"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...
-"I call her the devil because she makes me want to sin and every time she knocks, I can't help but let her in."-
______________________________
(A/N): From here on out, this book is going to get unrealistic and very fictional because NONE OF THIS IS BASED ON REAL LIFE. That being said, if you want to comment on how "unrealistic" this is, I already know. SO KEEP YOUR RUDE COMMENTS TO YOURSELF, GOT IT?
THIS IS WATTPAD. IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE REALISTIC.
Thanks for coming to my Ted-Talk, back to the story.
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The penthouse windows were cracked open, letting the cold air in like an uninvited guest. Down below, the streets of New York were quiet in that eerie, too-clean way only the King's midnight curfew could orchestrate. Inside, the lights were low, and the room smelled faintly of tobacco and something rich and oaky that clung to Luca's blazer.
None of them had changed out of their suits.
Luca sat in a high-backed leather chair, elbow resting on the armrest, a lowball glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand. Matteo leaned against the marble counter, sleeves rolled, face contemplative. Antonio paced slowly and thoughtfully by the fireplace, arms crossed tight over his chest.
"She didn't say a word," Matteo murmured, eyes narrowing like he was still trying to paint her from memory.
Luca didn't respond at first. He sipped his whiskey and set it down, watching how the amber liquid swirled. "They never introduced her."
"No name, no title," Antonio added. "Yet, she took notes."
"A note taker? I don't believe it for a second," Matteo scoffed softly.
"She wasn't there to document anything," Luca said finally. His voice was quiet but sharp. "She was there to watch us."
A beat of silence passed. Matteo tilted his head, brows furrowed. "You think she's the right hand?"
"I think... it's possible." Luca's fingers tapped against the glass. "But that's what's bothering me. Everyone always assumed the right hand was a man. Every story. Every report. Always he."
Antonio gave a short, ironic laugh. "Makes sense. You'd never believe someone like her could be the one pulling strings."
Luca looked up at him. "Exactly."
"She looked young," Matteo offered, folding his arms. "Mid-twenties, maybe? Could be younger. Almost too young."
Matteo was right. She looked at least a decade younger than Luca; maybe she was twenty-five, twenty-seven? So, by the math, she would have been seventeen when the King took power --at most.
