I gripped a handful of her hair, tasting my own blood. I’d bit my lip.

“Again,” I said.

She slapped me again, this time with the back of her hand. She was the only person to speak the truth out loud. To tell me what I was without fear of me.

My cock grew harder watching her, watching the raw fury burn her eyes.

“Again.”

She obeyed, her palm open, colliding with my cheek. Blood splattered onto her face, but she didn’t flinch and she didn’t stop and I stood there letting her. Holding her in place by her hair, letting her slap my face until it went numb, until she grunted with the effort, until her hand tired. She stopped slapping and dragged her fingernails down both cheeks, drawing more blood. I smashed my mouth against hers again, set the pistol on the table, and unzipped my own jeans, pushing them down, trying to get between her legs, unable to with her tight jeans at midthigh.

“I hate you,” she said against my mouth.

I licked her lips, then took one into my mouth and devoured it, devoured her, sliding her off the table to flip her onto her stomach and push her down over it.

“I hate you,” she repeated when I gripped her hips and spread her open, bringing my cock to her wet pussy and thrusting into her.

I grunted, needing this, needing to possess her, desperate to be inside her, connected with her. Her breathing hitched as she said something else, something I couldn’t make out, and with a hand in her hair I turned her face to the side and leaned down over her back, my mouth to her cheek, to the side of her mouth.

“Hurt me, Gia,” I whispered, close to release.

She shook her head as much as my grip allowed. “No. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to kill you,” she said, her eyes closing momentarily as her pussy tightened around my cock. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Dominic Benedetti.”

“Do it. Kill me,” I whispered as she sucked my lip into her mouth, then bit, and I held her to me, thrusting hard once more, coming like a fucking volcano erupting inside her, not caring that she didn’t come, not even pulling out, emptying, emptying, my arms tight around her until finally, spent, my cock slid out, semen slippery between us.

I stumbled backward and pulled my jeans up. Gia straightened, turning to me, my pistol in her hand. I watched her and she me, and I knew what she wanted. I saw her hate; saw her need, her desire.

“Were you there? When they killed my brother?” she asked, cocking the gun. “They wore masks. They all wore masks.”

“No.”

“Were you there when Victor had me branded?”