I could walk out of this room, force her to her knees, order her to open her mouth and drive my cock down her fucking throat. I could drag her by the arm and bend her over the arm of sofa, spit on her other virgin hole and push inside without a care for her enjoyment. I could take her again and again, fucking her raw, twisting her into the most humiliating positions, biting her smooth skin until she was as bruised as my ego was, taking what I needed then pushing her away, leaving her small, stretched hole dripping with my cum.

I could do it if I so desired.

My head turned and I glanced at the closed bathroom door.

Right then, I was mad enough to consider it.

Listen to you.

And just like that, my cock deflated along with my wrath.

“Fuck,” I said as exited the bathroom and walked nude into the master bedroom, tossing the bloody towel aside as I went through my bag, finding a pair of black cotton pajama pants. I didn’t bother with underwear, just slipped them on, replaced the gauze over my wound, retrieved my phone and dialed the number, standing by the window, looking out over my city.

God. She’s just a fucking kid.

Vittoria was just a girl. Sure, legally, you had to consider her an adult, but if I had to be impartial about it, the truth was all I saw was a young, stupid girl who did an idiotically reckless thing and was now cowering somewhere in the suite, terrified for her life.

I wouldn’t go to her. She didn’t deserve comfort and I certainly wouldn’t be the one to provide it.

Actions had consequences. Today was a lesson for my young bride.

Some things couldn’t be undone.

The moment my father answered the phone, he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Where are you?”

“At the hotel.”

“And Vittoria is with you?”

“Yes.”

Nunzio Scala was not the type to hesitate, and yet, he did right then. “Is she still breathing?”

Nice vote of confidence, pops. “When I left her twenty minutes ago, she was.”

Through the phone, I heard my father let out a long, relieved sigh. “Good. That’s good.”

Was it? I tried not to feel insulted. “You don’t seem too concerned about your baby boy.”

“It was a flesh wound,” was all he responded with.

Yes, it was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a bitch. “I didn’t call to talk about this. How’s Ella? Are the boys doing alright?”

“I loaded the boys up on sugar, let them stay up late watching a movie. They crashed out about an hour ago. I didn’t have the heart to wake them so I covered them with a blanket and left them on the living room floor.”