They don’t bring up Leonardo. Not yet. But they know. I’m sure of it. If they have discovered that Donna Margarita is my mother, then they would have also found out the rest. Now I’m wondering how much they know, especially with dear Mamma missing and Igor dead. I look at the three men. Marcello, Enrico, Toni. Who did the deed? Or was it all three? I don't care either way. I'm not out to avenge either one of them; they're not worth it. But trust is a two-way street, or four-way, in our case.
The conversation shifts. Business. Territory. Logistics. Familiar ground. Later, we move down to the casino level. Enzo, the owner of this place and future father-in-law to Marcello, has a private poker room reserved. Inside mingle men in tailored suits, trying not to look like killers. Whiskey flows. Cards snap against felt, and laughter and a few well-placed insults fill the space like smoke.
But beneath it all… the air shifts. It always does when men like us gather. And I watch. And wait.
I keep alert. Marcello. Toni. Enrico. None of them are friends. Not really. Allies, maybe—for now.
I can’t kill Marcello. It would rip Sophia in two, and that’s a wound I’d never forgive myself for. He also seems tight with the others. I weigh the board in front of me like I’ve done a thousand times with enemies I never saw in person. This time it’s flesh and blood: their tells, their power plays. Every man wants the crown.
The orphaned part of me still wants the throne. Still wants to show the world who the real king is. But the part of me that loves Sophia… that’s the part that wonders if I can stand on the sidelines while her brother—or his friends—claim what should’ve been mine.
Can I let it happen?
Or will I burn the whole board before I watch someone else wear a title that is my birthright?
A few days later…
I feel him before I see him. That unmistakable pull, that simmering heat that lives in my bloodstream now.
The kids at the shelter are loud—there’s a soccer ball bouncing off a wall, a fight over crayons, two little girls giggling under a table—but all the noise dims the second I sensehim.
Raffael.
He doesn’t belong here, not with his ink and leather and the way he carries danger like a second skin. And yet, somehow, hedoes. I glance up and there he is, leaning casually against the wall in the doorway, arms crossed, that leather jacket molding to his frame like it was sewn there. I have no idea how long he has been watching me, but his heated eyes make liquid pool between my legs.
God, he’s beautiful.
A suit turns him into sin.
But leather and denim?
That’s when he turns intowar.
Dark jeans hug those thighs, the ones I still can’t stop tracing with my fingers when we’re tangled in bed. His boots are worn, his stance relaxed, but there’s a sharpness in the way he scans the room that is filled with protectiveness, focused only on me. Heat flares in his eyes like a private flame, like he’s about to devour me right here in front of a dozen sugar-high kindergartners.
I blush.
Still.
Even now.
With trembling fingers, I grab my bag and say my goodbyes to Lexy and the kids, who have become like a second family to me. Twice a week, I help out, and it fills so many empty spots inside me that it's actually helping me more than them.
"Hey," I murmur as I reach him.
"Hey, yourself, " he pulls me in by the waist, tilting his head down until his forehead touches mine. "You ready to get out of here?"
I nod, too breathless to speak.
His mouth brushes mine. Not demanding. Not impatient. Just… certain. Like he owns this kiss. Me.
"You rode the bike?" I manage to ask, already knowing the answer.
He smirks. "What gave it away?"
I slide a hand over his leather jacket, grip the zipper. "You only wear this when you want me clinging to your back."
"That’s the idea." He steps back, holds out a helmet, eyes glittering. "Thought we’d take the long way home."
