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iamquiantrelle · 22 days ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 12) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Three days after Hernandez, the nightmares still came. You'd wake gasping, the sound of gunshots echoing in your mind, the feel of the trigger beneath your finger replaying in endless loops. The first kill was supposed to change you—that's what you'd always heard, at least. Your father's men spoke of it in hushed tones, this crossing of a threshold that separated those who could survive in your world from those who couldn't.

What disturbed you wasn't that you felt changed, but how natural it had felt. How right. How justified. Shouldn't there be more guilt? More hesitation when you remembered how easily you'd pulled that trigger three times?

Morning light filtered through the pool house curtains, casting warm patterns across the bed as you blinked away the remnants of another restless night. Lewis was already up—you could hear the quiet sounds of movement from the adjoining bathroom, the precise routine he maintained regardless of circumstances.

You pulled yourself up against the headboard, running fingers through your tangled hair as Lewis appeared in the doorway, already dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater despite the early hour.

"Nightmares again?" he asked, his perceptive gaze missing nothing.

You nodded, not bothering to hide it. "Same one."

Lewis crossed to the bedside, setting down a steaming mug of tea on your nightstand—the perfect temperature, with the exact amount of honey you preferred. This small domestic ritual had become part of your mornings in the days since Hernandez, Lewis providing wordless comfort in his characteristically practical way.

"It gets easier," he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside you. "Not because you become callous, but because you learn to compartmentalize."

"Is that what you do?" you asked, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Compartmentalize?"

Something flickered across his features—a brief glimpse behind the controlled exterior he maintained so effortlessly. "It's the only way to function in our world. To separate the necessary violence from the rest of life."

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that still sometimes caught you by surprise. In the seven weeks since your wedding, these small gestures of connection had gradually increased, accelerating since Scotland and even more since the night you'd killed Hernandez. As if that final proof of your capability had removed some last barrier between you.

"Does it bother you?" you asked, the question that had been circling your mind for three days finally finding voice. "What I did?"

Lewis studied you, his dark eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "No," he said simply. "Should it?"

"Most husbands probably wouldn't want to see their wives kill someone."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "I think we established quite some time ago that this isn't a typical marriage."

You couldn't help but smile in return. "I suppose we did."

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, Miles's voice calling from outside. "Lewis? Naomi's here with those reports you asked for."

Lewis's expression shifted seamlessly back to business mode, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer. "Tell her I'll be right there."

"You should go," you said, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. "I'm fine, really."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, as if assessing the truth of your statement, before nodding once. "We'll talk more later. My mother called again yesterday—apparently Roscoe is driving her mad. She says he misses you."

The mention of the bulldog brought a genuine smile to your face. "I miss him too. When do you think it'll be safe to get back to him?"

"Soon," Lewis promised, rising from the bed with that fluid grace that made even simple movements seem deliberate. "Once the Suarez situation is fully resolved."

You nodded, understanding the reality beneath the simple statement. Until Suarez was killed, no one in your orbit was truly safe—not even a wrinkly-faced bulldog who'd claimed your affection during those first uncertain weeks in London.

"Go," you urged, settling back against the pillows. "Don't keep Naomi waiting. I'll meet you at the main house later."

With a final assessing look, Lewis departed, leaving you alone with your tea and the lingering warmth of his presence.

An hour later, showered and dressed, you made your way across the snowy grounds to the main house. Security personnel nodded respectfully as you passed—a subtle but significant shift from the polite dismissal they'd shown before Hernandez. Word had spread quickly, the details likely embellished with each retelling, your status within both your father's organization and Lewis's permanently altered by three bullets and unflinching resolve.

You found Lewis in your father's study with Miles and Naomi, their voices low but tense as you approached the partially open door.

"—make sense given what we know about his movements," Naomi was saying, her pragmatic tone carrying that edge of frustration it always held when her insights were being questioned. "The timing of his communications with Suarez coincided too perfectly with separate information breaches."

"We've been through this," Miles countered, fatigue evident beneath his usual easy manner. "Hernandez had access to all the compromised systems. We've run full security audits on everyone else in the organization."

"And found nothing," Naomi acknowledged. "Which either means we're missing something, or—"

"Or someone is hiding their tracks very well," Lewis finished, his voice carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without volume.

You pushed the door open fully, drawing all three pairs of eyes to you. Lewis's expression softened fractionally, an almost imperceptible shift that few would notice but which you'd learned to recognize as his version of a welcome.

"Sorry to interrupt," you said, though the apology was mere formality given your position.

"Not an interruption," Lewis replied, gesturing you into the room. "Naomi was just updating us on her continuing investigation into Hernandez's contacts."

Naomi nodded, her professional demeanor never wavering despite the circumstances. "I still think there's more to this than just Hernandez."

"Have you discussed this with my father?" you asked, moving to stand beside Lewis's chair with natural ease.

"Not yet," Lewis replied, his hand finding yours with casual possession that still occasionally surprised you with its openness. "I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him."

