"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...
-"The truth does not mind being questioned. A lie does."-
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He woke up to a cold bed.
The sheets beside him were wrinkled, long-since abandoned, the warmth of her body already gone. Judging by how chilled the space was, she'd been up for a while.
Luca ran a hand down his face, groggy. He'd slept like the dead—deep, undisturbed sleep that felt foreign and indulgent. It had been a long time since his body let him rest like that.
He knew it was because of her.
Sleep didn't come easy in their world. Not when you grew up with blood under your nails and violence etched into your bones. Even if you were born into it—no, especially if you were born into it—the nightmares always caught up eventually.
And truth be told, the nightmares were his to bear.
Frowning, Luca pushed back the covers and stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. The room was quiet. Too quiet. The clock on the nightstand glared back at him: 7:02 a.m.
He scowled.
Grumbling under his breath, he trudged down the stairs in search of her—intent on finding her, carrying her back to bed, and not giving her a choice in the matter.
He found her in the living room on the lower deck of the massive yacht, curled over her laptop, fingers moving quickly over the keys. Damp strands of her dark hair clung to her neck, fresh from a shower. Her skin held the faint flush of heat—rosy across her arms and cheeks. Steam-slicked pink from water that had probably been too hot.
She was wearing one of her own shirts today—plain black, oversized, falling just to her thighs. It irritated him more than it should have. Were his clothes not suitable for her?
She looked soft. Comfortable. Like she belonged here.
He said nothing.
Just walked over, silent and deliberate, and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
She startled, heartbeat skipping beneath his touch.
Then, without a word, he scooped her up off the chair.
"Luca—"
"No."
She didn't fight him—only grumbled something under her breath as he carried her easily in his arms, up the stairs, her laptop still open behind them, blinking on a half-finished sentence.
He kicked the door open with his foot and brought her back into the bedroom like she weighed nothing. She didn't protest—not really. Just narrowed her eyes as he dropped her gently onto the bed and loomed over her.
