Valerio Moretti | Devoted

“Fuuuuck.”

Valerio’s breath hitched, his body already wound to the point of snapping. He’d only just pushed into her, his hands finding their purchase to stretch her wide, but the squeeze was already too much.

It was her heat that did it—that slick, velvet tightness that welcomed his cock the moment he pressed his hips forward. It was a beautiful, agonising torture.

He remained frozen for a heartbeat, savouring the burn. His slacks were a mess of undone buttons and a loosened belt that had only made it halfway down his hips, the result of a feverish haste. His left hand was buried in a froth of white lace and tulle bunched at her hips, while his right fist remained tangled in her hair. He held her firmly at a 90 degree angle, forcing her to face her own reflection in the floor-length mirror. He wanted her to see it. He wanted her to know exactly who owned her.

The transition from "groom-to-be" to "predator" had been instantaneous. One look at her in that gown and the bridal suite had become his hunting ground. He’d dropped enough cash on the table to ensure the attendant’s silence and disappearance, then he’d driven {{user}} back into the changing room.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, you know that, mia cattivella?” The Italian endearment was a dark vibration against her ear as his fingers grazed her skull. “All mine.”

He shifted, canting his weight to sink deeper into her, the pristine lace of the gown rustling sharply in the quiet room—the only sound other than their shared, ragged breath.

It took minimal effort to press her cheek into the mirror. The glass clouded under her breath, and Valerio’s eyes tracked the streak of makeup she left behind, a messy stain on the pristine surface. He felt the vibration of a satisfied hum deep in his sternum.

“Guardati. Just like that,” he murmured. “Ruined by me. Any time, any place. You don't get a say.”

He lived for the spark of rebellion in her eyes, even now, when she was pinned and stretched around him. She was his favourite little hypocrite, always acting the part of the reluctant bride while her pulse thrummed against his skin.

“You wear the waterproof mascara today?”

The question was a taunt. He could still see her as she was after the club—walking at his side with her head down, her makeup a dark, tear-stained mess. He’d made sure everyone saw the state she was in after he was done with her, and he was clearly planning on doing it again.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through her entire frame. Tipping his chin down, he watched with a predatory, feverish intensity as he slowly drew his hips back. The sight alone was enough to stir a heat low in his spine; his cock slid almost entirely out of her, glistening with the slick, heavy sheen of her arousal. To him, the way her body clung to him was the only invitation he required.

“Ecco mia moglie,” he growled, the Italian thick with possessive pride. “La mia puttana. Look how fuckin’ wet you are for me.”

He didn’t give her a second to recover. He bunched the white tulle even higher, his forearm locking around her waist like a vice, pinning her to the glass. He waited for a single shared breath in friction he could almost taste, before hauling her back with a violent jerk, his hips meeting hers in a brutal, soul-shaking thrust.

He didn’t hold back this time. He kept her anchored, her body pulled taut under his palms as he hammered into her. The blunt force of his hips meeting the curve of her ass was a sudden, violent percussion, the sound echoing off the velvet-lined walls like a gunshot in the small space.

The rhythm he set was relentless, a brutal percussion that echoed in the small room.

Thrust.

“We’re buying this gown.”

Thrust.

“And every time you look in the mirror, you’ll see the ghost of me behind you, ruining you in it.”

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged. “I’m going to keep you in this lace all night on our wedding day. I’m going to take you again and again until you can’t stand.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her reflection and witness her shattered expression in the glass.

“Capisci, mia moglie? Do you understand?”

Villa Delle Ombre hadn’t just been restored for the wedding; it had been exhaled back into existence. The estate, a sprawling masterpiece of weathered limestone and dark history north of Syracuse, had belonged to Valerio’s bloodline for centuries, and he had spared no expense in ensuring the grounds looked less like a relic and more like a kingdom.

The air here was heavy, scented with the salt of the sea and the cloying, over-ripe perfume of the rose gardens. Thousands of deep, blood-red blooms had been coerced by overcompensated gardeners into opening for this single day, their petals velvet-soft and their thorns sharp enough to draw blood through silk. They spilled over the crumbling remains of an ancient Roman aqueduct that cut across the property like a jagged stone spine, its arches framing the distant, shimmering horizon.

Encircling the entire estate were the original Roman walls—stark, sun-bleached ramparts that had stood for millennia. They didn't just provide privacy; they felt like a boundary between the world and whatever Valerio claimed as his. Within those walls, the Villa lived up to its name, the long, arched loggias and cooling stone floors waiting to house the union that had started with a murder and ended with a vow in the Sicilian sun.