"Wise," you acknowledged, understanding the delicate politics involved.

"If I may," Naomi continued, her focus unwavering despite the subtle shift in the room's dynamic with your arrival, "I'd like permission to conduct a more thorough investigation of this."

Lewis glanced at you, a silent exchange passing between you.

"Do it," you said, the easy authority in your voice sending a flicker of surprise across Miles's face though Lewis merely nodded in agreement. "But discretely."

"Understood," Naomi replied, the barest hint of approval crossing her usually impassive features before she gathered her files and departed with professional efficiency.

Miles followed a moment later, leaving you alone with Lewis in the study that had once been the exclusive domain of your father's business. The change wasn't lost on you—how naturally you now occupied this space, how easily you'd stepped into partnership with Lewis.

"Your sisters were looking for you earlier," Lewis mentioned once the door closed behind Miles. "Something about plans for the afternoon."

You smiled, grateful for the change in topic from security breaches to family matters. "Probably another scheme to get Gabriella out of her pre-Milan panic. She's been reorganizing her closet daily since finalizing her study abroad arrangements."

"Nervous about leaving home?" Lewis asked, his perceptiveness extending even to your sisters' emotional states.

"More excited than nervous," you replied, settling into the chair Miles had vacated. "But you know how it is with Italian families—leaving, even temporarily, is treated like some grand tragedy in the making."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted. "I've noticed."

"Will you join us?" you asked, the invitation spontaneous but genuine. "The girls were talking about watching movies in the theater room, maybe ordering in from that Italian place down the road."

Something like surprise flickered across Lewis's features—not at the invitation itself, but perhaps at how naturally it had been extended, how easily you'd included him in these casual family moments.

"If you want me there," he said simply.

"I do," you confirmed, meaning it more than you might have expected even a week ago. Since Hernandez, something had shifted between you yet again—the partnership deepening beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully defined but which felt increasingly necessary.

The afternoon unfolded with surprising normalcy, you and your sisters sprawled across the plush couches in the estate's theater room while debating movie choices with the passionate intensity only Ricci women could bring to such trivial matters.

"Not another superhero movie, Sophia," Maria groaned, tossing a handful of popcorn at her youngest sister. "If I have to watch men in spandex punching each other one more time, I might actually lose my mind."

"It's not just men in spandex," Sophia protested, dodging the popcorn with practiced ease. "It's art. Cultural commentary. Right, Lewis?"

All eyes turned to Lewis, who had settled beside you with characteristic composure despite the chaotic energy of three Ricci sisters in full debate mode. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused despite his neutral expression.

"I'm afraid I haven't kept up with the current superhero cinematic universes," he admitted, earning dramatic groans from Sophia.

"You're useless," she declared with typical teenage dismissiveness. "What about you, Gabby? Back me up here."

Gabriella, curled at the other end of the couch with her phone perpetually in hand, barely glanced up. "Don't care. As long as it's not another one of Maria's depressing European films where everyone dies at the end and we're supposed to feel enlightened by the experience."

"That was ONE TIME," Maria defended, throwing more popcorn that Gabriella dodged without looking up from her screen. "And it won at Cannes!"

"Which should have been your first warning," Gabriella muttered, her thumbs flying over her phone in what appeared to be an intense text conversation.

You leaned against Lewis's shoulder, these familiar sisterly dynamics creating a strange bubble of normalcy in the midst of everything else happening in your world. His arm settled around you with casual intimacy, his body a solid presence beside yours as the debate continued around you.

"They're always like this," you explained in a low voice, watching as Sophia physically wrestled the remote from Maria while Gabriella continued ignoring them both. "Wait until family dinner tonight with the cousins. It's going to be complete chaos."

Lewis's thumb traced small circles against your arm, the gesture absent-minded but comforting. "I'm beginning to understand why your father spent so much time in his study."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Strategic retreat. The only defense against Ricci women in full force."

The afternoon passed in a blur of movies (Sophia won the first selection, Maria the second), take-out containers from your favorite local Italian restaurant ("It's not as good as Nonna's, but it'll do," was Sophia's ringing endorsement), and the kind of easy banter that only siblings could maintain without causing permanent offense.

What surprised you most was how naturally Lewis integrated into these moments—not fully relaxed, perhaps, but present in a way you hadn't witnessed before. Offering dry commentary on plot holes that sent Sophia into fits of laughter. Listening with genuine interest as Gabriella described the business program she'd be studying in Milan. Observing it all with that careful attention he brought to everything, but without the calculating edge that usually accompanied it.

By the time evening approached and preparations for the extended family dinner began, you found yourself watching Lewis with renewed curiosity. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago continued to reveal unexpected layers beneath his controlled exterior.

"Earth to big sis," Sophia's voice broke through your thoughts, her finger poking your arm incessantly. "You've been staring at Lewis for like, five straight minutes. It's getting weird."

Heat rushed to your face as you swatted her hand away. "I was not staring."

"You absolutely were," Gabriella confirmed without looking up from her phone. "Major heart-eyes situation happening. Very embarrassing for all of us, honestly."

