She turns toward me with a soft gaze. I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her knuckles. "My Queen."
Her smile is everything. "My King."
Then, after a beat, quieter, "The one who rose from the shadows."
I huff a laugh. "Shadow King," I echo, and the words settle in my chest with the truth of it.
The convoy begins to slow. Up ahead, the gates to one of Edoardo’s estates loom like the mouth of a beast, iron and brick and armed men waiting like teeth.
"Roll down the windows," Sophia tells the driver, her voice cool and composed, and it is instantly obeyed.
One of the guards steps forward, leaning in toward the open frame of our SUV. His face appears right beside mine, and every instinct in my body screams to shove him back. Too close. Too casual.
But Sophia’s smile is already there. Not the real one; this one is plastered, practiced, and calculated. The one that saysI own this space, and you’d be wise to remember it.
"Sophia Giordano," she says evenly. "I’m here to see Don Edoardo. He’s expecting us."
"Yes, ma’am." The guard straightens immediately, respectful now. "Drive through. You’ll park in the front courtyard, left side. The Don’s waiting."
Sophia nods once, then rolls the window back up without a word.
I don’t say anything either. But damn, she’s good.
The convoy pulls past the open gates of Edoardo’s estate. Cars line the drive all the way up to the massive stone fountain in front. The place looks less like a residence and more like the Vatican's criminal cousin—grandiose, cold, and crawling with security, cameras, men with earpieces, and automatic weapons not even pretending to be subtle.
We roll up slowly, the tires crunch over the polished pavers. Sophia’s hand stays tucked in mine until the car comes to a full stop. The door opens, and I’m out first, already scanning. A guard steps forward, too close for my taste.
"Only Mrs. Giordano and one guard," he says flatly. "Orders from the Don."
I bristle immediately, and my shoulders tense. I’m half a breath from stepping in front of her when Sophia’s fingers close around mine again, just a quick squeeze. She gives me a calm, deliberate look. One that says,Let it go. I’ve got this.
She turns back to the guard with a graceful nod. "Understood."
And then she walks straight up the steps like she’s done it a hundred times before, like the ground should move to make way for her. I follow two steps behind, silent and imposing, playing the role of bodyguard once again. I don't mind. I'll always be her guard.
Inside, it's even more ostentatious than I’d imagined, with stark marble floors and oversized vases flanking doorways. A sterile chill hangs in the air, which smells of money and blood.
A servant in a white shirt and black vest meets us just inside the foyer. He bows slightly and gestures. "This way, Signora."
He leads us down a wide hall lined with paintings that look like they were stolen from forgotten cathedrals, past thick doors and watchful eyes, until we stop in front of one last set of double doors. The servant knocks once, then swings them open, and we step into Don Edoardo’s office.
Don Edoardo rounds the massive desk with quick, purposeful strides, smiling like this is a family reunion, not a calculated chess match. He doesn’t even glance at me. Doesn’t acknowledge the guard, a role he clearly thinks I play.
Instead, he goes straight to Sophia and takes both of her hands in his.
"Sophia, dearest," he says in a voice filled with false affection and warmth. "I’m so glad you’re alive. We feared the worst. Marcello is out of his mind with worry."
I shift a step closer, silent, still, but ready. I don’t care how important he is. The sight of his hands on her makes my pulse spike and my jaw clench tight enough to ache. If he holds on too long, if he pulls her in too close…
But Sophia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. She lifts her chin and meets his gaze with perfect, polished control. "Thank you for seeing us, Don Edoardo," she says coolly. "I thought it was time we talked."
"Of course, of course," Edoardo says, releasing her hands and gesturing toward the chairs in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"
Sophia sits with elegant precision, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knee. It's still too early in the morning even for me, but fuck, I'm done being overlooked. "A Blue Label would be great."
Edoardo turns to me, and his expression mirrors surprise. His eyes scan me from head to toe as his brain seems to work overtime, trying to figure out who I am.
"No, thank you," Sophia replies, throwing a glance at me that warns,Be Nice!"This isn’t about me. This is about this man—Raffael DeSantis."
