"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...
-"Your hands are scarred from murder, and yet I trust them completely."-
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The city below glimmered like a thousand secrets, lights flickering on as the sun bled gold across glass towers and smoke stacks. A chilled bottle of Barolo rested between them, half-drunk. Two untouched wine glasses sweated on the table. Matteo sat across from her, jaw tense despite the softness of the hour.
The wind was soft, tugging lightly at the napkins folded beside polished silver. A spread of grilled sea bass, figs, charred lemons, and fennel sat between them, the kind of meal people pretended not to savor when doing business. But this didn't feel like business.
It was something else. Something slower. More dangerous.
"Is this how you charm all your marks?" Ida asked, lifting her wine glass, her brow arched in mock suspicion.
Matteo smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Only the dangerous ones."
"So I'm a mark now?"
He glanced at her legs beneath the table—long, crossed, deliberate—and then back to her face. "That depends. Are you playing me?"
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that didn't belong in war rooms or dossiers. "I haven't decided yet."
He looked out over the skyline, jaw tight. "It's strange. This view. The silence. It doesn't feel like we're in the middle of a city. A dangerous city."
"We are," Ida said, brushing hair behind her ear. "Violence is just quieter at this level."
He turned back toward her, studying her the way a man studies something expensive he's not allowed to touch. "How does it function? How did it get this far?"
"It's no different from how you control the Palermo police," she answered. "You blackmail, yes?"
"Only when necessary. Most men prefer a number they can accept. A man doesn't care what's right or wrong if the price is high enough."
"Exactly. Private investors. Quiet money. Controlled policy. We didn't build a regime—we bought one. The rest of the world just hasn't caught up yet." She paused, sipping her wine. "You secure the rich, and you inherit the country."
Matteo exhaled, tracing the rim of his glass. "And here I thought I was the manipulative one."
"You still are. Just not as good at hiding it," she teased.
He chuckled, caught off-guard. "You always talk like this at dinner?"
"Only with men who ask too many questions."
"I ask because I'm interested."
"And are you always interested in women who could have you killed in six languages?"