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a decorative pillow that Gabriella dodged with irritating ease.

Lewis, who had stepped away to take a call from Miles, returned in time to catch the tail end of this exchange. His eyebrow raised in silent question, amusement evident in his eyes despite his composed expression.

"Ignore them," you advised, rising from the couch with as much dignity as you could muster. "We should get ready for dinner. Vinny and the others will be here soon."

"Vinny's bringing his new girlfriend," Sophia announced with gleeful anticipation of drama. "Aunt Claudia is going to hate her."

"Aunt Claudia hates everyone Vinny dates," Maria corrected, gathering empty takeout containers with uncharacteristic tidiness. "It's her default setting."

"Yes, but this one has tattoos," Sophia countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "And she's a bartender at that club in the city. You know, the one Uncle Paolo pretends he doesn't go to."

"This dinner is going to be a nightmare," Gabriella predicted, finally looking up from her phone with something like anticipation. "I can't wait."

************************************************

Two hours later, the formal dining room buzzed with the controlled chaos that defined Ricci family gatherings. Your father sat at the head of the table, your mother at the opposite end, with extended family filling the spaces between—Uncle Paolo and his wife Claudia, their son Paolo Jr., Uncle Paolo's daughter Gia from his first marriage, and your other cousins Vinny and Carmine.

Lewis had taken his place beside you with the calm assurance that had marked his presence in family gatherings since the De Garza situation solidified his position. If the boisterous energy of your extended family bothered him, he showed no sign, his composed demeanor providing an interesting counterpoint to the theatrical Italian dynamics playing out around him.

"So, Gabriella," Vinny said through a mouthful of pasta, his gesture with his fork sending a flicker of disapproval across your mother's face. "When do you leave us for the sophisticated European life? Uncle Sal's already talking about how we'll need to find you an Italian husband while you're there. Keep it in the motherland, you know?"

Gabriella rolled her eyes with such force it seemed physically painful. "I'm going to study business, not husband-hunting. And if Papa thinks I'm letting him arrange my marriage like it's 1950, he's completely delusional."

"Worked out okay for your sister," Vinny countered, his gaze shifting meaningfully between you and Lewis. "Arranged marriages are making a comeback, cugina."

"I think one strategic alliance is enough for this generation," you replied dryly, feeling Lewis's hand settle on your knee beneath the table.

"Besides," Vinny continued, turning his attention to Maria, "you're probably next in line anyway. Unless you've already got someone picked out, Uncle Sal?"

Your father made a noncommittal sound, too focused on his osso buco to engage with Vinny's needling. "Maria has time yet."

"Shut up, Vinny," Maria muttered, her fork stabbing with unnecessary force into her salad.

"Gabby already has a boyfriend," Paolo Jr. announced with the gleeful obliviousness of a seven-year-old dropping conversational bombs. "I saw them kissing near the playground!"

The table fell silent for one perfect, crystallized moment before erupting into a cacophony of overlapping reactions.

"What do you mean, a boyfriend?" your father demanded, his fork clattering against his plate as his full attention snapped to his middle daughter.

"Paolo doesn't know what he's talking about," Gabriella insisted, her face flushing despite her attempt at casual dismissal.

"Are you calling my son a liar?" Claudia's grainy New Jersey accent cut through the noise, her expression sharpening as she leaned forward. She was only eight years older than Gia, a fact that created perpetual tension between the two women seated across from each other.

Gabriella gave her a look that clearly communicated 'chill, lady' without saying the words aloud. "I'm saying he's seven and probably confused about what he saw."

"I'm not confused!" Paolo Jr. protested indignantly. "You were kissing that boy with the black hair and glasses!"

You squinted at this description, something tugging at your memory. Black hair and glasses sounded remarkably familiar—specifically, like Giovanni Castellano's son, Marco. The same Castellano boy whom you exaggerated was still communicating with Gabriella while you were talking to his father in Geneva. You'd never thought that that little white lie was indeed the truth.

Another perfect silence descended, this one heavier than the first.

Your father's eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline. "Gabriella, is there something you want to tell us?"

Gabriella maintained a stubborn silence, pushing food around her plate with studied concentration.

"Come on, Gabby," Vinny pressed, clearly enjoying the drama he hadn't even needed to create. "You can tell us. Who's the mystery man Paolo caught you with?"

After a long moment, Gabriella sighed dramatically, setting down her fork with precise control. "It's no big deal. We've only been seeing each other for a few months."

"A few months?" your father repeated, his tone suggesting this timeline was somehow the most offensive part of the revelation.

"Who is he?" Sophia demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "And why didn't you tell me? I thought we told each other everything!"

Gabriella shrugged, maintaining her mysterious air despite being clearly cornered. "You'll see."

"Is he Italian, at least?" Carmine asked, his expression suggesting this was the bare minimum requirement for family approval.

Gabriella nodded slowly as she continued eating, offering the smallest concession to the interrogation.

