"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"Some people are artists. Some, themselves, are art."-
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Luca sat across the room, elbows on his knees, suit jacket folded neatly on the chair beside him. His gold watch caught the low light, but his eyes were fixed on only one thing—her.
Kaia sat on the exam chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked like she belonged in a museum: doll-faced, composed, too beautiful to be real. But her lashes fluttered too often. And every time the light hit her eyes, she pinched them shut, just slightly. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But not to him.
She hadn't wanted to come. Said she was "fine." Said she'd adapted. But Luca had noticed her missing steps. The way she reached for things she should've seen. The way her pupils didn't react fast enough to the sun. So now, here they were.
He wanted her without those colored contacts, and she wanted to see, so they made a compromise.
The doctor cleared his throat. "Her irises are extremely hypopigmented—practically translucent. The gold color? That's the reflection of light off the retina." He clicked to a scan on the screen. "She has mild foveal hypoplasia—meaning the center of her retina didn't fully develop. Her visual acuity's compromised without correction. And she's highly photosensitive."
Luca didn't move.
The doctor kept going. "She also has intermittent nystagmus. And while her contact lenses are helping, she's compensating more than she should. It's likely exhausting."
"There is a scar along the optic nerve. Could be trauma. Could be genetic. But her night vision is worsening. And if her exposure to intense light continues without stricter regulation..." The doctor hesitated. "She may lose more peripheral function. Slowly. Quietly. She'll adjust. She's clearly been doing so for years. But there will be a cost."
That's when Luca moved. Slowly. Deliberately. Rising from his seat like a shadow with a shape.
"She didn't mention any of this," he said, voice like cut glass.
"She wouldn't," the doctor replied quietly. "She sees well enough—but it's not comfortable. She's used to discomfort."
"She's not going to 'adapt' anymore," he said, low in the doctor's direction. "Fix it. Whatever she needs—contacts, glasses, surgeries, shielding lenses, private lighting experts—you get it."
"Of course. I'll send the full report."
His mind was already calculating every room she worked in. Every light source. Every set of stairs. Every threat that could see her blink just a moment too late.
The doors slid open with a hiss. Luca was at her side instantly. His hand found her lower back, guiding her down the ramp with that usual silent insistence. Kaia let him lead. She didn't like walking in this kind of light—everything bled gold, blurred and sharp at once. But she didn't say that.
