"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Everywhere in the penthouse, she lingered.
Her coat still hung on the rack by the door, sleeves slightly wrinkled from the last night she wore it. A glass sat half-full on the kitchen counter, the lipstick faint but still there—dark rose, not quite crimson. Her favorite mug rested in the sink, chipped at the handle. One of her rings lay forgotten on the windowsill, where sunlight now caught the gold edge like a mocking whisper.
Luca hadn't moved it.
He hadn't moved anything.
He sat in silence, in the chair she always curled into at night, the one facing the skyline. His hands hadn't let go of the fabric of her robe, the silky navy one she wore after showers. It smelled like her. Still.
Oscar had come by once. Then Antonio. Then Thea. No one got more than a nod.
Blade had stood in the doorway for almost twenty minutes before saying, low and hoarse, "She wouldn't want you like this." Luca hadn't answered.
Because she wasn't here to want anything.
No one had seen her body since she took her last breath.
Raine had signed the death certificate. Blade signed off on the cremation.
There was no funeral. No service. No pyre or procession.
Who would have come? Just them—her small, fiercely loyal circle. She had no family to speak of.
No last name worth mourning.
Still, she'd left behind more than a shadow.
That morning, a man arrived—mid-forties, tightly shaven, briefcase in hand. He introduced himself as Kaia's financial attorney and personal accountant. His voice was clean, professional, but his eyes carried weight.
He bowed his head once to Luca.
"She prepared a last will and testament," he said softly. "Legally sealed two months ago. She updated it three days before the gala."
Blade, Ida, Oscar, Antonio, and Starr gathered quietly in the main living space, uncertain whether to sit or stand.
The air was still. Stale with grief.
Before the will was read, Damien called.
Oscar answered with a cold edge, still suspicious.
"She's under," Damien said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Kerina's on a private flight. ETA eight hours."
