Insidious Ocean
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 24: down.
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 24: down. - Who is the true villain in this story? Luca Moreno has always believed in justice, which is why he became a cop. Now undercover in the Brooks family’s criminal empire, he plans to destroy it from within. But when he meets Raven, the Don’s niece, everything changes. As his morals blur and innocence erodes, Luca must face who he’s becoming—and who the real villain truly is.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Humor Oral Sex
RAVEN
Another dinner with Marco. The difference this time is that he’s actually shown up and that it’s at my house. He’s gone out of his way to drive out here and I can’t help but wonder what his angle is. There has to be something he gets out of coming all this way and I’m terrified of what he’ll ask in return for his time.
I gently take his wine glass from in front of him, pouring some of the red liquid into it for him. Eventually, he signals to me that I’ve given him enough, so I move quickly to my own glass to create some distance between us. I feel unnerved whenever we’re too close, afraid that he’ll lay hands on me.
As I fill my glass, I find myself imagining taking the empty bottle, spinning on my heel, and using all my strength to crack it over his head. Observing as he collapses to the floor, holding the fresh wound as it starts to bleed through his hair.
My hands shaky as I reach for the largest shard of broken glass, wrapping it carefully in my napkin and then adjusting my grip on it as I turn to him. Picturing as he rises to his knees to scold me and with a single step forward, I plunge the shard into his neck, just like my uncle did to the man who attempted to kidnap me.
I shake away the thoughts. It isn’t normal to be thinking about shit like that.
“Before I forget to tell you, we’ll be having dinner here next week with some of your family.”
“With my family?” I reiterate, confused and surprised.
“Your aunt and uncle, Leo, Dove, and your bodyguard.”
“What for?”
“To go over any details about the wedding. It’s getting closer, Rae. We’ll be looking at potential churches soon. We need to be prepared.”
“I’m doing whatever you tell me to. You’re the one not showing up for shit.”
“Something came up last minute that was far more important than a dancing lesson. Before you become my wife, you’d do well to learn that business takes importance over everything else.”
A dinner. With him. My aunt and uncle. My best friend. My asshole cousin.
And the man I’m secretly fucking.
How could it possibly go wrong?
As he begins eating his prime rib, I observe for a moment, getting distracted by the glint of light that catches on his steak knife.
For a second, I imagine grabbing the knife and plunging it into his hand. Using it to secure his palm to the top of our dining table as his blood starts to stain the expensive cloth that protects the wood. Listening as he groans in pain and growls a series of swears directed at me.
I picture slowly standing and—before he’s able to rip the jagged blade free from the middle of his hand—approaching. Grabbing the belt that holds up his pants and unbuckling it to then position myself behind him as I wrap it around his neck and pull as hard as I can manage until he stops breathing.
The idea causes a shiver to race down my spine.
To distract myself from the fucked up thoughts, I inquire, “Why do they call you Reaper?”
He smirks, “Why do you think, avecita?” When I glance at him, he has remnants of his meal still on his face and it disgusts me. He’s eaten his meal like a ravenous wolf and he’s already helping himself to a second serving before I’ve consumed half of mine.
“I’m asking,” I reply. I have my assumptions, but I want to hear the words come from him. To see how he reacts to the ego boost of his fiancée knowing about his nickname and its origin. It helps me understand how he ticks.
“They call me Reaper for the things I’ve done. Does that answer satisfy you?”
I don’t know exactly what that means, considering it’s rather vague, but it doesn’t offer good things to infer. The Grim Reaper isn’t something known to be positive—he isn’t sunshine, rainbows, and flowers. In fact, everything he touches quite literally dies, so naturally, I’m theorizing the worst.
He clearly enjoys that his answer has me thinking. “If you’d like to make love, you’d find out there’s more than one reason I’m named after a killer.”
I visibly cringe, I can’t help it. That was fucking disgusting. “Go to hell.”
He laughs. Actually throws his head back with laughter. Lifting his wine glass to his lips, “I’ve already been there, darling.” After he has a sip, he adds, “Devil didn’t like me. Sent my ass crawling back to the surface.”
We continue eating and he begins rambling about wedding plans. Talking about how he expects me to keep up with my physical appearance. That whenever we’re out in public, I have a one drink maximum limit. That each month—if I’m good—he’ll buy me a gift. He goes on an on about how our life will be as husband and wife and at some point, I just tune him out.
Because I know it won’t come to fruition. I know that Luca will figure out a way to get me out of this hell.
I get so bored with listening to him ramble on that I actually count the flower stems in the vase that Aunt Mariposa must have placed in the center of the table—ten.
