"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...
-"Sinners judging sinners for sinning differently."-
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He left the Arena as soon as she was finished with her little nightly spree.
How could she do it?
How could she kill so easily without feeling guilt?
Or did she feel the guilt? He couldn't tell. Her eyes were too blank. Too polished in their stillness. Like she had buried emotion so deep inside herself that even she forgot it was there.
He walked to The Black Orchid alone, cutting through empty streets under curfew. He had told Matteo and Antonio they could retire for the night. They probably didn't. He'd seen Ida slip out with Matteo, a low conversation trailing behind them like smoke. Antonio had lingered by Starr, still watching her like he was waiting for permission to want her.
They were following the mission.
But Luca wondered—quietly, bitterly—if their goals had shifted without telling him.
The Black Orchid was empty when he arrived. One bartender remained, washing dishes somewhere in the back, oblivious or just pretending to be. The orchids that climbed along the walls seemed to breathe in the silence.
Then he saw it: the grand piano nestled in the far corner, surrounded by deep violet blooms, half-draped in shadow. Like it had been waiting.
He stepped behind the bar first, nodding once at the bartender and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. No one stopped him.
He took the drink to the piano, settled onto the bench. The keys gleamed under the low lights. No sheet music. No plan.
His fingers hovered for a moment.
Then he played.
Not for an audience. Not even for himself. It was muscle memory. A lullaby stitched from past lives and pressure. His mother's voice telling him to sit straighter, his tutor snapping his knuckles when he missed a note. Soft, aching chords filled the room—something old, something nearly beautiful.
He lost himself in it.
Didn't hear the door open.
Didn't see her enter.
Kaia moved like a shadow—silent, clean, dressed in a sweater that was up to her neck and down to her wrists that made her look more art than threat. Not a speck of blood on her, despite what he'd seen her do only an hour earlier. She glided behind the bar, selected a crystal decanter of dark liquor, and poured herself a drink.
She didn't speak.
Didn't acknowledge him.
She simply sat at the bar, facing away from him, legs crossed, one hand curled around her glass like it belonged there.
