"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 child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth."-
_______________________________
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The sky outside the jet windows had begun to pale—ink‑blue fading toward the first ghost of dawn—as Sweden crept onto the horizon. Luca hadn't slept. Instead he sat rigid near the forward bulkhead, watching darkness surrender by degrees while a single thought coiled tighter around his heart:
Adrian King.
He was minutes—maybe hours—from meeting the one person who might still claim Aria by blood. Grandfather, mentor, architect of a shadow empire no one in living memory had faced and walked away unchanged. If the whispers were true, Adrian might also be the original King—the phantom who taught Kaia —Aria how to turn vengeance into strategy and power into silence.
Family. The word felt foreign on Luca's tongue now that she was gone. He wondered what Aria would have said—what shade of sardonic humor she might have wielded—if she knew he was anxious about meeting her grandfather. She would have smirked, maybe; teased him about worrying over first impressions when he'd once negotiated an arms treaty with a gun to his head.
But under the anxious hum there was something colder: a question scratching at his chest.
What happened to the rest of her bloodline?
Her brothers existed—lost or hidden—how deep did Adrian King's secrets run?
And which of them still drew breath?
Outside, a thin slice of sunrise burned across the horizon, pale gold on slate. Luca flexed his fingers once, the phantom weight of Aria's hand still etched into his palm. Soon he would look into the eyes of the man who raised her, the man who perhaps made her a weapon against the world. And somewhere between that meeting and whatever war waited in Sweden, he intended to uncover every missing name in her story—
—because if any of her blood yet lived, he meant to bring them home.
A matte‑black Range Rover rolled to a stop at the edge of the wind‑swept airfield, its grille crowned with a single gold capital K. Gravel crunched under the tires; frost clung to the long grass that bordered the runway. The jet's engines were still ticking down when the driver stepped out—broad‑shouldered, earpiece in, face unreadable behind mirrored lenses. He opened the rear door and stood aside.
The man who emerged needed no announcement. He filled the gray morning with a presence colder than the Scandinavian wind. Six‑four, suited in charcoal so finely cut it moved like cloth armor, hair gone silver at the temples yet his frame still carried the power of a fighter in his prime. His eyes, dark and depthless, took in the group with a single sweep.
He had dark brown eyes and deep crow's feet -showing that he either smiled or glared a lot. Luca thought the latter. This man didn't seem to be the kind of man to smile frequently. At all.