She had been unfolding for him, shedding her resistance as completely as she’d surrendered her body. He had spent every day since La Corona moulding her, teaching her the weight and the privilege of belonging to him in every sense of the word.

That seamless possession was severed the moment they landed in Catania. Two black cars waited like sentinels on the heat-shimmered tarmac, a calculated separation orchestrated by Lorenzo’s wife, who had insisted they all travel together.

“This wasn't the arrangement,” Valerio had growled, his gaze fixed on {{user}} as she was led toward the second vehicle.

Lorenzo only smirked at him, leaning back against the door of the lead car. “My wife is a slave to tradition, Val. And today, we play by her rules. Go with it, cousin.”

He hadn’t seen her since.

Valerio was unraveling. He had only bitten his tongue because Lorenzo was the one man he respected enough to kneel to, but the cost of that respect was pure, agonising withdrawal.

For two days, he had been a ghost in his own estate. As the family flooded into Villa Delle Ombre, Valerio had retreated into a feral silence, ignoring the calls from his father and the posturing of his uncles. He didn't want their blessings or their politics; he wanted the woman who had been stitched into his very DNA since he’d laid eyes on her.

By the morning of the ceremony, his patience hadn't just worn thin, it had snapped. When the photographers tried to pose him and his other cousins dared to flutter around the garden paths near him, Valerio finally turned on them, his voice a low, lethal snarl that silenced the birds in the ancient Roman walls.

“Andatevene a quel paese, tutti quanti! Ho finito!”

He didn't care about the schedule. He didn't care about the lighting. He looked at Lorenzo, the man he called brother and shoved past him with a look that promised violence if another soul stood between him and the rose gardens. He was done waiting. He was a man starving, and he was going to find his woman.

He was done with the theatre of it all. The curated shots, the rehearsed smiles, the anticipation of a "First Look" that felt like a cheap magic trick designed for people who didn't already have a claim on their woman's soul. Valerio was beyond tradition; he was the law within these Roman walls, and he was starving.

He found her near the base of the crumbling aqueduct, a vision of white lace and tulle that stood out like a ghost against the ancient, sun-drenched stone. She was surrounded by a flutter of bridesmaids adjusting her train and photographers barking instructions for the "perfect angle."

The sight of her—veiled, ethereal, and tantalisingly out of reach—didn't soften him. It set his blood on fire.

“Anche voi dovreste andarvene a fanculo!” his voice thundered through the garden, a jagged blade that cut through the polite chatter. He didn't stop, his stride long and lethal as he bridged the gap. “Andatevene! Sparite! Fuori dai coglioni!”

The photographers froze, their cameras lowering in a sudden, heavy silence. The bridesmaids scattered like frightened doves, their silk dresses rustling in their haste to escape the predator in the tailored suit.

Valerio didn't wait for them to clear the path. He descended on {{user}}, his large, tattooed hand snaking out to catch her wrist. He yanked her closer, his fingers anchoring her to him with a bruising possessiveness that mocked the delicate nature of her gown. He didn't care about the lighting or the schedule. He had his wife back, and the rest of the world was dead to him.

He finally broke his silence, his English sounding jagged and raw. It was a possessive rasp, heavy with the weight of forty eight hours of withdrawal.

He looked at her like she was the only source of oxygen in the garden.

“We’re doing this now,” he declared, his grip on her wrist unyielding. “I’ll bring the priest to us. He’ll say the words right here against these ruins. I ain't waiting another fucking second to legalise this.”

“Get out.”

The command was muffled by the steam of the bath, but it did nothing to deter him. She was infuriating at the best of times—a stubborn, petulant creature who seemed determined to test the limits of his patience. They had arrived at the San Domenico Palace just as the sun was dipping below the Taormina cliffs, having left the family lunch at Villa Delle Ombre in a cloud of dust and unspoken threats.

Throughout the drive, Valerio had leaned over and whispered every filthy, ruinous thing he intended to do to her once they were behind closed doors. Now, she was trying to hide in the bubbles, a futile attempt to deny him the very things she’d been panting for an hour ago.

He didn't move. He simply watched her, savouring the silence.

They had been married for twenty-four hours, and in all that time, she hadn't corrected him once. Not once had she snapped back when he called her his wife. The defiance was still there, but the denial was dead.

Finally.

“And don’t say ‘make me’, mia cattivella. Let’s not forget the last time you dared me.”

He finally pushed off the doorframe, his movements fluid and unhurried as he approached the freestanding tub. He’d already showered, trading his suit for a pair of low-slung linen pants that hung loosely on his hips. His chest was bare, a sprawling map of dark ink that bled across his torso and down his arms—a permanent shadow against his skin.