“Are you even listening?” He inquires after I haven’t spoken for probably ten minutes because I’m absentmindedly picking away at my vegetables. I’ve gotten lost in reminding myself of how nice the dinner with Luca was in comparison to this.
“Yes, of course.” I lift my chin to smile at him. It’s taking me a while to process so much stupidity and ego at one time. I’ve hit my limit with him, I’m officially drained from his presence.
I wish I could beg and plead to be free of this archaic bullshit. I wish there was something I could offer him to encourage him that there has to be another way to forge an alliance with my family. If he had any good nature in him, I’d try to appeal to it.
I’d quite literally offer him just about anything to get out of this situation, but I happen to think he wouldn’t accept. He gets off on the power of knowing that he has full control over me.
Eventually, we’re finished with the main course and I dread the fact that we have another one to go before I’m free of this hell. I didn’t know it was possible for one person to make me feel so mentally and physically drained. I’m not sure that even my uncle makes me feel like this. Then again, I’ve quite literally grown up with him, so perhaps I’ve grown used to who he is and can tolerate it easier.
“I’ll get dessert,” I inform him, gathering our plates as I head into the kitchen. I place the soiled dishes by the sink to clean later and then pause, gripping the edge of the counter in anger as I take deep breaths.
I can’t stand this man. Hell, he shouldn’t even be considered a man. The way he gobbled down his food like he hadn’t seen a scrap of meat in his whole life is enough to have me imagining the various ways I could kill him.
That’s ignoring the way he speaks to me, the way he ogles me—and other women, despite supposedly being tied to me, the way he’s slept his way around town, his lack of respect for anyone or anything, and his ego, among things. I’ve never known a man as grotesque as Marco Cardoso and I find myself wondering more and more how he is the son of Diablo.
There’s absolutely no way I’ll survive being married to him. If I have to have daily, or even weekly meals with this man, I’ll have to do something about it. Being around him—even for short periods of time—makes me feel as if he’s eroding my sense of self. Every time he leaves, I feel like a shell of a person.
Whatever oxygen resides in any room he’s in seems to be sucked up by him. It leaves me feeling suffocated and emotionally drained by the time he departs. I’m constantly on the tips of my toes, not knowing what he’ll do, but anticipating that he’ll do something.
As I stand there, taking a moment to have some peace, my gaze flickers over to the dessert I’d had made—the fanciest cheesecake I could find. Staring at it, I try to mentally prepare myself for another course with him, but I’m not sure I can.
I pace the kitchen, wishing there was something I could do to get out of this. Praying that some freak miracle could work in my favour and force him to depart so I don’t have to endure another minute with him.
When I round the island, I notice that someone’s left the pantry open. The first thing my eyes land on is a jar of almonds and my heart seizes in my chest.
No, I can’t. I couldn’t possibly.
I saunter to the pantry, grabbing the large glass jar to peer closer at it.
Marco has a severe nut allergy. One that could potentially kill him.
When I was imagining ways to kill him, the biggest problem—aside from the fact that I simply don’t have the guts to do it—is the fact that everyone would know exactly who did it. It’s not as if I could say some random person broke in through a window, smashed a wine bottle over Marco’s head and used the shard to cut his jugular.
But this? It’s easy to shift blame when I didn’t bake the dessert.
Although I requested there be no nuts, there easily could’ve been a miscommunication or an error on someone else’s part. I’d be free of any blame and there’s a good chance he’d die if he was in contact.
As I think it all over, I find myself walking to the island where I place the container down. On autopilot, I grab the mortar and pestle and then pull out a single almond, placing it into the bowl to begin crushing.
All I have to do is crush it to a fine enough powder that it wouldn’t be detected. Then, wash my hands, the mortar and pestle, and the island before putting everything away. Nobody would have any idea that a single almond is missing.
I could sprinkle it lightly over his piece of cheesecake and then hand it to him innocently, making sure to point out that I’d ordered it from a nearby bakery. When he asks if there are any nuts, I’d inform him that I explicitly requested there not be.
And then I’d have to sit there and enjoy my dessert as he goes into anaphylactic shock. Observe as his airways narrow and he begins to struggle for oxygen and beg for help.
I continue to crush it as quickly as I can—before my sudden courage and recklessness can die off.
Maybe this could save Luca and I. A little bit of darkness to turn us both back towards the light.
What would Luca think of this? Would he take a second glance at me when he realizes that I poisoned a man and sat by callously as he begged me to aid him? Would it scare him? Would he want nothing to do with me?
The idea makes me pause what I’m doing.
My heartbeat is thundering in my ears. My hands are trembling as I drop the pestle.
What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this.