ERIN
Iwake up in a silk cocoon, tangled in Luca’s sheets, sore in the best way possible, and drunk on last night.
Every part of me feels lighter. Warmer. Like I’m floating in a dream where I’m no longer waiting tables or counting quarters for rent. I’m in a penthouse. Withhim. And he’s still here.
He brought me breakfast of espresso, fresh fruit, pastries I can’t pronounce in bed. While I was eating, he stepped out to answer a call. I thought he’d vanish after last night. Men like him don’t usually linger.
But he’s still here.
And now I’m sitting in one of his massive bathrobes on a private terrace overlooking half of Manhattan, sipping my second cappuccino as the morning light glows around me.
“Pretty sure I died,” I murmur to myself. “And this is heaven.”
That’s when the door opens.
Three men stride out onto the terrace, all tall, all terrifyingly confident. I stiffen, until Luca follows behind them and gestures toward me.
“This is Erin,” he says, voice steady. “She’s with me.”
With him.
The words make my stomach flip.
The men look at me. Not with surprise. Not with doubt. With curiosity. Recognition.
“Ah,” one says, smiling lazily. Green eyes, tousled dark hair, a black jacket worn like a dare. “So this is the girl who’s got Luca acting like a monk.”
“Riccardo,” Luca warns.
He holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying.Respect.”
Another man offers me a polite nod. Clean-cut, dark blond, warm eyes that don’t quite mask how deadly he probably is. “I’m Alberto, Luca’s shadow.”
“And I’m Valerio,” the last one adds, grinning. “I get why Luca lost his head over you. Seeing you at the restaurant is one thing, but here? You feel right at home.”
I blink. “I do?”
"Of course," Luca growls, a hint of possessiveness in his voice as he wraps an arm around me. "This is her home now. Stop ogling her,” he warns. “She's mine."
My cheeks flame.
They sit down at the long stone table already set with steaming plates and silver covers. I follow Luca’s subtle nudge to sit beside him, and breakfast begins.
Everything is delicious. Effortlessly refined. Served by a man named Marco who’s apparently Luca’s personal chef.He has a private chef.
He never needed to come to Notte Bianca. Not for the food.
He came forme.
The realization hits like a warm gust to the chest.
At first, the discussion touches on business. Acquisitions, imported products, nothing I understand much of.
But then the tone changes.
“There was another hit in Brighton Beach,” Alberto says, slicing into his eggs like he’s talking about the weather. “Two of ours, taken out at point-blank. Bratva signature all over it.”
“Message?” Luca asks, calm. Lethal.