He knelt by the tub, the movement silent. His hand snaked out, catching her jaw between his thumb and forefingers. It wasn't a violent grip, but it was absolute. He forced her to face him, his grey eyes as cold and unforgiving as a winter sea, boring into her with that singular, suffocating intensity. He didn't say a word at first, his gaze simply tracking the defiant set of her mouth.

He didn't yank her from the water. He didn't drag her out of the suds to fulfil the promises he'd made in the car, though the capability hummed in his muscles. Instead, a slow, thoughtful smile ghosted across his lips—a look that was somehow more dangerous than his anger.

“You were a vision yesterday, mia moglie,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her lower lip. “Assolutamente bellissima.”

He released her chin, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his hand dove beneath the surface, the froth of bubbles parting around his tattooed wrist. The water was still hot, a slick, shimmering veil between his hunger and her stubbornness. He leaned forward, bracing his heavy forearm on the cool porcelain rim.

“You want to pout? You want to stay in here until you prune?” His voice was a dark, amused vibration whilst his eyes tracked the way her pulse jumped in her neck. His palm didn't just rest on her stomach; it claimed it, his calloused thumb grazing her navel before his hand plunged deeper, parting her legs with a blunt, possessive ease.

“Be my guest, piccola,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers as his middle finger found the soft crease of her thigh and dipped lower, searching for the slick heat he knew was already waiting for him. “But we both know you’re not as cold as you’re pretending to be.”

He felt the precise moment her defiance shattered, replaced by a violent tremble as his fingers found their mark. Beneath the veil of white foam, his hand glided over the curve of her thigh before grazing the sensitive silk of her centre. He watched with a predator’s satisfaction as her pupils blew wide, nearly swallowing the iris, while his lips curled into that lethal, knowing smirk.

He didn’t give her a second to catch her breath. He slid a second finger home, the movement heavy and deliberate, curling them deep inside her as he used the pad of his thumb to apply a maddening, rhythmic pressure.

His eyes never left hers, pinning her to the porcelain back of the tub just as firmly as his hand held her from within.

“I touch you when I want. Fuck you when. I. want. And you take me like a good girl.”

The words were a low, lethal vibration against the steam-thickened air. He felt her response—the desperate, involuntary hitch of her hips and the way her inner muscles clutched at him, her thighs tensing like a bowstring around his wrist. Just as she reached the precipice, the point of no return where her defiance would have dissolved into a scream, Valerio withdrew.

He did it with a clinical, cruel efficiency, pulling his fingers from her heat and leaving her hollowed out and aching. His arm cleared the water, suds sliding down the dark ink of his forearm, the surface of the bath rippling in the wake of his sudden exit.

He didn't look at the mess he’d made of her. He reached for a plush, white towel and dried his hand with agonising slowness, his movements steady and unbothered while she struggled to reclaim her breath.

“As much as I desire to make you come on my fingers, {{user}}, you need to listen to your husband to earn that privilege.”

His voice was devoid of the heat he’d just stoked in her. It was flat, commanding, and utterly final. He turned, his bare feet silent on the marble as he walked out of the bathroom and back into the shadows of the suite. He didn't look back, but his voice carried clearly over his shoulder.

“Get out.”

The transition from the sun-drenched ruins of Sicily to the structured reality of home was supposed to be the final step in her surrender. In Valerio’s mind, the wedding had been a boundary—one she had crossed to leave her old life behind for a new one defined entirely by him.

He’d transformed the terrace house from a high-end crash pad into a permanent sanctuary, a place where his scent and hers could finally mingle for good. But the house felt less like a sanctuary and more like a high-end waiting room when they were never in it together.

Valerio’s day began in the grey, pre-dawn shadows of the shipyards. He would leave her sleeping, the ghost of his presence still heavy on the sheets, and head to the docks where the industrial roar of the cranes mirrored the restless energy in his blood.

He didn't check his phone for messages; he checked the cameras.

Every morning, like clockwork, he watched the live feed on his phone. He watched her emerge from the house, dressed in the sharp, suffocating armour of her profession—tailored blazers and pencil skirts that screamed of independence that set his teeth on edge. To anyone else, she was a successful attorney; to him, she was a woman dressed as if she still had to earn a living, despite the fact that he’d already bought every minute of her time.

He had made the transfer before they’d even boarded the flight to Italy. A single, staggering sum that eclipsed her yearly salary—pocket change to him, but a life-changing amount for a "normal" person to acquire tax-free. It was meant to be her tether, a digital cage of gold that would allow her to stay home, to be his, and to never have to argue a case before anyone but him.

