The Don’s Soulmate

1. Carlotta

Chapter 1

Carlotta

Strong hands grip my breasts, and a hard cock rams into me from behind. I can feel myself become putty in his hands for he likes me this way. He leads, I follow.

And I’d follow him to the earth’s end or a waterfall’s ledge because pleasing him is the air to my lungs.

He shows me what it means to be a woman, gives me the space to live that word. His breath, now all hot and heavy in my ear, makes the hair on my spine tingle.

He’s dangerous, I can tell. And yet, I feel sheltered in his presence. I am his, as he is irrevocably mine.

He squeezes my breasts, and I throw my head back just as his cock slams into the sweet upper corner of my pussy, filling me with a pleasure that overpowers all else. I wish I could yell out his name, but how can I, when I don’t recall it?

I don't know him, but I do know his body, his touch, and the intense magnetic pull between us. It's primal, instinctive, and familiar—like our souls belong together.

"Sei mia," - you’re mine - his balls slap my pussy, as he keeps pumping his cock with hard, powerful thrusts. I can only whimper in response, my mind blank with blinding pleasure as he takes me roughly, claiming me, owning my very essence. The rhythmic slap of flesh echoes through the room, and I try to scream for more, but he puts a hand over my mouth, quietening me.

Where the hell am I?

I try to turn around and glance at his face, but he puts a firm hand at the back of my neck and pushes the side of my head against the pillow, leaning over me to go deeper. I close my eyes to lose myself in this.

He slaps my ass over and over again until I’m certain it’s covered in red welts. It reaches that point where pleasure and pain intertwine, and I feel my juices dripping between my legs.

"Ti piace?" - You like that? - he asks.

I know he likes dominating me, and I try to nod, but his hand holds my head down firmly, and I can’t move.

“Unnghh,” I moan instead, my lips parted for air. Through half-closed eyes, I see a glimpse of us in the mirror on the wall. I can’t see his features because he is facing away, but I do see his muscular body pinning me in place. Across his back, there’s a distinct birthmark. For a moment I’m distracted, it looks similar to the one that I have.

Tearing my focus from the reflection in the mirror, I try to see his face, turning my neck with more force, but he presses me down once more. I need to know who he is.

How else will I ever find you again?

Desperation spreads through my chest, the deep-seated need to see his face turning painful. My entire being knows that life without him would be empty. The feeling of desolation turns into a torrent, gushing through my body, and tears fall from my eyes.

One look at his face that’s all I ask for.

But, the maestro in him doesn’t care for my tears or doesn’t notice them, perhaps. He's the virtuoso, and I'm his instrument. I can’t help liking the way he plays me.

His lips graze my shoulder, making me shiver. I arch my ass up, inviting him deeper, craving his touch, his face forgotten.

"Fuck me harder," I beg, throwing my hips back to meet his thrusts. "Ho bisogno di più." - I need more.

He doesn't disappoint, slamming into me with sheer savagery. Our bodies move in a frantic rhythm, the heat between us building with every thrust. He reaches his hand around my neck, now choking the air, the life out of me and all I can feel is him throbbing to burst free inside me. I forget about air and think of the way his body moves against mine and the way he holds me down.

In a low growl, he commands - "You're going to come for me, Carlotta. You're going to scream my name, and this time, you’re going to give yourself to me completely."

How can I shout it if I don’t know it? But before my mind can trip me up, he moans, choking me harder till I see black. And at the idea of his cum seeping into me, I feel ready to burst.

Pressure builds deep within. I'm so close, clinging to the edge of sweet oblivion. Just a little more…

I'm about to detonate in a mind-shattering climax when a voice cuts through the haze.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss? You need to return your seat to the upright position. We're preparing for landing."

My eyes snap open, and I blink in confusion, my core still throbbing and aching with an unfulfilled need.

What the hell? Was that…? Just a dream.

The stewardess gives me an expectant look before moving on through the first-class aisle. I let out a shaky breath and slowly sat up, my skin flushed and damp with sweat. The vivid erotic dream lingers, stoking the flames of longing inside me. I clench my thighs as I adjust my seat.

I was so close to a sweet release. If only for a blissful moment, to feel complete…with him. This phantom lover of mine has been haunting my dreams for months now.

“Who the hell are you?” I whisper, gazing out the window at the approaching city of Rome.

I feel him around me, alive in my mind, in sultry encounters that leave me aching and yearning for a man I've never known.

The plane door opens, and first-class passengers are requested to disembark first. When I step out of the plane, an all too familiar vice-grip-like feeling builds in my chest because once I exit the airport building, life, as I’ve known it for the past three years, will cease to exist. In Paris, I tasted a freedom I didn’t wish to give up. Here, back in Rome, I know I’d be shackled and bound again.

My house, a fortress, would require any visitors to get clearance a whole day in advance.

I would, for the most of it, not be alone again. I’d be followed through each doorway, empty hallway, and meandering garden path.

And yet, this is home. I sigh, suddenly feeling jealous of the travelers who have the freedom to make choices for themselves. While at it, I should have booked a seat in the back of the economy section of the plane.

Maybe it won’t be so bad this time around , I tell myself. Father and brother trusted me to live in Paris alone for three whole years. They might have come to realize I, and the world around me, can be trusted with my freedom now.

Rome's familiar scents of fresh espresso and sweet pastries greet me as I step out of the airport, pushing my luggage on a trolley. My eyes instantly lock on my father and brother.

It’s hard not to notice them when a convoy of armed guards accompanies them.

