They didn't speak on the ride back.
The city blurred past the tinted windows in streaks of red and gold, sirens somewhere far behind them. Liliana sat in the passenger seat, hands still trembling from the recoil, the smell of cordite and Marco Russo's blood clinging to her skin like incense. Dante drove one-handed, the other resting on her thigh, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles through the tactical fabric.
When they reached the private elevator, he didn't wait for the doors to close before he had her against the mirrored wall.
He kissed her like a man who'd watched her murder for him and couldn't decide whether to worship or devour. She tasted copper and espresso on his tongue; he tasted gunpowder and absolution on hers.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. He lifted her, carried her through the dark living room, and didn't stop until they reached the master bathroom.
Steam already rose from the shower—he must have triggered it remotely. He stripped her with ruthless efficiency: vest, holster, shirt, pants, everything dropped to the marble like shed armor. The blood on her cheek had dried to rust; he wiped it away with his thumb, then licked it clean.
"Into the water," he ordered, voice rough.
She obeyed.
The rain shower hit her like a baptism. Hot water sluiced over her face, her breasts, between her legs, washing Marco's blood down the drain in pink spirals. Dante stepped in behind her fully clothed, suit darkening under the spray, and pinned her to the tile with his body.
His mouth found the collar, teeth scraping the platinum before moving to the bite mark he'd left days ago. He sucked hard, reopening it, tasting her again.
She moaned, hands scrabbling at his soaked shirt.
He spun her, pressed her cheek to the cool tile, and kicked her legs apart.
No foreplay. No warning.
He freed himself, lined up, and drove into her in one brutal stroke.
She screamed—half pain, half relief—and he fucked her like punishment and praise at once. Water pounded their skin; his hand fisted in her wet hair, arching her back so he could growl against her ear.
"You killed for me tonight," he rasped, each thrust driving her into the wall. "You put a bullet in a man who used to call you principessa and you didn't fucking hesitate."
Another thrust, deeper, punishing.
"Say it again."
"I love you," she sobbed, clenching around him. "I love you, I love you—"
He snarled, reached around, and rubbed her clit with merciless precision until she shattered, coming so hard her knees buckled. He held her up, kept fucking her through it, then pulled out and spun her again.
"On your knees."
She dropped instantly.
He fed himself into her mouth, still slick with her, and fucked her throat until tears mixed with the shower water. When he came, he held her nose to his pelvis and spilled straight down her throat, groaning her name like a prayer and a curse.
Afterward, he washed her himself—slow, reverent, soaping every inch of her body, rinsing the blood and the sin away. He shampooed her hair with fingers that had ended lives hours ago, massaged her scalp until she was boneless.
Only when she was clean did he strip off his ruined suit and carry her to bed.
They didn't sleep.
He laid her on her back, spread her wide, and ate her like a starving man—slow licks, soft kisses, sucking her clit until she came twice more, whispering broken pleas in Italian she was starting to understand.
When he finally slid back inside her, it was gentle. Almost tender.
Face to face, eye to eye, he moved like he was trying to crawl inside her soul.
"Look at me," he whispered.
She did.
"I'm proud of you," he said, voice cracking on the words. "So fucking proud I can't breathe."
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
"I was scared," she confessed. "When I pulled the trigger, I thought—this is it. I'm damned forever."
He kissed the tears away.
"You were damned the moment I saw you on that stage," he said. "But you're not alone in hell anymore."
He made love to her until dawn crept across the windows, until their bodies were too exhausted to move, until the only sound was their breathing and the soft clink of the collar when she turned to curl into his chest.
Just before sleep took her, she felt his lips against her temple.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "we start planning the rest of the war. And you, my queen, will sit at my right hand when we burn your father's empire to the ground."
She smiled against his skin—small, fierce, and utterly unafraid.
"Let it burn," she whispered.
And for the first time since the auction, she fell asleep without dreaming of escape.