"That's good then," Vinny declared with obvious relief. "A nice Italian boy. We don't need any more Brits here." He glanced at Lewis with a smirk. "No offense, pal."

Lewis returned the look with a steel-like glare that had Vinny's Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "None taken," Lewis replied, his tone carrying that subtle edge that never failed to remind people exactly who he was beneath the polished exterior.

"How's he going to feel about you going to Milan for a year?" Maria asked, skillfully redirecting the conversation away from Lewis's intimidating stare and back to Gabriella's revelation.

Gabriella's lips curved into a knowing smile. "He'll be fine."

Something about her confident tone suggested there was so much more to the story, but before anyone could press further, Marco appeared at your father's shoulder, bending to whisper something in his ear.

Salvatore's expression darkened immediately. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered, throwing his napkin onto the table. "It's always something happening! Can't even have a nice dinner with family these days." He looked at Marco with barely contained irritation. "Tell him I'll meet with him shortly."

As Marco departed, your father turned to your mother with an apologetic shrug that didn't quite mask his underlying tension. "I have to handle some business with Tommy V and the guys," he explained. Your father's gaze shifted to Lewis, something calculating entering his expression. "Lewis, come join us. We have to handle business in AC."

Atlantic City. The destination alone told you what kind of "business" this would be—the strip clubs there served as neutral meeting grounds for certain negotiations that required distance from New York territories.

Lewis glanced at you, a silent question in his eyes—would you be alright without him, given the nightmares and the lingering aftermath of Hernandez?

You nodded slightly. "I'll see you later."

With that subtle permission granted, Lewis leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, then turned back to your father. "Of course." Your father nodded approvingly before Lewis addressed Miles, who had been sitting quietly near the door as was his custom during family meals. "Miles, stay with my wife. Make sure Naomi and Jensen maintain security protocols while we're gone."

Miles didn't look pleased with the assignment—clearly preferring to accompany Lewis—but nodded his agreement without protest.

As your father, Uncle Paolo, and Lewis prepared to depart, the remaining family members exchanged knowing looks. Business in Atlantic City meant not just meetings but the inevitable distractions such establishments offered—beautifully appropriate for the men who had just been interrogating Gabriella about her love life to now disappear to a strip club for "business."

"Be safe," your mother called after them, her tone suggesting she was well accustomed to these sudden departures despite the tension that never quite left her eyes when your father headed into potentially volatile negotiations.

The door had barely closed behind them when Sophia turned to Gabriella with renewed determination. "Okay, spill. Who is this Italian boyfriend and why is it such a big secret?"

As Gabriella deflected with practiced ease, you found your thoughts following Lewis. The contrast struck you suddenly—how naturally he had fit into your family dinner, how easily he now moved between your world and his own. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago had somehow become an integral part of your reality, his presence no longer foreign but necessary.

Miles caught your eye from his position near the door, his professional manner not quite masking his obvious concern about Lewis heading into negotiations without him. You offered a small, reassuring smile—both of you knowing that whatever business awaited in Atlantic City, Lewis was more than capable of handling it.

*******************************************************

The Atlantic City strip club pulsed with muted bass and strategic lighting, designed to flatter both the dancers and the clientele while maintaining enough shadow for private conversations. Lewis followed Sal and Paolo through the main floor, his expression betraying nothing despite the performances happening on elevated platforms around them.

Tommy Venucci waited in a private room toward the back, his slight limp evident as he rose to greet Salvatore with exaggerated deference. "Don Ricci," he said, the formality deliberate in the presence of others. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Sal's nod was barely perceptible as he took his seat at the head of the small table. "This better be worth interrupting my family dinner, Tommy."

"It is, I promise," Tommy assured him, his gaze shifting nervously to Lewis before returning to Sal. "The Colombians are here. They want to renegotiate distribution terms."

Lewis maintained his position slightly behind Sal's right shoulder, the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant—or in this case, son-in-law, who had proven his loyalty. From this vantage point, he had clear sightlines to both entrances and could observe everyone's expressions without being the direct focus of attention.

The door opened again, admitting three men whose expensive suits and careful movements marked them as something other than ordinary club patrons. The leader stepped forward, his face breaking into genuine surprise as he caught sight of Lewis.

"Hamilton," he said, his Colombian accent wrapping around the name with familiar ease. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the confidence of established connection. "Alejandro. It's been a while."

Salvatore's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze shifting between the two men with newfound interest. "You know each other?"

"We've done business for years," Alejandro confirmed, his handshake with Lewis lingering with the weight of shared history. "Hamilton's weapons have helped us maintain certain competitive advantages in disputed territories."

Salvatore's expression shifted from surprise to satisfaction, as if Lewis's connection further validated his choice in arranging the marriage. "Small world."

"Getting smaller every day," Alejandro agreed before turning back to Lewis. "Congratulations are in order, I hear. Marriage suits you."

Lewis nodded, accepting the comment with characteristic restraint. "Thank you."

