The sheets were still damp with sweat, twisted and kicked to the foot of the bed like casualties of war. Stefano sat naked against the headboard, one leg bent, cigarette dangling between his fingers as smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. His chest still rose and fell with the aftershocks of what they'd just done—three hours of pure fucking desperation that had left scratches down his back and bite marks on her throat.

Cazzo. Even now, watching the bathroom door, he could still taste her on his tongue. Still feel the way she'd clenched around him when he'd pinned her wrists above her head and growled Italian filth against her ear until she came apart beneath him. The way she'd begged him not to stop, voice breaking on his name like a prayer.

But the high was wearing off, replaced by something darker. Something that had been eating at him for days.

He took a long drag, exhaling slowly as his free hand absently traced the silver chain around his neck—the one with her pendant hidden beneath. Three days. Three fucking days since he'd seen that message light up her phone while she was in the shower. Just a glimpse, but enough to burn itself into his memory like a brand.

"Thanks for dinner the other night. When can we do it again? - Marco"

Marco. Some faceless bastard who'd had dinner with his wife while Stefano was handling Roman's business in Brooklyn. Some piece of shit who thought he could text his woman like they were old friends.

The bathroom door handle turned.

Stefano's dark green eyes tracked every movement as she emerged, still glowing from their marathon session, hair mussed and wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts. Beautiful. Fucking perfect. And apparently keeping secrets.

He didn't say anything at first, just watched her through the smoke, letting the silence stretch taut between them. His jaw worked slightly, that muscle in his cheek ticking the way it did when he was trying to keep his temper in check. When he was deciding whether to be the gentle husband or the enforcer who solved problems with his fists.

"Had a good time the other night?" His voice was deceptively calm, Italian accent thickening the way it always did when emotions ran too close to the surface. He took another drag, never breaking eye contact. "While I was in Brooklyn handling Roman's mess?"

The cigarette glowed orange in the dim light of their bedroom, casting harsh shadows across the scars that mapped his torso like a roadmap of violence. But his eyes—those dark green eyes that could shift from cold to burning in seconds—they were locked on her face, searching for tells. For lies.

"Because I'm curious, piccola." The pet name came out rough, almost mocking. "About Marco."