Forgivable Sins (Bellandi Crime Syndicate 2)

I stilled beneath him, my writhing suddenly stopping at the light burn that accompanied the familiar stretch.

Too full, with Lino inside of me and his finger there.

His fingers at my clit sped up as he pressed that finger forward, his hips slowing so that he could focus on all three motions.

And then I came, my scream echoing through the bedroom as I collapsed fully on the bed.

"Fuck," he grunted, pulling his hands away and gripping my hips so that he could shove himself as deep as he could go and then pull out all the way. I whimpered at the loss of him, and then he drove back inside.

He did it again and again. And I looked back to see him staring at my pussy when he pulled away. Watching me clench as if I wanted him back inside.

And I did. I always wanted him inside me.

When he'd finally had enough, he drove inside and fucked me with a dozen hard, brutal thrusts that had me sobbing beneath him before he exploded inside me with a groan and covered my weight with his.

I waited a few minutes for him to come down from his orgasm, and when he finally did he chuckled in my ear. The monster had left, and only Lino remained.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm dead," I sighed. "Just don't put fucked to death on my tombstone please." His roar of laughter after the intense sex we'd had was music to my ears.

And above all else, I had my answer.

We'd do just fine.

Thirty-Five

Samara

Lino's father dropped by.

That never happened, in all the years I'd been hanging out with Lino on days off before he had to go to work. I couldn't say if he often stopped by on a weekday, since I tended to not be at Lino's house then, but somehow from Lino's shocked face when he opened the door to reveal his father and step-mother standing on the doorstep, I knew it was practically unheard of.

I also knew from the way his jaw clenched that whoever manned the gate that night would be in trouble. Letting his father onto the property without informing Lino was a slight to him, an insinuation that his father still had more power than Lino, but he didn't.

Not with Matteo running the shots.

To be honest, some days I was surprised that Gabriele was alive, given that he'd threatened Ivory's life. But the man felt desperate, anyone could see it glittering in his dark eyes. He'd gone from having his brother's ear and serving as his right hand, to being cast out and lingering at the fringes of the syndicate.

He wanted his power back, and his presence meant that he intended to use his son to get it.

Lino stepped back from the door, letting the couple come inside our home. His sanctuary from the things that tormented him outside the house. "Did you need something?" Lino asked through gritted teeth, closing the front door and coming to my side. I hadn't stood from my seat at the island where I'd been chatting with Lino while we ate, though I did swivel my chair to face the guests. I waited for Lino's guidance on how he wanted me to handle his father's sudden presence, because in an odd turn of events he'd come into my turf.

I'd always had to show respect, whether in public or in his home, because it was the expected rule for the situation. But with Gabriele coming into Lino's home—my home—it felt like there was a shift in power. I could either play the doting wife and host, or I could show Gabriele all the disrespect he'd shown me every time I was in his house.

I could make him come to me, if he wanted to bother with pleasantries.

When Lino moved to stand next to my seat, he put his hand on my shoulder. The touch was gentle, but it gave me the subtle hint that he wanted me to stay where I was. It reminded me that we'd long ago learned how to communicate without words, that as children we'd had to find ways to pass messages to each other without speaking them or writing them down.

Casual touches had become our norm, things that most people might not read into, but for us they said everything. It was no wonder they'd built into shows of affection and eventually attraction.

I crossed my legs, somehow grateful that I still wore my work clothes. The same way they served as armor at work, they felt like an armor with Gabriele. Never had he seen the Samara who lounged around with her hair in a knot on her head, glasses on her face, and in a tank top and leggings.

Never had he actually seen the real me.

The thought comforted me. That while I knew him, knew every despicable time he'd dared to lay a hand on his son, he knew absolutely nothing about me.

"Dinner the other night didn't go well. You