"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...
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It had taken nearly two full days of Kaia's relentless arguing, eye-rolling, and silent treatment before Luca finally—grudgingly—allowed her to go out on her own.
It had been a month since the attack. Five months since Luca, Matteo, and Antonio arrived in New York.
She wasn't even healed fully. Not really.
The rebrand still throbbed beneath her shoulder blades, raw and angry, the skin pulling every time she moved too fast. But her fever had broken, her muscles no longer shook with every step, and her voice had returned. She felt like herself again—at least enough to start moving like her.
Luca had disagreed.
Violently.
"I said no."
"I'm not asking for permission, Luca. I'm informing you."
"You're not ready. You're barely walking upright—"
"I'm walking fine."
"You couldn't hold a fork yesterday without shaking."
"That's because you gave me the narcotics, not the over-the-counter ones."
She had never seen him so angry and so afraid at the same time. His fingers dug into his temples, jaw tight, storm grey eyes raging like they wanted to level the world. He looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever touched—like if he blinked, she'd disappear again.
In the end, she made a deal.
She'd keep her location on at all times. She'd text him before and after she arrived. She'd call him if anything so much as felt off.
And if she didn't follow through, he'd drag her back himself and put a GPS chip under her damn skin.
"Swear it," he'd said, chest rising and falling fast.
"I swear it," she'd replied, her voice gentle. "I'll be okay."
Now, standing in the soft shade of a public park downtown, Kaia hoped she wouldn't make a liar of herself. The stress was getting to her. She could feel it in her breathing—and in the itch blooming down the side of her neck. Her fingers twitched. Focus. Later.
She'd picked the place carefully. It was open and populated, nowhere near the Arena or the Lux, and far from any of her usual haunts. She kept the meeting quick, the route traceable, her eyes alert.
As she pulled up in the parking lot, she saw him—already there. His car parked crooked across two spaces like he'd stormed in without bothering to align.
Her stomach clenched.
It's been over a month.
More than a month since the attack. Since she'd ghosted him. Since she'd called off all contact and disappeared into the shadows without a word.