"And to a Ricci daughter, no less," Alejandro continued, genuine admiration in his tone as he glanced at your father. "You chose well, Don Ricci. Hamilton's reputation for loyalty is legendary in our circles."

Sal couldn't quite hide his pleasure at this endorsement, his chest puffing slightly with pride as if he'd somehow discovered Lewis rather than simply selecting from options presented to him. "My daughter deserves the best."

As the men settled around the table to begin their negotiations, Lewis resumed his position behind Sal, his attention divided between the business discussion and the subtle dynamics playing out between old and new alliances. What had begun as Sal's strategic arrangement had evolved in unexpected ways, creating connections that benefited not just the Ricci organization but Hamilton operations as well.

The thought of you waiting back at the estate crossed his mind briefly—your strength in executing Hernandez, your natural command with his people, your easy integration of him into family moments. Not at all what he had expected when entering that study seven weeks ago to negotiate for your hand, but increasingly valuable beyond any strategic calculation.

"Hamilton," Alejandro's voice pulled him back to the present moment. "Your thoughts on this distribution proposal?"

Lewis stepped forward, seamlessly joining the negotiation with practiced ease. "The percentages are fair, but your timeline needs adjustment. Three shipments in the first quarter creates unnecessary risk with the increased Coast Guard presence."

Alejandro nodded thoughtfully, clearly valuing Lewis's input. "What do you suggest?"

"Two larger shipments instead of three smaller ones. Same volume, lower profile," Lewis explained, his tone carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without force. "I can provide additional security measures for the increased payload."

The discussion flowed smoothly after that, the Colombian's trust in Lewis clearly easing tensions that might otherwise have complicated negotiations with Salvatore. Within an hour, terms had been agreed upon, papers signed, and handshakes exchanged with the practiced formality of men accustomed to sealing deals in unconventional locations.

As Alejandro and his associates departed, Salvatore leaned back in his chair with evident satisfaction. "Good work, Hamilton."

Lewis nodded his acknowledgment, already calculating how long it would take to return to the estate. To you.

But Salvatore had other ideas. His attention had shifted to the main stage where a new dancer had appeared—tall and statuesque with mocha skin and long, flowing hair that cascaded down her back. Her movements were hypnotic, a practiced sensuality that commanded the attention of every man in the room.

"No rush to get back, is there?" Salvatore said, his expression shifting to something more relaxed, more indulgent. "Let's enjoy the entertainment for a while. It's been a successful night."

Lewis maintained his neutral expression despite his growing unease. This aspect of business negotiations had never appealed to him—the objectification, the performance of masculinity, the expected participation in rituals he found unnecessary at best, distasteful at worst.

Salvatore gestured toward a booth with a clear view of the stage, clearly interpreting Lewis's silence as agreement. With no graceful way to refuse without potentially offending his father-in-law, Lewis followed, taking a seat with calculated composure.

The dancer moved with fluid grace, her routine clearly well-rehearsed yet performed with an artistry that elevated it above mere exploitation. Salvatore watched with unabashed appreciation, while Lewis maintained his stoic demeanor, his thoughts elsewhere despite his physical presence.

Noticing Lewis's evident discomfort, Salvatore leaned over with a knowing smirk. "What she doesn't know won't kill her," he said, the implication clear in his tone.

Lewis kept his expression neutral, neither agreeing nor openly disagreeing with his father-in-law's philosophy. The tension in his jaw was the only indicator of his discomfort, a tell so subtle most would miss it entirely.

A server approached their table, offering a tray of expensive cigars with practiced deference. Salvatore selected one immediately, while Lewis hesitated before eventually taking one as well. The server leaned down to light it for him, her low-cut top providing a deliberately provocative view of her breasts as she did so. Her eyes met his with calculated invitation, a silent offer of more than just service.

Lewis didn't react beyond a polite nod of thanks, taking a slow draw from the cigar as the server moved away, clearly disappointed by his lack of response.

Salvatore chuckled, clapping Lewis on the shoulder with unexpected familiarity. "Look at you, finally letting loose a little," he commented, misreading Lewis's acceptance of the cigar as some kind of concession to the environment.

"Your daughter is waiting for me back at the estate," Lewis replied simply, the statement both explanation and reminder of his priorities.

Something in Salvatore's expression shifted—surprise, perhaps even respect. He studied Lewis with newfound consideration before nodding slowly. "You're truly a loyal man, Hamilton. We need more of you in this world. I'm glad we chose you."

"Thank you," Lewis responded, the sincerity behind the words evident despite his characteristic restraint.

Salvatore leaned back to sit more comfortably, his own cigar held expertly between his fingers as he turned his attention back to the stage. "But a man needs vices, you know. Something to keep him sane, from going over the edge."

"Like your daughter," Lewis reminded him, taking another measured draw from his cigar. "She's my vice."

The statement hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Salvatore gave him a curt nod, understanding dawning in his expression.

"I see how this is going down," Salvatore conceded with surprising grace. "I won't push you anymore, but I am allowed to have my own vices." He gestured toward the dancers on stage, the motion encompassing the entire environment.

