As the door creaked open slowly.
Alessia froze, her fingers still clutching the worn piece of paper that had just slipped beneath the windowsill minutes ago. Her heart thundered in her chest as Luca stepped in, his presence swallowing the room like a storm cloud.
He wore his tuxedo jacket undone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his neck and the faintest hint of ink curling around his collarbone. His dark eyes scanned her—her flustered stance, the way she hid something behind her back.
Luca's jaw ticked.
"What are you holding?" His voice was low. Calm. Too calm.
Alessia hesitated, then slowly handed him the paper. She expected a reaction. A curse. A flash of rage.
But Luca didn't even glance at the words.
He crumpled the letter in one hand, walked past her, and dropped it on the side table like it was nothing more than a grocery list. "The Moranos," he muttered with quiet disdain. "Always barking. Never biting."
Alessia blinked. "But it's a threat."
"No." He turned to face her again. "It's a performance. They want to see if I'll dance." He stepped closer, his tone darkening. "But I don't entertain rats. I exterminate them."
His words should've chilled her. But instead, it was the way he looked at her that made her tremble. Not from fear—but from something deeper. Hotter.
"You shouldn't take them lightly," she whispered, heart still thudding. "They mentioned... me."
"I know." He stepped so close now that their breaths mingled. "That's why they'll regret ever writing that letter."
She tried to respond, but Luca's hands were already cupping her face, drawing her into a kiss that stole every thought from her mind. His lips tasted of dominance and desperation, like he'd been holding back for far too long.
When he pulled away, their foreheads touched. His voice was rough. "You're mine now, Alessia. No one threatens what's mine."
Her knees weakened.
She'd seen many sides of Luca over the past few weeks—the cold mafia heir, the protector, the quiet thinker. But this version? The man who touched her like she was glass and claimed her like she was gold?
This was new.
Luca's hand moved down, tracing her jawline, down her neck, until it rested over her chest, where her heart pounded beneath her skin.
"Tonight," he said, "you become mine in every way."
Alessia's breath hitched.
He didn't wait for permission. Not because he was careless—but because the tension between them had always been mutual, electric, waiting to explode.
He swept her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the velvet-draped bed that stood in the center of their candlelit wedding suite. The room smelled of roses and musk, of silk sheets and secrets.
Gently, he placed her on the bed.
"Are you nervous?" he asked, voice softer now, threading his fingers through hers.
"Yes," she whispered, because there was no use lying. "But not because of you."
Luca kissed her knuckles, one by one. "I won't hurt you."
She believed him.
Her body responded to his touch like it had been waiting for him all her life. Every kiss down her neck sent goosebumps across her skin. Every stroke of his hands awakened parts of her that had been buried beneath years of silence, servitude, and fear.
His mouth found hers again, but this time, it wasn't hurried. It was slow. Reverent. Like he was memorizing the shape of her lips, the taste of her soul.
He undressed her slowly, unzipping the satin of her wedding gown with the kind of patience that made her thighs clench. She was bare before him, more exposed than she had ever been, but not once did he look at her with anything less than awe.
"You're so damn beautiful," he murmured, trailing kisses down her shoulder. "They'll write poems about tonight, Alessia. About how the devil finally tasted heaven."
And then he made love to her—not like a man who wanted to claim, but a man who wanted to worship.
His movements were demanding, but never selfish. He whispered her name like a prayer, like she was the salvation he never knew he needed. And she responded to him—her moans soft at first, then louder, unrestrained—as he broke through every wall she'd ever built.
The pain was brief.
The pleasure, infinite.
Alessia had never felt so owned and so free at the same time. Her fingers clawed at his back, her mouth tasted his skin, and when they came undone together, it was as if the world stopped turning—just for them.
He stayed inside her for a moment longer, pressing his lips to her damp temple. "No one," he whispered, "will ever take you from me."
Alessia, breathless, could only nod.
She didn't realize she'd been crying until Luca kissed a tear from her cheek. Not from sorrow—but from release. Relief. Maybe even joy.
They lay tangled in silence for a while, her head on his chest, his hand lazily stroking her hip.
"You're different," she whispered.
"How?"
"From what I expected. From what everyone says you are."
He smirked, eyes closed. "Let them talk. They know nothing about me. But you…" He opened his eyes, staring at her with that dark, smoldering intensity. "You see me. Don't you?"
She nodded slowly.
And that was when the knock came.
Sharp. Urgent. Three times.
Luca sat up instantly. His entire body tensed.
Alessia clutched the sheets to her chest, her heart leaping. "Who is it?"
Luca didn't answer. He reached for the gun under the drawer beside the bed. His movements were smooth, practiced. Deadly.
The knock came again. Louder.
Then a voice—a voice Alessia hadn't heard in weeks.
"It's me," came the gruff shout from the other side of the door. "Open up, Luca. We have a problem."
Luca swung the door open with a growl. "What now?"
It was Enzo, one of his most trusted men. The man looked rattled. Pale. Sweating.
"There's been a breach," Enzo said, voice low. "The Moranos… They took something."
Luca's face hardened. "What?"
Enzo hesitated.
And then he said it.
"They took your mother."
The silence that followed was colder than death.
Alessia sat up in the bed, stunned. "What?"
Luca's hand clenched so tightly around the gun, his knuckles went white.
"They broke into the villa in Tuscany. Left a message for you… written in blood." Enzo's voice cracked. "They say if you want her back, you trade your wife."
Luca didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Alessia felt like the floor dropped beneath her.
She looked at Luca—and for the first time, she saw a war behind those eyes. One between duty and desire. Blood and love.
And then he whispered, as if to himself, "They want my soul."
He turned slowly, locking eyes with Alessia.
"They want you."....