Romance

FALLON
“Dead?” The word tastes like ash in my mouth as I stare at him, searching his face for any hint of emotion.
“Leone...” The words trickle out, half plea, half fear. He abruptly releases me, turning his face into the stream of water, letting it run over his closed eyes and clenched jaw. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and the tattoos inked across his skin shift with each movement.
“Finish your shower.” His command is terse, and I understand it’s my cue to shut up and comply. But as I finish my shower, my mind races, each thought crashing into the next. Leone also washes himself, keeping his back to me. Yet knowing she is dead nags at me most, needing to know how she died, and I find myself asking before I can stop myself.
“What happened to her?” The question comes out in a whisper, and I cringe at my inability to keep my mouth shut.
His back tenses as he turns back to 

FALLON
There’s a deafening silence, punctuated only by his steady breathing, a sign that he’s drifted to sleep. But I can’t find that same peace. The handcuff digs into my skin, my arm forced awkwardly above my head, and after a while, the throbbing ache becomes unbearable. His shirt is drenched with blood from my shoulder, the clear plastic film covering nearly completely given away after my shower.
My eyes fixate on the key resting mockingly on the bedside table. If I can just reach it...
Twisting my body, I futilely attempt to stretch across him, but the cuff won’t give, and my arm and shoulder hurts when I stretch that far. Biting back frustration, I muster the courage to try to straddle his waist, careful not to wake him. My heart pounds as I lean forward, but the handcuff locked onto the middle beam of the headboard keeps it just out of reach.
Stretching out, the metal digs painful

