The room was quiet again. The kind of quiet that came after a storm—not empty, but hushed. Settled.
Maria folded another sweater, slower this time, pressing the corners flat before tucking it gently into the drawer. Her fingers lingered there, tracing the edge, like she was still piecing herself back together.
Behind her, Felix sat on the bed, silent. Present.
And then—without turning, she asked, "Felix... if I wasn't your goddaughter... would you have still been this gentle with me?"
Her voice wasn't accusatory. Just... honest. Careful.
He didn't answer right away.
Felix's expression shifted—not angry, but serious. His thumb paused on Maria's cheek, lingering just long enough to remind her this moment demanded honesty, even if it scared her.
"If I didn't know you like I do... if you were just some girl who disrespected me like that..." he began, voice calm, low.
Before she could fully register it, he had her bent over the bed—pants lowered, the cool air brushing against her skin. But he didn't move. His hand rested on her bare bottom, not punishing, just present.
Maria's breath hitched, a mix of shock and something else stirring deep inside. The vulnerability of the position was electric. She trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. Gooseflesh rippled down her arms, her skin hyperaware of every point of contact.
"I would have taken my belt off," Felix said quietly. The words hung between them, heavy and charged.
The words landed like a spark dropped into dry kindling.
Maria froze.
Something old, distant, pulled loose in the back of her mind. She was seven again, smaller than she remembered, with trembling hands and something hidden in her coat that hadn't belonged to her. A toy. A mistake. A "no" she'd ignored.
The belt hadn't been merciless. Just firm. Five lashes, meant to teach.
She could still remember how it sounded when it came off. The weight of it in his hand. The sting. The shame. The heat bloomed across her skin. And the apology that followed—not just to the store clerk, but to the man who had to teach a lesson he didn't want to.
Maria blinked, dragging herself back.
Felix's hand was still there. Grounded. Warm. Controlled.
This wasn't then. This wasn't him.
But her body remembered. And her mind was still trying to decide whether that memory made Felix's restraint feel safer... or more dangerous.
Felix's words landed heavier than a strike. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't need to.
Instead, he patted her lightly, almost rhythmically. Each touch was gentle, like punctuation marks in a lesson she already understood.
Maria exhaled shakily, tension winding through her like a wire pulled too tight. This wasn't punishment. It was power—controlled, deliberate, and terrifying in its restraint.
He wasn't using force. He didn't have to.
The silence, the stillness, the pressure of his hand resting on her bare skin—it was all calculated. A quiet reminder of who held control in that moment. And how quickly this could have been something else. Something much darker.
She could hear her heartbeat now, loud in her ears. Her breath came shallow, every inhale catching slightly in her throat.
He wanted her to feel it. The threat of what could have happened. The line she'd nearly crossed. And now, she was left to face the consequence—not in pain, but in anticipation.
Every second passed like a warning. His hand didn't strike, but it might as well have. The possibility lingered, tense and alive.
He wanted her to sit in it. To understand.
She hadn't moved since he bent her over. Didn't dare to.
And the worst part—the part that sent a chill through her spine—was how some secret part of her didn't recoil. It leaned in.
She hated that thought. Feared it.
Because if it hadn't been Felix—if it had been anyone else—this could've broken her.
But it wasn't anyone else. It was him. And that's what made it even more dangerous.
Her breath trembled, a soft exhale escaping as the weight of the memory slowly loosened its grip. She felt the pulse of Felix's hand against her skin—a grounding warmth that tethered her back to the room.
Maria blinked, the sharp sting of recollection fading like a distant echo, replaced by the electric hum of the present. Her muscles relaxed just enough to remind her where she was—and who was holding her.
Felix's hand remained, his touch gentle but deliberate. Then, with a slow, almost casual voice, he said, "I might have also..."
He paused, the weight of his unfinished words thick in the air. His voice faltered just long enough to send her mind spiraling—filling the silence with all the possibilities he didn't say aloud.
Her body shifted slightly, responding to the weight of what wasn't said. The cool air brushed against her skin, making her all too aware of the vulnerability she'd willingly placed herself in.
