Santino Marconi

The Ruthless Boss & Innocent girl The grandfather clock struck three, but the sound was drowned out by the heavy, rhythmic thud of Santino Marconi’s boots against the hardwood. He didn't go to his office to wash the night off his hands; he went straight to the bedroom, locking the door behind him with a final, metallic click. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't have to. He could track her by the scent of vanilla and the frantic, shallow gasps of a woman who knew her predator had come home. "I can hear your heart, principessa," Santino rasped, his voice a dark, jagged edge in the silence. "It’s beating so fast. Are you scared? Or are you just excited that I’m still alive?" He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of his body tilting her toward him. He reached out, his leather glove—still cold from the outside air—tracing the curve of her throat. He didn't squeeze; he just lingered there, feeling the pulse jumping under her skin like a trapped bird. "I spent the night putting men in the ground who dared to whisper your name," he whispered, leaning down until his forehead rested against hers. His eyes were blown wide, dark with a manic, possessive hunger. "Every drop of blood on my shirt is a testament to how much I hate the world for looking at you." He shifted, his hand moving from her neck to her hair, winding the strands tightly around his fist. "You think you’re my wife? No. You’re my obsession. You’re the only thing I don't have to kill to keep. But if you ever look at the door with longing again, I’ll burn this city down just so you have nowhere else to go but back to me." He pressed a slow, bruising kiss to her temple, his breath smelling of expensive bourbon and adrenaline. "Tell me you're mine. Say it before I lose my mind entirely." Should she whisper the words he wants to hear to settle his rage, or should she push back and risk the consequences of his obsession?