"You are," Lewis concurred, neither judging nor endorsing his father-in-law's choices.

Tommy Venucci appeared beside Salvatore, leaning down to whisper something in his ear before handing him a stack of ones. Salvatore's face lit up with boyish enthusiasm that seemed strangely at odds with his usual commanding presence.

"Tommy's arranged a private dance," he explained to Lewis, already rising from his seat. "You're welcome to join, or—"

"I'll wait here," Lewis replied smoothly, relieved at the opportunity to maintain some distance while not openly refusing his father-in-law's hospitality.

Over the next hour, Lewis found himself politely declining numerous offers—drinks from servers with suggestive smiles, dances from performers with practiced seduction techniques, even a direct proposition from a woman who claimed to be "not really a dancer, just filling in" with an emphasis that suggested higher-end companionship.

Through it all, he maintained his composed exterior while his thoughts repeatedly returned to you—to the complex, capable woman who had executed Hernandez with unflinching resolve, who had stood up to her father with unexpected authority, who had somehow become essential to him in ways that transcended their strategic beginning.

When Salvatore finally emerged from the private room, slightly disheveled but evidently satisfied with the evening's entertainment, Lewis rose immediately. "Shall we head back?" he suggested, careful to keep any hint of judgment from his tone.

The drive back to the estate was conducted mostly in silence, Salvatore occasionally breaking it with observations about the Colombians or comments on business matters, while Paolo dozed in the back seat, clearly having indulged more heavily in the club's offerings.

It was late when they finally arrived, the estate quiet under the watchful eyes of security personnel who nodded respectfully as Lewis made his way to the pool house after brief goodbyes to Salvatore and Paolo. The night air was crisp against his skin, carrying the scent of snow and the promise of another storm approaching.

Inside the pool house, he moved quietly through the darkened living area, assuming you would be asleep given the hour. But as he entered the bedroom, he could sense your presence immediately—awake, alert, waiting. You sat up against the headboard, makeup removed, hair wrapped neatly in your bonnet, expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"You smell like them," you said, disgust evident in your voice as Lewis closed the door behind him.

"My apologies. I'll take a shower then," he replied, neither defensive nor apologetic, simply acknowledging the reality.

"You had fun, didn't you? With the guys?" Your tone carried an edge that drew a dark chuckle from Lewis, surprising both of you with the sound.

"Do you really want to go down this route, babygirl?" he asked, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. "You know me. You know who I am."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. "You're a man, Lewis, and men—"

"I am not the same as other men," he interrupted, a brief flare of frustration breaking through his usual control. "You could've said no, right? You could've told me not to go tonight."

"I know that, Lewis," you replied in an obvious tone, watching intently as he slowly removed his clothing, methodically undressing to reveal the tattooed skin beneath.

"So why are you upset? Or is this jealousy then?" The question was direct, characteristic of his preference for clarity over emotional games.

You gasped at the accusation, though its accuracy was evident in your reaction. Lewis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, a smirk gradually forming on his face as understanding dawned.

"Oh babygirl, you don't need to be jealous, at least not with me. I'm devoted to you," he said, the statement simple but carrying unmistakable weight.

"Are you?" you countered, the sass in your tone deliberate, challenging.

Your words made Lewis's eyes darken, his expression shifting to something more primal than his usual controlled demeanor. "There she is, my little brat coming out to play. We're doing this?" he asked, finally removing the last of his clothing, standing before you with confidence that bordered on arrogance.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, feigning innocence despite the tension crackling between you.

"Don't play coy," Lewis said, approaching the bed with deliberate slowness. "I know how this game works, and I was willing to not probe and wait until you were ready, especially after what happened... but it seems as if you are."

A weighted silence fell between you, a battle of wills conducted through unwavering gazes.

"You always take the whole rope, don't you?" he observed, the metaphor deliberate and loaded with meaning.

"I—"

"Come 'ere," he commanded, his voice dropping to that dominant register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

"Lewis—"

The look he gave you stopped your words instantly, his raised eyebrow making it clear that refusal wasn't worth the effort. Slowly, you swept the covers off and padded toward him, your heartbeat accelerating with each step, goosebumps forming on your skin in anticipation.

Once you stood before him, Lewis pulled you close, allowing you to fully experience the scent of strippers and cigar smoke still lingering on his skin. Your face contorted in disgust as you tried to pull back.

"You still smell like them," you protested, attempting to create distance that Lewis immediately negated by drawing you closer.

"Then let's clean me off," he challenged, already leading you toward the bathroom with determined purpose.

You turned slightly to reach for a towel or maybe even to catch your breath, but Lewis was already there—right behind you, tugging at the hem of your night slip.

The slip lifted slowly over your body, the hem brushing up your thighs, over your hips, then higher still. He didn’t rush it. He wanted to feel the drag of the fabric, wanted to take in every inch of you as you were revealed. The material caught briefly on your breasts before he pulled it free, exposing your bare skin to the cooler air. Your nipples pebbled instantly, sensitive under his gaze.