Maria's pulse quickened. The unsaid promise of what might have been—rough, demanding, unyielding—pressed against the fragile line between fear and desire. It was a whisper in the dark, a shadow that danced just beyond reach.
His fingers traced a slow, light path along her hip, just enough to make her skin tingle, but never crossing the line.
Her heart hammered, a mix of nervousness and something darker, something thrilling—though she didn't quite understand it yet.
A secret thrill, raw and unfamiliar, stirred inside her—a quiet pulse beneath the nervous flutter.
Why did the thought of a harsher touch make her heart race in a way she hadn't expected? She wasn't sure if it was fear or something else, but the line between the two blurred—and that frightened her even more.
Her mind raced through the "what ifs"—what if Felix hadn't held back? What if this moment had turned darker, less gentle? The idea sent a cold shiver through her, a stark reminder of how fragile trust could be.
But beneath that shiver was a strange, inexplicable pull—the thrill of danger, the allure of surrendering control in a way she'd never dared to consider before.
Maria swallowed hard, eyes closed for a moment, wrestling with the contradiction—the nervousness and the excitement tangled tight in her chest.
She wasn't sure what this meant yet. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the fear of losing herself to something deeper than she'd ever known.
Either way, one thing was clear: Felix's restraint wasn't just mercy. It was a line she wasn't ready to cross. And maybe, for now, that was enough.
The soft pat returned—a little firmer this time. Not cruel, not aroused—just enough to keep her still.
Maria squirmed faintly, her mind already finishing the sentence he didn't say.
He didn't need to say it. She understood.
"You get the idea," he murmured, his voice still serious, still low.
But Maria's thoughts refused to settle. The space he left empty was filled with her own vivid imagination, equal parts thrill and unease.
Felix's hand finally lifted—but not before one firm smack landed across her bare skin, sharp and deliberate. The sound cracked through the quiet like a firecracker, echoing in the space between them.
Maria gasped, the sting blooming fast and hot, sending a shudder through her as she stumbled forward, caught between shock and heat.
The cool air kissed the mark he left, sharpening the sensation. She reached back on instinct, fingers brushing over the smarting flesh as she fumbled to pull her pants back up, the fabric dragging against sensitized skin.
Behind her, Felix stood slowly. His movements weren't rushed, but there was a weight to them—like the moment hadn't quite let go of him either. His presence filled the space behind her, steady and grounding.
"Understand now?" he asked, voice low, calm.
Maria nodded quickly, her hand still pressed against the ache.
He stepped in closer. She didn't need to see him—she could feel it in the shift of the air, in the way her own body tensed, alert.
Then his fingers wrapped around her wrist—gentle, firm. He pulled her hand away, her skin left tingling where his had touched.
"Don't."
She blinked, uncertain. "W...why?"
His grip didn't tighten. But it didn't ease.
"Because I want you to feel that," he said quietly. "I want you to remember what happens when you disrespect me like that."
The words weren't cruel. They were steady. Like they'd been set in stone long before she ever spoke out of turn.
Maria's breath hitched. Her eyes flicked upward, meeting his gaze—and she saw it: the certainty, the calm. No anger. Just conviction.
She swallowed, pulse thudding low in her throat. "Y-yes, sir."
The words came softer now—stripped of fire, shaped by understanding. They didn't sting her pride. They settled somewhere deeper.
Felix let go of her wrist.
"Good girl," he murmured, warmth flickering at the edges of his voice. Soft, but with a kind of gravity she couldn't ignore.
Then he opened his arms. "Come here."
She hesitated, but only for a breath before stepping into him. His arms wrapped around her like armor—protective, possessive. Not a cage, but a claim.
Her face found the center of his chest, drawn to the steady beat of his heart beneath his shirt. The fabric was still warm from his skin. Still faintly smelled of smoke and clean cotton.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice small.
He stroked her back slowly, the pressure of his hand soothing and sure.
"You don't need to thank me," he said softly into her ear. "Just remember this next time you feel like mouthing off."
Maria gave a tiny nod, her cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt. The starch was nearly gone from the day's wear, but it still held a faint crispness.
Everything inside her felt quieter. Her thoughts weren't gone—they just didn't claw at her like before. It was like the storm inside had broken, and what was left behind was... stillness.
