Chapter 166: A Man Who Looked Like Dimitri.

"That’s it," the man said, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Take it. Take every fucking inch."

Isabella came with a scream, Dimitri’s name on her lips again....her entire body convulsing.

But the man didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

Just kept pounding into her through her orgasm, chasing his own release with brutal efficiency.

Isabella had never felt so thoroughly used.

And she loved every second of it.

***

POV: DANTE

Dante Romano watched the woman beneath him scream another man’s name and felt murderous rage mix with dark satisfaction.

Isabella Russo.

Dimitri Valentino’s betrothed.

The woman who was supposed to marry the Devil and unite two of the most powerful families in Italy.

Currently face-down on her bed, taking Dante’s cock like she was made for it, moaning for a man who’d rejected her.

Pathetic.

Beautiful.

Perfect for what Dante needed.

He’d approached her three weeks ago at one of Rome’s exclusive clubs, the kind where mafia royalty came to play.

She’d been drunk. Angry. Looking for someone to fuck the pain away.

And Dante, who’d done his research, who knew she had a type, who’d spent hours studying photos of Dimitri Valentino to understand exactly what she wanted, had given her what she was looking for.

A man who looked like Dimitri.

Tall. Dark-haired. Dangerous.

Close enough that in dim lighting, after enough alcohol, she could pretend.

She had no idea who he really was.

Had no idea that the man currently buried inside her was the brother of Salvatore Romano, the man Dimitri had killed in that Rome alley three weeks ago.

Had no idea she was fucking the new head of the Romano family.

Had no idea Dante was using her exactly like she was using him.

Except his reasons were better.

Revenge.

Pure, cold, calculated revenge.

When Isabella screamed "Dimitri" again, desperate and needy, Dante felt something snap.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and slammed into her so hard she cried out.

"Wrong name," he growled in her ear.

Then he shoved her face back into the mattress, pinning her there with one hand between her shoulder blades, and fucked her with everything he had.

No mercy. No gentleness. Just brutal, punishing thrusts designed to make her forget Dimitri Valentino existed.

Isabella’s muffled screams turned to sobs.

But she didn’t ask him to stop.

Didn’t push him away.

Just took it.

Took everything he gave her and begged for more.

Dante felt his control fraying.

Felt his orgasm building.

But he wasn’t done with her yet.

He pulled out suddenly, flipped her onto her back, and spread her legs wide.

Isabella looked up at him with glazed eyes, her lips swollen, her hair a mess, her body covered in sweat and marks from his hands.

"Please," she gasped. "Please don’t stop...."

Dante didn’t answer.

Just grabbed her ankles, pushed her legs up toward her chest, and slammed back into her.

This angle was deeper. Harder. Made Isabella’s eyes roll back as he hit spots that clearly no one else had reached.

"Look at me," Dante commanded.

Isabella’s eyes focused on his face.

And Dante saw the moment she superimposed Dimitri over his features. Saw her pupils dilate. Saw her mouth open in a silent moan.

"You’re so fucking desperate," he said, his voice cruel. "Begging for a man who doesn’t want you. Fucking strangers who look like him because you can’t have the real thing."

Isabella’s face crumpled.

But her body responded.

Clenched around him. Got wetter.

She liked the cruelty.

Liked being degraded.

Liked being reminded of her rejection while being fucked within an inch of her life.

Dante filed that information away.

Useful.

He leaned down, bit her neck hard enough to leave marks, and whispered against her skin: "He’s never going to want you. You know that, right? He chose some American nobody over you. Fourteen years of loyalty and he threw you away like trash."

"Shut up...." Isabella’s voice broke.

"Make me."

She couldn’t.

Could only lie there and take it as Dante fucked her harder, faster, deeper.

Used her body to work out his rage over Sal’s death.

Over the fact that Dimitri Valentino had walked into Romano territory and killed fifteen men like it was nothing.

Over the fact that his little brother’s body had come home in pieces.

Isabella came again....silently this time, just her body shaking and clenching around him.

Dante kept going.

Chasing something darker than pleasure.

Chasing the image of Dimitri’s face when he found out Dante had been fucking his betrothed.

When he found out Isabella Russo, trained from childhood to be the perfect mafia wife....was addicted to Romano cock.

The thought pushed him over the edge.

Dante came with a roar, spilling inside her, marking her, claiming her in the most primal way possible.

Isabella’s eyes fluttered closed.

Her breathing was shallow, rapid.

And then....slowly, she went limp beneath him.

Passed out.

Dante pulled out carefully, watched his cum leak from her swollen, well-used pussy, and felt grim satisfaction.

Phase one complete.

Get close to Isabella Russo.

Make her addicted.

Make her dependent.

And then when the time was right, use her to destroy Dimitri Valentino from the inside out.

Dante stood from the bed, his body still humming with adrenaline and post-orgasm endorphins.

Isabella lay unconscious on the silk sheets, her body marked with his hands, his teeth, his possession.

She’d wake up sore. Confused. Maybe a little ashamed.

But she’d come back.

They always came back.

Dante walked naked to the balcony of Isabella’s penthouse....all glass and steel overlooking Rome’s glittering skyline.

The night air was cool against his heated skin.

He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and let the nicotine calm his racing thoughts.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since Dimitri Valentino had killed his brother.

Dante had been in Naples when the call came. Had driven to Rome to identify Sal’s body. Had seen what Dimitri’s bullets had done to his little brother’s face.

One shot. Clean. Between the eyes.

Execution-style.

Like Sal was nothing.

Like fifteen Romano soldiers were nothing.

The funeral had been closed-casket.

Their mother had sobbed for hours.

And Dante....eldest son, new head of the family, had stood beside the grave and made a silent promise.

Dimitri Valentino would pay.

Not quickly. Not cleanly.

Slowly. Painfully. Personally.

Dante would take everything the Devil loved and own and burn it to ash.

Starting with Isabella Russo.