Undressed By The Mafia God-Chapter 124: I Missed You

The line connected, and the moment her voice filtered through, soft and utterly his, Luca’s body responded with electricity shooting straight to his groin. "Hey you..." Her words wrapped around him, he was unable to breathe, utterly undone.

"Bambola..." he whispered, closing his eyes.

"I’m guessing you are alone, if you’re calling me that," she said, a small smirk in her tone, teasing him through the distance.

"Sort of," he admitted. "It’s... nice to hear your voice. I missed you."

Silence answered him. Of course she was silent. She was probably fuming. Understandably. "What are you doing?"

"Shopping," she said, crisp, clipped.

"I know that. But... why are you shopping at an adult store?"

"Preparing your welcome-back-home package," she answered smoothly, as if that explained everything, as if it should.

"Vee..." he growled, shaking his head, the corner of his lips tugging into a smirk. "It’s not a lingerie store. I am... quite familiar with that store."

"I said what I said," she fired back, mischief dancing through her voice.

He ran a hand down his face, brushing the tension from his jaw. "What are you up to?" He could practically feel the heat of her smirk through the line.

"You’ll see... soon."

Luca’s pulse doubled, a grin tugging at his lips. She was dangerous. She was clever. She was his. And she was waiting to remind him exactly why he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever control her.

She had him exactly where she wanted: anticipating, wanting, and completely under her spell.

Luca leaned back in the seat, phone pressed to his ear, smoldering, already imagining what welcome home would really mean. "Are you still mad?" Luca asked.

"Should I not have a reason to be?" Veronica’s answer came smooth and cool. No raised tone. No dramatics. Just that controlled quiet that was far more dangerous than shouting.

For a moment he said nothing. His silence was cowardice.

Because what could he say?

How could he tell her that while he was fucking his wife, fulfilling his marital duty, it had been Veronica’s name burning behind his eyes? How could he explain that when it was over, he had finished himself off into lace that did not belong to his wife?

It sounded depraved even in his own head.

"I’ll see you later," he said instead, retreating into the one safe promise he could offer.

"Bye." She did not linger. The line went dead.

He stared at the screen for a second longer before letting out a sharp curse. "Fuck." He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes.

He was going to pay for this.

*****

Back at the Genovese estate, Bianca moved through their bedroom. Fresh roses stood in a crystal vase by the bed. She had replaced them that morning.

The maids would have handled everything. But she wanted her hands on his things. Wanted the ritual of folding, sorting, touching.

It made the absence quieter.

Luca’s travel bag lay open on the bed. She packed it methodically, shirts folded. His scent clung to everything. She pressed a shirt briefly to her face before placing it down.

She picked up the clothes he had discarded when he arrived. The pants first. She checked the pockets automatically, emptying out a receipt, his lighter. Folded them. Into the laundry basket.

Then the shirt.

Then the T shirt and shorts he had worn to dinner.

She slipped her hand into the pocket of the shorts without looking.

Her fingers brushed fabric.

Lace.

She paused.

Slowly, she drew it out.

White lace underwear. Delicate. Not hers.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, lace dangling from her fingers.

The memory of the night before replayed. Luca’s intensity. The way he had held her hips. The way his breathing had changed toward the end.

She had assumed it was hunger.

Now she wondered whose name had been in his head.

A humiliating sting pressed behind her ribs.

She knew instantly it wasn’t hers. Bianca did not buy lace that came in plastic wrapping or labels that needed introduction. Her drawers were curated. Milan. Paris. Brands that did not advertise because they did not need to. She did not wear anonymity.

This was anonymous, cheap.

"Luciano..." she whispered, his full name sliding off her tongue.

So he had brought a souvenir.

Had he slipped it into his pocket in a rush? Had he kept it deliberately? Had he touched it after touching her?

Was he thinking about the slut while he was fucking her?

Unrefined anger tightened her features. The softness she wore for him vanished.

She walked to the fireplace.

The lace dangled for one more breath between her fingers before she dropped it into the fire.

It caught quickly. Curled in on itself. Blackened. Gone.

Bianca watched until there was nothing left but a faint flicker and the faintest scent of burning fabric.

Ash suited it better.

She folded her arms across her chest. She had grown up watching women in this life. Some endured. Some turned blind eyes and clung to jewelry and titles while their husbands paraded other women.

Julian’s mother had been one of those.

Bianca remembered the way the staff used to gossip about her especially when Luca’s mother visited with him. The way invitations always included Luca’s mother’s preferences.

It had hollowed Julian’s mother out.

It would not happen to her.

Over her dead body would some inconsequential bitch gain standing in the Genovese home. Bianca had not been groomed, educated, and positioned for years to lose her place to a distraction.

No.

She crossed the room and picked up her phone. Her reflection stared back at her from the black screen. Beautiful in a way that did not beg for approval.

She tapped Ricardo’s name.

He answered, his face appearing on the screen.

"Ricardo..."

"What’s up?"

"The girl," she said evenly. "She has to go."

Ricardo’s posture shifted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said quietly, clearly, "she has to die. Do it."

Ricardo chuckled amusingly. "Why would I do it?"