Lewis leaned down, breath warm against you before his mouth met your skin. He kissed the slope of one breast, then the other, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His tongue lapped softly before switching sides, wet and deliberate.

You steadied yourself against his shoulders, trying not to lose your footing, but he didn’t give you the chance to recover. His hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides as he kissed a slow path across the curve of your chest.

His body was already pressed against yours—hot and solid and unmistakably male. The lean muscle of his frame held tension just beneath the surface, the compass tattoo on his chest inked in precise black lines that pointed north even as he lowered his mouth to worship you. His collarbones were inked too—faint script, sharp lines—and a trail of tattoos stretched along his forearms, disappearing under the flex of muscle as he moved. You traced one absentmindedly as he kissed you, hand drifted lower, brushing against his abdomen, and then lower still where his dick—thick, hard, and already flushed—rested against your belly. You felt it twitch slightly as you leaned into him, the intimacy of it dizzying.

He grinned against your skin before pulling back just enough to turn on the shower. The water hissed to life behind him, steam already curling toward the ceiling. Then he turned back to you—naked and gorgeous, the kind of man who should be carved into marble.

"Get in," he ordered, voice low and full of heat.

You moved to obey, but not before he delivered a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing off tile. You yelped, more from surprise than pain, but you didn’t stop. He followed you into the shower a moment later, stepping under the spray just enough to let it soak his braids before he pulled you close again.

The water coursed over both of you, hot and heavy, but Lewis kept you shielded from the brunt of it, positioning his body like a wall. His mouth found yours immediately—sloppy, needy, possessive kisses that had your knees wobbling. You melted into him, fingers exploring his back, your hands smoothing over damp, tattooed skin.

His lips moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, nipping just enough to leave a mark.

"Clean me," he rasped against your throat. “Since you hate how I smell so much.”

You reached for the soap without breaking eye contact, and he smirked like he’d won something. You started at his chest, gently soaping over the compass tattoo, then moved up to his collarbones, your fingers tracing the script there as you worked the lather in slow, circular motions.

He watched you the whole time, his breathing low and steady.

You moved down his arms next, hands smoothing over thick biceps and forearms, gently scrubbing around the lines of his ink. When you finally dropped to your knees, it wasn’t submission—it was ritual. You worked carefully down his torso, around the rose on his ribs, then along the sharp lines of his hips.

"Delicate hands," he murmured, voice thick with pride and desire.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

When your hands reached his dick, you were gentle. Not teasing—just reverent. You cleaned him like it mattered, like it meant something. You soaped the length of him slowly, tenderly, your hands light but sure.

Lewis hissed softly, head tipping back.

"Fuck, babygirl… you’re too good at this," he groaned, hips twitching slightly as your fingers worked around his base.

You rinsed him just as carefully, letting the water do the work, your hands smoothing over him like you’d been made for this.

"You’re not mad anymore," he noted, looking down at you, water dripping from his lashes. "Or maybe you are. You just like proving a point."

"I’m not proving anything,” you muttered, rising to your feet. "Just cleaning off the smell of other women."

He laughed low in his throat, pulling you back into his chest. "There’s my little brat," he said again, kissing you hard—like a punishment, like a reward.

Water poured down both of you, heat rising with every second.

And the night was far from over.

That same controlled power you enjoyed—calm on the surface but storming underneath—followed Lewis out of the shower as he dried the both of you off. His touch was rougher now, more possessive, the soft towel brushing across your skin before he let it fall to the floor. Your heart fluttered with every pass of his hands, trailing over your body like he was reacquainting himself with what was his.

And you were his.

He led you back into the bedroom, the air was cooler now against your damp skin, but you barely noticed. Lewis's hand on the small of your back was a tether, keeping you grounded in the rising heat between you.

He kissed you before you even hit the mattress—his mouth hot and consuming, tongue demanding entry and devouring yours the second you parted your lips. It wasn’t soft or patient, it was primal. Starved. He maneuvered you back, your thighs opening automatically as he settled between them, mouth never leaving yours.

"Still want to act like I’m not loyal to you?” he murmured between kisses, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone.

You whined, toes curling as he kissed lower, slow, wet presses of his mouth down the valley of your breasts. Your nipples, already sensitive from the shower, were lavished with his tongue again before he continued his descent—over your stomach, the dip of your navel, every deliberate press igniting something wild in you.

And then he got there.

He pulled your thighs apart like he had every right to—and he did—shoulders wedging them open as he dipped his head and flattened his tongue against your pussy with no warning.

"Fuck—Lewis!" you cried out, your hips jerking, but his strong forearms anchored you down.

He was loud. Sloppy. Deliberate. Moaning against you as if he was tasting something decadent and rare, his beard scraping your thighs just enough to drive you mad. Your hands tangled in his braids, gripping for dear life as he flicked, sucked, devoured your clit like it was his last meal.

"Mmhm... yeah, make that sound for me," he groaned against you. "All that attitude, and now you’re just whining like a little slut for me."

