Page 43 of Tempting My Mafia Monster

I raised my eyebrows. “I’d come in your ear.”

“Ew. No, thank you. We’d have to add ear-wash to the list of things I’d need.” She grabbed my hand and studied the tattoos. “Is that how you get your ink?”

“Yeah. But I figured there aren’t many places left for me to tattoo anymore, so I won’t need it.”

“How the hell did you do your back? Your ass? Your left arm? I know you’re left-handed.”

I smirked at how observant she was. “For a few years, the only reward I cared about was time in a studio, getting my body covered. One of McKenna’s men owns a tattoo parlour. He did all my larger tattoos and the ones I would never have been able to do myself. He gave me one of his old tattoo guns, and I started doodling on the small sections in between, adding my own just to pass the time.”

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” she said, running her fingers over the back of my hand. “You should give me one.”

My dick twitched back to life at the thought of marking her skin permanently with something from me. She peered up at me when I didn’t say anything.

“Would you?”

“It would be on you forever.”

Her mouth dropped open in feigned surprise. “Really? I thought they rubbed off under warm water.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, smirking at her sassy side. It was nice to have someone talk to me without fear.

“I’ll give you one, but you need to tell me what you want.”

“I already know.” Of course she did. She lifted the hoodie and pointed to her side, running her finger along her ribs. “I want you to write His Little Monster in your handwriting.”

I stared at her, something in my chest cracking and then mending itself. She wanted to be mine.

Her lips curved as she studied my reaction. “What?”

Instead of answering, I grabbed her face and kissed her hard. Words were difficult when I felt too much. This was our language. Eye contact and touch. Two things we couldn’t do easily with anyone else, which only made it feel more powerful.

“I’ll do it tonight,” I murmured against her lips when we broke the kiss, and she grinned.

I tapped the top of her book to take my mind off the need to fuck her again and make her sore. “What ya doin’ in there?”

“Oh.” She hugged it to her chest, that sassy side replaced with sudden shyness. “It’s nothing.”

“Show me.”

She sighed, then opened the book to the page she’d been doodling on. Except they weren’t doodles. I didn’t understand what I was seeing.

“I’m composing.”

I blinked at her. That was the last thing I expected her to say. “You mean music? Do you do that?”

She nodded. “Mostly classical. Piano and harp. I play them too. I started as a child. I found it easier to express my emotions through music. Music was the only language I ever felt safe in. I’ve never composed without being able to play along, so I can hear how it sounds. But I just… I needed to write it down. This song in my bones is haunting me. I’ve barely been able to compose anything remotely good in months, but I guess being kidnapped and locked in with you was all the inspiration I needed.”

An image of her in a grand, sunlit room, eyes closed, with the morning rays highlighting her beauty through the tall window beside her, came to mind before I could stop it. Her long brown curls cascaded down her back as her elegant fingers danced over the keys or the strings, completely lost in the music.

Even though I’d never listened to a single piece of classical music in my life, only the loud, booming, aggressive beats at the fighting clubs, I could almost hear it. Not the song itself, just how it would feel. Something soft and aching. Something too beautiful to belong in the brutality of the world we were both caged in.

I imagined how free she’d look when she played. It hit me in the chest. A sting that had nothing to do with physical pain from fights or torture. It was worse. It was longing. I wanted to see that version of her. I wanted to know that woman. I wanted to sit unseen and just listen to whatever lived inside her. But knowing I’d never be worthy of it—that’s what this pain was.

I swallowed, staring at the musical notation on the page.

“How did you learn to do it?” I asked, my voice hoarser than usual.

“Composing?” She twisted her head back to glance at me as I nodded, then peered back at her page. “My oldest brother paid for me to take private lessons with one of Italy’s most talented maestros. I practised for hours each day and began improvising melodies. I finally plucked up the courage to write one down and showed it to my teacher. She must have seen potential in me, because after that she made sure to teach me music theory as well. She said I had a rare gift. That I didn’t compose to create, but to let something within me breathe. It feels like translating emotions I find hard to voice.”