"Only if we do this together," I whisper.
Something flickers in his gaze, like he doesn’t dare believe me. Then it softens, breaking me open when he blinks, voice stripped raw. "I love you."
My chest aches, but it’s the sweetest ache. I smile through the burn in my throat. "I love you too. Together."
"Together," he repeats, like a vow carved into the storm itself. In that moment, I know my purpose. I was raised as a mafia princess. I know the politics, the games, and I even know where some bodies are buried. Raffael is good at what he does. Very good. He forged an empire out of nothing. But he's missing something. Something vital, and I'm going to be that vital part.
He turns toward the building then, ready to march straight into the lion’s den, but I tug on his arm. "Uh… hold on."
He halts, browfurrowed. "What?"
I wave a hand at him, taking in the leather jacket, the jeans clinging to his hips, the tousled hair from the helmet. "You look hot as hell like that—believe me, I noticed—but if you want Edoardo to take you seriously, you need to look the part."
Raffael glances at the nearest window, catching his reflection. "What’s wrong with how I look?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, maybe too quickly, because heat floods my cheeks. Because he does look hot as hell, sin wrapped in jeans and leather. "Nothing at all. But have you seen how the other capos dress? Tailored suits. Silk ties. Shoes that cost more than most people’s rent. They walk in bleeding power before they even open their mouths."
He rolls his eyes, and a scoff rumbles through his chest as his hand drags through his hair. For a second, he just looks at me, then the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked grin.
"Guess it’s time I look like the king I’m about to dethrone."
Sophia’s right.Christ, she’s right. I was an idiot thinking Edoardo would take me seriously, showing up like some motor gang boss fresh off a Ducati. What the fuck was I thinking? My jeans, my leather? Yeah, I look like me. But that’s not enough. Not for the table I’m about to claim a seat at.
And the way she said it—so gently, like she wasn’t tearing me down, just lifting me up—cuts deeper than anything else. She deserves so much more than this. Than me fumbling around, thinking I can walk into a room full of men who’ve been groomed for power since birth.
She’s out of my league. Always has been. A mafia princess, elegant, untouchable, and me, a scarred street soldier who clawed his way out of the shadows. But I’ll learn. I’ll do whatever the fuck it takes for her.
She nudges me lightly, her hand on my chest, and the softness of it nearly undoes me. "Come on," she says, her voice carrying that quiet certainty that always makes me listen. "I know a spot."
A smile tugs at my mouth despite the storm in my head. I let her push me back toward the Ducati, swing my leg over, and the second she’s behind me with her arms around my waist, I feel steady again.
I let the Ducati growl to life beneath us, and she directs me through the city streets, waving me past towers of glass and steel, into a quieter block with polished storefronts and understated signs. She taps my shoulder and points.
An exclusive men’s warehouse tailor. The kind of place with windows so clean they don’t even look real, mannequins in suits worth more than most people’s cars. The kind of place I never thought I’d walk into.
But for her? I’d walk into hell itself and ask for a fitting.
The bell above the door chimes as we step inside. The place smells like polished wood, old money, and faint cologne that probably costs more than my Ducati.
The salesman lifts his head from behind a gleaming counter. He gives me one look, slow and obvious, his eyes flick down the leather jacket, the scars, the jeans still dusted with road grit. His lips twitch like he’s about to sneer. Dismiss me.
My fingers twitch toward the weight of the gun underneath the jacket. I can already picture it, him stammering apologies with the barrel in his face.
But then Sophia’s hand presses firmly against my chest, stopping me cold. Her touch alone steadies me, but it’s the look in her eyes that pins me to the ground.Don’t.
She steps forward before I can even breathe out my irritation, and it’s like watching magic. Her voice slips into something soft and cultured, the kind of tone that says she belongs here without question. She greets the salesman like he’s a friend she hasn’t seen in years, warm and confident, and the bastard’s entire posture shifts. His eyes flick to her jeans, the leather jacket, but he can’t reconcile it with her poise, the grace that drips from her with every word. In thirty seconds flat, she’s got him eating out of her palm, nodding along, ushering us toward racks of Italian wool like we’re royalty.
I watch the way his eyes stay locked on her when he should be talking to me. Normally, that’d make me burn. But this guy doesn’t look like competition. Not a shark, not a soldier. More like… the kind of pale, polished prick who spends his life cutting fabric and stitching seams. He’s no threat. He couldn’t be, not to me, not to her.
Still, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was flirting. The easy laugh, the tilt of her chin, the way she brushes his ego just enough to make him beam. It should make me jealous, but instead it makes me… proud. Because it’s power. Her power. And watching her wield it—after everything she’s been through—it’s fucking beautiful.
I shift my weight, crossing my arms, and catch her eyes over the salesman’s shoulder. She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows I’m watching. And God help me, I think she’s enjoying that too.
She slips back to me once the salesman vanishes into the racks, her eyes gleaming with that sharp focus that always used to undo me.
"Okay," she says, folding her arms, chin tilted just so. "Let’s talk numbers."
I arch a brow. "Numbers?"