FALLON
Once the door closes and I am alone, I peel away the dress that clings to my body like a second skin. The fabric pools around my feet just as the door bursts open, and Leone storms in. His presence fills the space, dark and ominous. Milo isn’t with him, which sends a ripple of unease through me.
“Leone...” I start, clutching the dress to my chest, but he doesn’t glance at me. The words streaming from his mouth are sharp and vicious, I have no idea what he is saying since he isn’t speaking English, but I know a furious voice when I hear one, and his demeanor right now is menacing. His voice makes me shiver despite not understanding a word.
Without thinking, I dash to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and twisting the lock. My heart hammers against my ribcage as if trying to escape the confines of my body. I strip off the rest of the dress and step into the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away my fear.
The steam rises, fogging the mirror. The water splatters against my skin, and its normally calming effect is lost on me as Leone’s fury reverberates through the door. My heart thuds erratically in my chest, a mix of terror and adrenaline surging through my veins, while I wonder where Milo is. I finally relax when his voice cut off, and I can no longer hear him yelling.
But it doesn’t last. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
“Leone!” I squeak, turning my back to him as he steps into the bathroom and removes his shirt.
“Doors remain unlocked,” he says, his voice a low growl that seeps into the marrow of my bones when he strips off his pants and briefs. I scramble to get out of the shower, quickly rinsing the soap from my hair, but he steps in, forcing me to step back.
“Leone, please—” I begin, but he advances, trapping me between the cold tiles and his hot skin. His hands are on the tiles on either side of my head, his body a barrier from which there is no escape.
“Quiet,” he silences me, pressing his face beneath the water. His eyes never leave mine, brown orbs burning with an intensity that could set the room ablaze.
My breath catches as he moves closer still, the lines of his body aligning with mine, leaving no space between us. My heart hammers in my chest, a frantic rhythm, trying to keep up with the sudden intrusion of Leone’s presence.
“Where’s Milo?” I ask, my voice barely rising above the hiss of water. His jaw sets, an edge of irritation sharpening his features.
“Dealing with my brother,” he says tersely. “He’ll be back later.”
I nod, attempting to step past him, craving even an inch of space, but he blocks me. “Stay,” he commands, and there’s an undertone of uncertainty in his voice that doesn’t fit the man before me. “I can’t remember if I locked the door.”
Reluctantly, I comply, tension coiling tighter within me. My hand shakes as I reach for the soap. Leone hands me a loofah; I take it, and he tilts his head to the side, watching me. Yet, curiosity claws at me, desperate for answers about Leone’s brother.
Hesitantly, I lather the loofah, holding it up to him, and he raises an eyebrow at me and looks at the loofah in my hand. Gritting my teeth to bite back from telling him to wash himself, I touch it to his skin, tracing paths along the contours of his body. He’s a canvas of ink and scars; his tattoos cover his arms and chest. His eyes follow every motion, a silent observer of my boldness when I notice writing weaving through the picture tattooed into the skin on his chest. But again, it isn’t in English, so I can’t read it.
“What does this say?” I ask, fingers hovering over the words etched on his chest, right above his heart. They’re foreign, beautiful, and mysterious.
His lips press into a thin line, his jaw muscles working as he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to offer me an answer. I freeze, noticing a name that is obscured by another part of the tattoo, but it looks like it was deliberately covered up.
“Lydia...” The name spills out of me, half-whispered, half-choked. It’s there, beneath layers of ink meant to obscure it, but still fighting to be seen. I watch as his entire demeanor shifts, muscles tensing, his eyes darkening as he looks at me.
“Who’s Lydia?” I dare to ask, my voice laced with equal parts fear and curiosity.
“My ex-wife.” The words are spoken with such cold detachment that it’s as though he’s recounting the weather rather than disclosing a piece of his past.
“Is that why you hate your brother—did he steal your wife or something?” The words tumble out before I can catch them. Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? But curiosity got the better of me.
Within seconds, he grips my wrist, holding the loofah, and it tightens instantly, a response that sends a clear message without uttering a single syllable. His silence is deafening, communicating more than any confession ever could. The pressure from his fingers is painful, like iron bands clamping down with an intention that isn’t entirely clear—is it restraint or something darker? I go with the latter when he shoves me hard against the shower wall, his other hand moving to my throat.
I gasp at his grip on my wrist that is crushing the one on my throat just as harshly but not entirely suffocating yet. My shoulder screams in protest; having been jerked around all night, it was already throbbing, but now that wrist is locked in his grip and brutally crushed into the tile, it screams as the stitches pull and tear, cheese-wiring flesh.
His eyes, those twin pools of shadows, pin me in place with an intensity that borders on the animalistic. They reflect a storm of emotions, a mixture of anger and pain that would have had lesser men spilling their souls. But not Leone. He keeps his past locked up tighter than the casino vaults at the heart of his empire.
I wince slightly, not from the physical pain but from the realization that I’ve trespassed into territory marked by unseen warning signs. There’s a story in the silent fury of his grip.
“Leone,” I gasp, attempting to soothe the monster I’ve unwittingly provoked. My voice is soft but I don’t think he hears me as his mind goes elsewhere, while mine spins as his grip grows harsher. No answer comes.
“Leone!” My other hand moves to his shoulder, my nails biting into his flesh, and he jolts, releasing my neck, and I suck in a gasping breath.
“I guess I have my answer then,” I rasp, trying to wriggle free from his grasp, but his hold only tightens on my wrist, which is still trapped in his grip.
“She’s dead,” he finally states, voice flat and devoid of warmth. My heart thumps harder against my ribcage.

FALLON
“Dead?” The word tastes like ash in my mouth as I stare at him, searching his face for any hint of emotion.
“Leone...” The words trickle out, half plea, half fear. He abruptly releases me, turning his face into the stream of water, letting it run over his closed eyes and clenched jaw. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and the tattoos inked across his skin shift with each movement.
“Finish your shower.” His command is terse, and I understand it’s my cue to shut up and comply. But as I finish my shower, my mind races, each thought crashing into the next. Leone also washes himself, keeping his back to me. Yet knowing she is dead nags at me most, needing to know how she died, and I find myself asking before I can stop myself.
“What happened to her?” The question comes out in a whisper, and I cringe at my inability to keep my mouth shut.
His back tenses as he turns back to face me. “You can’t help it, can you? You just can’t shut your fucking mouth,” he snaps at me before

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