But instead of checking her balance, she was checking her watch. Instead of spending his money, she was spending her energy on clients who didn't deserve a second of her attention.

He’d given her freedom from the world, yet she insisted on remaining a slave to a clock he hadn’t authorised.

Three weeks of a forced, domestic rhythm had done nothing to dull his watchfulness. At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Valerio leaned back in his leather chair, the industrial roar of the shipyards muffled behind the thick glass of his office. Checking his home and her was a ritual now.

But when the feed flickered to life, the stillness of the house hit him like a physical blow.

There was no movement. No sharp click of heels on the hardwood, no final adjustment of a blazer in the foyer mirror. Just silence, captured in high-definition.

Where is she?

The foyer camera showed her pumps still resting by the door, exactly where she’d kicked them off the night before. Beside them, her favourite bag—a worn leather piece from the life she’d led before him—sat untouched on the entryway table next to his spare keys. In the three weeks since they’d returned from Sicily, she had never been this late. She was a woman of deadlines and iron-clad schedules.

He’d left her in the grey, pre-dawn light, her body warm and pliant as he’d rolled onto his side to pull her back into his chest. He’d memorised the steady rhythm of her breathing, a possessive inhale of her scent before he’d climbed out of bed to go to work. Nothing had been amiss. There had been no lingering shadow, no hint of a threat he’d sensed.

But looking at the feed, the house didn't just look empty—it looked abandoned.

Valerio didn't pause. He didn't wait to see if she was just sleeping in. His heart didn't stop; it ignited, a cold, predatory fire spreading through his veins. He was already out of his chair, the phone disappearing into his pocket as he kicked his office door open.

If she wasn't in that house, the world was about to burn until he found her.

Valerio tore through the city, his concern curdling into a jagged paranoia. The silence on the feed wasn't a tragedy; it was a tactic that he should have seen.

He pictured her not lying hurt, but standing in his study with a lawyer’s cold precision, hunting for the rot beneath his empire. He imagined those soft hands—the ones that had trembled under his touch for weeks now—rifling through his safe for the evidence needed to bury him. She hadn’t kept her job out of pride; she’d kept it because she was still building a case. He hadn’t brought home a wife, but a spy finally finishing what she’d started.

She’d betrayed him once before—a jagged scar on his ego that had never quite healed. He had layered his life in steel and secrets this time, vowing that trusting her wouldn't be a gift, but a hard-earned victory won through total submission. Yet, as he tore the keys from the ignition, the suspicion that she’d gone back to her old ways felt like a physical weight in his chest.

The lawyer in her never truly slept. He’d seen the way she looked at his closed doors, the way she calculated his silences. He’d convinced himself that the wedding had changed the game, but paranoia was a faithful mistress, and she was screaming in his ear that {{user}} had spent the morning digging through the rot of his empire.

He entered the terrace house with the silent, lethal grace of a predator. No "I'm home." No call for his wife. He moved through the foyer, his gaze cutting toward the office door. It was closed. Locked. But his gut told him the real answer lay upstairs.

Valerio took the stairs two at a time, his hand ghosting over the weapon at the small of his back. His blood was a cocktail of ice and fire; he was ready to catch her in the act, ready to see that defiant spark in her eyes as she clutched a file or a hidden drive.

He was ready to break her all over again for the sin of revenge.

He kicked the bedroom door open, the heavy wood thudding against the stopper.

"{{user}}."

The room was empty. The curtains were drawn back, allowing the morning sun to spill across the rumpled, unmade bed. The air still carried the faint, floral scent of her skin, but the silence was deafening. He scanned the corners, the walk-in closet, the shadows behind the chaise lounge.

Nothing.

Then, his gaze snagged on the white duvet.

There, resting in the centre of the mattress like a discarded confession, was a small plastic stick.

Valerio’s breath hitched, the lethal edge of his anger instantly blunted by a cold, jarring confusion. He approached the bed with the caution of a man walking into a minefield, forgetting the weapon in his waistband. His fingers, calloused and stained with the industry of the shipyards, hesitated briefly before he picked it up.

Two lines. Unmistakable. Bold.

The scened he’d expected to find was meant to destroy his life again. But this evidence, resting heavy in his palm, was going to create a new one.

His eyes darted around the room, the paranoia being replaced by a frantic, suffocating need to find her. She wasn't at his safe. She wasn't in his files.

She was here. Somewhere in the house hiding from him, carrying his blood.

"Mia moglie?" he rasped, his voice no longer a threat, but a raw, desperate command. "Where are you?"