“Papa!” I exclaim, my arms outstretched as I rush towards him. He’s rigid as he lets me hug him, the stubble of his beard brushing against my cheek. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes; I've missed him more than words can express. I hardly realized it, given how busy I was with my studies and relishing the freedoms of student life in Paris.

Besides, my father and I have more of a face-to-face relationship. Even when I was younger, he would be gone for months on end, and at most, I’d get a brief phone call bi-weekly.

“How is home? How is everyone?” I ask, still holding his hands.

“All in good time, my child,” he tells me. I smile at that endearment. I’m twenty-four years old. Certainly not a child anymore.

"Welcome home," he whispers, squeezing my hands in return before releasing them.

"Thank you, Papa," I reply.

My brother, Angelo, steps forward, his lips set in that same cold, hard line as my father’s. "How was Paris?" he asks, the grey in his eyes reminding me of many winter nights there.

"Paris was beautiful," I say, my mind filled with images of the enchanting city. Did you unpack the beautiful paintings I sent? Were they to your liking?” In the furthering of my own studies, I procured some incredible paintings for the family collection.

Angelo nods while my father motions for the convoy of cars to come forward. There’s no time to waste in Salvatore D’Amici’s life.

Men spring into action, and Angelo takes my arm and walks me to the back of a Hummer. The chauffeur closes the door behind me while Angelo gets in from the other side. My father sits up front, which is a surprise given that he usually takes a separate car.

The escort vehicles ahead begin to speed up, and the chauffeur follows right behind, tailed by the rest of the security convoy.

I glance out of the window, watching Rome's ancient architecture come to life before me. This city holds such rich history and beauty that, while I will certainly miss Paris, I also have a lot to look forward to here.

“I would have liked to catch up over dinner,” my father begins from the front. “But I do have a meeting that was already scheduled a week ago, and it would be unbecoming to cancel.”

“Of course, Papa,” I say, though I am inwardly crushed.

“We thought you were arriving tomorrow,” my brother judges from the corner.

I look up at him, feeling nervous. Are they upset with me? “The airline had to bump some passengers off due to an overbooked flight. I was either arriving today or in four days.”

“Next time, take the family jet,” my brother says, scrolling through some emails on his phone. “Today really threw our schedule off track.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” I murmur, but I don’t think he hears me.

My father does, though, for I see him watching me in the rear-view mirror. “Your time in Paris must have been incredible," he says, diverting the conversation. "And all those beautiful paintings you've managed to acquire. Tell me about them.”

I sit up straighter at the chance to talk about my favorite topic. “I managed to procure an original Monet,” I can’t stifle the excitement in my voice. “And I was able to get my hands on one of Picasso’s original concept drawings. It’s quite the juxtaposition to his last works, but that’s why I fell in love with it so much. It showed me how talent, while one may be born with it, is often forged through years of hard work.

“Though, I also selected some current pieces. An Alain Mandon and a Marianne Quinzin. The Sofie Baro is from her first-ever art show, but I swear, she’s going to be brilliant.”

“Lovely.” I see my father nod along at my animated talking. “I’m sure they are going to be excellent additions to our home, but we must save some for your new place, too.”

I stop, my heart skipping a beat. “Mine?” Is he buying me a house, a place of my own?

I nearly burst with happiness. Angelo finally puts aside his phone, just in time for my father’s declaration. “This year, you shall be married.”

And just like that, all my hope from the positive self-talk earlier vanishes.

“Father, I’ve just returned,” I protest, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not thinking about marriage right now.”

“You’re twenty-four,” Angelo observes. “Two more years, and you’d be off the market. A spinster. Who would marry you then?”

Angelo’s mean words hang between us; his presence beside me feels suffocating. I think back to how foolish I felt for not wanting to step off the plane.

“But,” I try to clutch at my fading freedom, “the world has changed, Father. In Paris, the women don’t marry until –”

“I told you we never should have let her go,” my brother leans forward as he tells my father.

My ears ring with the rush of blood, drowning out all sound. I hold back a choked sob as my father looks into the rear-view mirror. “You’re not in Paris anymore, are you? Besides, there are alliances to be made. We’ve already got some eligible men on our radar.”

I sit in stunned silence, the reality of my situation crashing down on me. The sights of Rome pass by in a blur, forgotten. Marry? Already? But I had dreams, ambitions, and a life of my own that I yearned to explore.

The hum of the car's engine seems louder now, drowning out the rest of the conversation. Eligible men on their radar – it all feels like a business transaction, a merger of families rather than matters of the heart. I turn my head slightly to see if I can find some support for my brother. Angelo's eyes bore into me, his gaze steely. He has always been loyal to our father, unwavering in his commitment to uphold the family's traditions and expectations.

Even if it means forcing me to uphold them, too, fulfilling my duty as a daughter of this family.

I’ve only just returned. Perhaps they think of me unchanged. I’ll give them a few days to get to know me again, then tell them what I want. Now is not the time to start a battle I cannot win.

For now, I will play the dutiful daughter, but they would do well to remember that a caged bird will eventually find its freedom, one way or another. My mysterious lover is out there, waiting.

His face remains a blur in my dreams, obscured by shadows, yet I would know the feel of his calloused hands anywhere, the taste of his lips, the scent of leather and spice that clings to his skin.

A sigh escapes my lips, a nostalgic breath of longing for a man I have never truly met. Yet I feel like I know him better than anyone else in my life. We have shared a rare intimacy in my dreams and forged a bone-deep connection that transcends the physical. He is a part of my soul, as essential as the air I breathe.

I know with certainty that it defies logic that he is out there. Someone like him, at least. A mate, waiting, as I am, for fate to bring us together at last.

I cannot marry a man of my family’s choosing, for what I want out of life is to find my one true love.