hates me right now, but if this is how he wants to own and handle what he hates, then so be it.