Chapter 4 - The Mark of the Bellandi
The adrenaline that carried Elena through the board meeting evaporated the moment the heavy doors of Adrien’s private office clicked shut behind them.
She leaned against the edge of his mahogany desk, her chest heaving, the reality of what she had done crashing down upon her. She had unmasked herself. She had claimed her bloodline in front of twelve powerful men. By nightfall, every syndicate from New York to Palermo would know that the lost daughter of Vittorio Bellandi was alive, standing at the right hand of Adrien Moretti.
"You handled that brilliantly," Adrien said, walking over to the bar to pour two glasses of water. He handed one to her.
Her hand shook slightly as she took it. "I painted a target on my back. A permanent one."
"The target was already there, Elena," Adrien replied softly, stepping closer. "The difference is, now everyone knows whose armor you're wearing."
Elena looked up, meeting his intense, unyielding gaze. "Why are you doing this, Adrien? Marcus was your vice chairman. You could have used me to negotiate with my father. You could have traded me for an alliance that would have made you untouchable."
Adrien set his glass down. He took a step forward, invading her personal space until she was trapped between his towering body and the heavy desk behind her.
"Do you really think I need an old man's permission to rule this city?" he asked, his voice low, vibrating with an intoxicating mix of anger and desire.
"He isn't just an old man," Elena whispered, her breath catching as Adrien raised his hand, his knuckles gently grazing the soft skin of her jaw. "He is a monster. He doesn't love anything. He doesn't spare anything. When he finds out I helped you break Marcus, he will burn this city to the ground to drag me back."
"Let him try," Adrien said.
His hand slid around to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the silk of her hair, tilting her face upward. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for the first time in eleven months, the professional barrier between them dissolved into pure, combustive heat.
"I spent eleven months watching you walk into this office," Adrien murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against her lower lip. "Watching you pretend to be quiet. Watching you pretend you didn't have fire in your veins. You think I didn't notice the way your eyes flashed when an arrogant client spoke down to you? You think I didn't see the queen hiding behind the secretary?"
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Adrien..."
"Tell me to stop, Elena."
She parted her lips, intending to speak, to cite reason, danger, the madness of their world. But the raw, possessive intensity in his dark eyes silenced every instinct of self-preservation.
Instead of pushing him away, her hand rose and gripped the lapel of his jacket.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Adrien pulled her against him, crashing his lips onto hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor hesitant. It was a claiming—a collision of two dark, dangerous worlds. Elena gasped against his mouth, her arms wrapping around his neck as the tension, terror, and unspoken longing of the past year erupted between them.
His hands were firm against her waist, lifting her slightly, pressing her back against the polished wood of the desk. He tasted of scotch, mint, and pure power. Elena buried her fingers in his thick dark hair, pulling him closer, surrendering to the realization that she was no longer running from the darkness. She was diving straight into it, into the arms of the only man capable of mastering it.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of them were breathing hard, their foreheads resting against one another.
Adrien’s eyes were ablaze. "You are not going back to him, Elena. Not while I draw breath."
Before she could answer, her phone—sitting on the desk behind her—vibrated violently.
A harsh, discordant ringtone cut through the intimacy of the room.
Elena turned, her body going cold.
The screen displayed an unknown, scrambled international number.
Adrien reached over, his face instantly hardening into stone. He tapped the speakerphone icon.
"Speak," Adrien commanded.
A low, raspy voice—steeped in age, gravel, and an icy, terrifying calm—filtered through the speaker.
*"Adrien Moretti. You have my daughter's hand on your desk, and your mouth on her lips. How poetic."*
Elena’s breath trapped in her throat.
May you like
*Vittorio.*
***
