S*X Contract With Invalid Mafia Boss

Chapter 8

Christine’s POV

I woke to a heavy weight across my waist. The arm draped over me was strong, possessive, like an anchor holding me in place, reminding me of where I was—and more painfully, who I was here with. My body ached, a dull throbbing in my legs and hips pulling me back to the events of last night. Luca’s demands, his unyielding grip, the rawness he left behind. It all replayed in my mind, searing hot and cold all at once.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the memories would dissipate, but they lingered, vivid and haunting. How he’d come back after a week of silence, as if nothing had happened, as if I was nothing more than a body to warm his bed. My fever, my pleading calls, the silence that followed...

He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t cared.

My anger simmered, mixing with the ache in my muscles, seeping into every corner of my mind. And yet here he was, wrapped around me like we were something real, something whole. I glanced over, letting my gaze settle on his sleeping face, his jawline tense even in slumber, his brow furrowing as if his own dreams tormented him.

What do you see in there, Luca? I thought, glaring at him. Did he even know what he’d put me through? Or did he simply not care?

He’d shown up, bruised and bloody, the smell of smoke and gunpowder still clinging to him. Without a single apology, without any explanation, he’d demanded what he felt he was owed. I’d barely had the strength to resist, and he’d barely bothered to notice. When I’d tried to tell him about my fever, he’d brushed me off, already peeling away my clothes, oblivious or indifferent to my struggle.

A bitter laugh bubbled up inside me, and I swallowed it down, my jaw clenching tight. He’d come back to me, but not for me. No, he’d come back because his needs had finally caught up with him. And what was I to him? A warm body in his bed, a balm for his blood-soaked nights. Nothing more.

The realization tasted sour, like bile rising in my throat. The comfort, the luxury, the life I’d so foolishly thought would be mine in Italy...it all came with a price. And every time he looked at me, I was reminded of exactly what that price was.

I hate you, I thought, the words echoing in my mind. I hate you for making me believe I needed you. For making me rely on you.

My eyes fell to the pillow beneath his head, and an impulsive thought slipped through my mind—one quick motion, and I could smother him. It was irrational, I knew, but the anger coursed through me, wild and unchecked. My fingers inched toward the pillow, hesitating.

Luca stirred, his grip tightening around my waist before he released me, his eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep. His gaze met mine, hazy and amused, as he smirked.

“You’re up early,” he mumbled, stretching, oblivious to the fire simmering beneath my calm exterior. “Thought you’d be too worn out to move.”

His words, casual and dismissive, hit me like a slap. I held his gaze, forcing myself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction.

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” My tone was cold, laced with every ounce of bitterness I could muster.

He blinked, his smirk faltering slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Forget it.” I rolled my eyes, wrenching myself away from him, feeling his fingers graze my skin as I pulled back. It took everything in me not to lash out, to keep the fury simmering quietly below the surface. He didn’t deserve to know just how deep he’d cut.

He lay back, watching me with narrowed eyes, trying to decipher the cold distance I’d wrapped around myself like armor. I let him look, let him search, but I gave him nothing. I wouldn’t grant him the satisfaction of knowing just how deeply he’d hurt me.

Silence settled over the room as he closed his eyes, slipping back into sleep, his breathing deepening. I turned my back to him, willing myself to relax, to push away the memories of last night. But as I lay there, his breathing grew ragged, a soft moan escaping his lips.

I turned, watching as his face contorted, his brow furrowing, his hands clenching the sheets. A nightmare, maybe. Whatever he was seeing, it was enough to chase the smug calm from his features, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. For a moment, I reveled in it, watching him suffer the way I’d suffered in silence. It felt like justice, a fleeting victory in a war I’d never wanted to fight.

But as the seconds passed, the satisfaction ebbed, replaced by something uncomfortably close to sympathy. He was Luca Ferrante—ruthless, unyielding, a man who’d built walls so high no one could scale them. And here he was, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen.

The urge to wake him, to pull him from whatever darkness haunted him, flared within me. My hand hovered over his shoulder, hesitating.

Why do I care? I pulled my hand back, clenching it into a fist. This man had left me in my weakest moment, abandoned me without a thought. He didn’t deserve my pity. And yet, something in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps we were more alike than I wanted to admit.

A small part of me wondered if he’d wake up and apologize, if he’d see the pain he’d caused and feel even a sliver of regret. But as his eyes fluttered open, that fleeting hope vanished. His gaze was as hard as ever, devoid of remorse.

He blinked, his face hardening as he registered the look in my eyes. “You’re staring.”

I swallowed back a retort, forcing myself to shrug casually. “Only because you were moaning like a child. Nightmares?”

Luca’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark in his gaze, but he brushed it off with a nonchalant smirk. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

The words sat between us, cold and heavy. He hadn’t bothered to ask if I’d had nightmares of my own—memories of the fever, the pain, the suffocating loneliness he’d left me in. He didn’t care. He’d never cared.

I would survive this, I told myself, gripping the sheets tightly, my knuckles white. I would endure, because what other choice did I have? Luca had given me no alternative, binding me to him with promises of comfort and security, only to take whatever he wanted without a second thought.

I wouldn’t be broken by this. I wouldn’t let him see just how deeply his absence had wounded me. If he wanted me as his possession, his convenient escape from whatever haunted him, then I would play the role. But I’d do it on my terms. I’d give him my body, but never my heart.

For now, I would let him believe he owned me. But in the dark, hidden corners of my mind, I knew that someday, somehow, I’d take back what he’d stolen. Until then, I would bide my time, wearing the mask he expected, concealing the anger and defiance that simmered beneath.

One day, this would be over. And when it was, he would be nothing more than a memory—a scar I’d carry, but a scar that would remind me I’d survived.