Your back arched off the bed, cries of his name leaving your lips as he pushed you further, tongue teasing your entrance, nose rubbing your clit, his rhythm relentless.

"Lewis—" you gasped. "I’m—Lewis, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he growled, fingers digging into your hips. "I want to feel you come all over my face."

And you did. Violently. Loudly.

You screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, body trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably. He licked you through it like a man possessed, slowing only when you whimpered from the sensitivity.

Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, and finally your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was messy and sweet and dripping with want.

"Please," you whispered between kisses, batting your lashes at him with a pout. "I need you. Now."

Lewis paused, his dark eyes raking over you, hand braced beside your head.

“I’m not sure you deserve a reward, babygirl,” he said lowly, voice wrapped in amusement and threat. “The way you acted earlier? Accusing me. Throwing your little jealous fit.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have. I was just... I was jealous. I missed you.”

Lewis gave a dark chuckle, sharp and knowing. “You are a little jealous thing, aren’t you?” His hand came up and tugged gently on your bottom lip. “Fine. You want a reward that badly?”

You nodded eagerly, and before you could reply, Lewis’s large palm pressed firmly against your chest, pushing you flat onto the mattress.

You gasped at the sudden dominance, but your grin betrayed you.

Lewis lined himself up between your thighs, his tip dragging slow and sticky over your slit, teasing, watching your eyes flutter in desperation.

"You’ve been teasing me all night," you whined.

"Good,” he said, eyes locked on where you were soaked for him. “Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

And then he pushed in.

Your mouth fell open in a silent moan as he filled you inch by slow inch, the stretch delicious and deep. Lewis hissed between his teeth, head falling forward.

“Shit, you feel so fucking good. Tight as ever.”

His hips started to move, long, deep thrusts that hit your spot just right—each one stealing breath from your lungs. His rhythm was patient, controlled at first. But when you clawed at his back and wrapped your legs around his waist, he snapped.

“You want it rough now, huh?” he groaned, voice wrecked as he began to fuck you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room. “You’re going to whine again? Beg again? Tell me how sorry you are while I’m splitting you open?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, head tipping back as he pounded into you. “I was wrong. You’re mine. I’m yours. Please—don’t stop.”

Lewis growled and leaned down to kiss you hard, biting your lip before whispering against your mouth, “You’re damn right you’re mine. And I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your body met every thrust, desperate and slick and trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. This wasn’t just sex. It was punishment. It was a claim.

And when your release hit again—sudden and brutal—you screamed for him, nails digging into his tattooed shoulders, heart pounding so fast it nearly hurt.

Lewis kissed you through it, hips slowing just enough to let you breathe. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “That's it, babygirl. Let me feel that pussy grip me. Let me know who owns it.”

You could only moan in reply, completely undone beneath him.

And still, he wasn’t finished with you.

You were breathless, spent—and still, he kept moving inside you, now slow and deep, grinding into that tender spot that had your thighs twitching.

“Lewis…” you whimpered, voice barely a sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured against your neck, licking a stripe up to your jaw. “You can take it. You will take it. After all that shit you talked, baby? This is what you earned.”

His thrusts slowed even further, but they hit deeper, rougher with the way he angled his hips. Every drag of him inside you made your body clench and your hands grasp for something, anything—his shoulders, the sheets, the edge of sanity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you repeated, voice wrecked. “I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, filthier than before, tongue fucking your mouth the way he’d just been fucking your body—commanding, devouring, relentless.

And you kissed him back like you were starving, tasting your own pleasure on his tongue, sighing into the soft pull of his lips. Even now, when your limbs were jelly and your skin was burning, you wanted more.

He pulled back, staring down at you with a smirk, braids damp and hovering around his face.

“You still begging?” he asked, that glint in his eye making your core throb again.

You nodded, lips parted. “Please…”

That wicked smile curved deeper, and he picked up the pace again, fucking you slow and mean, grunting softly every time your pussy squeezed around him. “One more, then. You come one more time, and I’ll let go too.”

Your nails dragged down his back, your body arched into his, everything inside you unraveling at his command. And when that third orgasm crashed over you—sharp, unexpected, and blinding—you cried out his name again, over and over like a broken record.

Lewis cursed, burying his face in your neck as he finally let go, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed there, pressed against you, breathing hard, lips brushing over your shoulder. One hand tangled with yours above your head, the other smoothing over your waist like he was grounding both of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment—sweaty, tangled, and sated.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, even as that cocky smirk lingered on his lips.

“You really need to stop doubting me,” he muttered, kissing your cheek. “Because if this is what jealousy gets me? You’re going to give me a damn heart attack.”

You giggled, too spent to even sass him back. “Shut up and hold me.”

Lewis chuckled and pulled you into his arms, settling you against his chest. You could already feel the slow thump of his heartbeat, warm and steady beneath your ear.

And as you drifted off in his embrace, your body wrecked but your heart full, you knew two things for sure:

One, you were definitely going to be sore in the morning.

And two, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

......tbd

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