I let him help me with the helmet, my fingers are already itching to be wrapped around his waist, to bury myself in the scent of leather and speed andhim.
But I linger a moment longer, watching him. This man. This king. This savage, who once ruled the shadows and now holds every fragile piece of my heart like it’s a priceless treasure.
I still can’t believe he’s mine.
Not because he claimed me.
But because he lets me claim him right back.
"Hey," I say as he swings a leg over the bike.
"Yeah?"
"You’re not allowed to fall more in love with me today than I am with you."
He grins, crooked and dangerous and all mine. "Too late."
I hold on to him like I always do, like he’s my anchor and my wings all at once.
The Ducati growls beneath us, low and primal, as he shoots us through the city like a bullet carved from black steel and sin. I feel it all. The wind rushing over my skin. The pulse of the engine between my legs. The heat of his body where mine presses tight against his back. He rides like he owns the world. Like he fears nothing and dares everything. And me?
I ride like I trust him with every breath. Because I do. The buildings blur past in a streak of light and shadow until we break free from concrete and roll into trees, the smell of leaves and earth sweeps around us in waves. The road winds. Twists. Tilts. And with every curve, I move with him, like we’re one being. One heart.
The forest breaks open to sky, and the wind turns colder, sharper. I bury my face against his shoulder, smiling so wide it hurts.
I love this.
The wildness.
The speed.
Him.
I love the way his hand drops to my thigh at a red light. The way his thumb strokes a soft circle, like a promise.The way he waits half a second longer before roaring forward again, because he knows I need a breath.
And I love me.
I didn’t think I’d ever say that again.
But I do.
I love the woman I’ve become.
I love how strong I am.
How unbreakable.
Howfree.
Our road isn’t smooth. Not even close.
But we’re laying the bricks one by one. Together.
I help him with La Famiglia, and he not only lets me, but he leans on me. He listens when I speak. I know the names now, capos, fronts, offshore accounts. I sit next to him in front of the computer, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, legs tucked under me, and I help him plot a legacy no one saw coming.
I know who he is.
What he’s been.