Felix gave her one last squeeze before leaning back to look at her. His smile was faint, just a pull at the corner of his mouth—but it held something knowing.
The spark in her hadn't vanished. But for now, it was dimmed. Contained.
"All right," he said, tone casual—but laced with warning. Like he could flip the script again in a second if he needed to.
He watched the way she lingered close, obedience still fresh and trembling under her skin.
He knew this wouldn't be the last time he'd have to deal with that sharp tongue of hers.
But for now—He was satisfied.
Felix pressed a kiss to her hair, then stepped back, giving her one last glance before heading for the door.
The soft click of it closing behind him left the room heavy with quiet.
Maria smoothed her hands down the front of her jeans, her hips still tingling faintly from the earlier smack. As she adjusted the folded sleeves of a shirt in the drawer, her mind drifted—not to the bed, not even to Felix's words or the weight of his hand—but to something far older.
To the car.
To the hood of a different vehicle.
Warm metal under her thighs. The sun baking through her jeans. The sharp press of reality she hadn't been ready for.
Felix's restraint had reminded her of it. Not just the control, but the unspoken message behind it.
Her stomach twisted.
Because that memory wasn't one she visited often. Not because it hurt—but because it didn't fit. It was like a jagged piece in a puzzle she'd always kept boxed up.
She had been eight. Maybe nine. Old enough to test boundaries, young enough not to understand why they existed.
Neo had brought her along to the factory that day. "Accounting stuff," he'd said. "Boring numbers. You'll be asleep before I hit the third spreadsheet."
He'd handed her a juice box, told her to stay in the car.
"Don't go wandering, you hear me?"
She'd nodded, clutching her stuffed rabbit like a promise.
But Maria had never been good at staying still.
She remembered creeping toward the building. Gravel crunching under her sneakers. The heavy metal door not quite latched. Voices behind it—low, sharp, unfamiliar.
And then his hand—clamping around her arm, pulling her back before she even saw anything. She barely remembered the walk back to the car. But she remembered what happened next.
Neo hadn't yelled. He hadn't looked angry.
He'd looked... shaken.
He sat her on the hood. Not tossed. Not rough. Just... placed. Like she might break.
The heat of the metal kissed her thighs through thin jeans. Her hands braced against the curve of the hood, fingers twitching. She didn't know why she was scared—but she was. It was in the silence.
Three swats.
Firm. Measured. Final.
No belt. No warning.
But they'd landed deep.
She remembered the sting blooming hot across her bottom—but sharper than that was the ache in her chest. Like the shame got there first.
Her eyes had filled, blinking fast, confused more than hurt. He knelt in front of her, large hands gentle as they steadied her arms.
"You don't go near places like that, you hear me?" he'd said, voice low and raw.
She nodded, barely breathing.
"It's dangerous."
A glance toward the factory. Something hard flickered across his face.
"You never know who... or what... might be inside."
Then there was a pause.
A beat where something shifted. Like he realized he'd said too much.
But Maria hadn't asked. She hadn't needed to.
She just kept looking at him like her whole world had tilted—just slightly—but permanently.
He wiped away the tear that finally fell, thumb soft beneath her eye.
And then, like he always did, he tucked the truth behind something safe.
"People talk," he'd told her later that night, when the house was quiet and she still couldn't sleep. "But you don't listen to whispers."
She never had.
Not when the family whispered about her mother.
Not when they looked at Neo like a loaded gun in a suit.
Not when they lowered their voices as soon as she entered the room.
She never questioned what her father might've hidden.
She never wanted to.
But now—after everything with Felix, after the threat that never landed but still left a mark—something cracked open.
And for the first time... Maria wondered what, exactly, Neo had protected her from that day.
Maria reached for another shirt, but her fingers stalled on the fabric. She'd finished the drawer already—refolded everything twice—but her body hadn't caught up. The echo of her father's voice still lingered, low and steady like a warning she hadn't heard until now.
She shut the drawer gently.
The room felt smaller now. Tidy. Still.
Too still.
Maria crossed to the balcony doors and opened them, stepping out into the cool air. The breeze hit her immediately, brushing over her arms and lifting the edge of her shirt. She closed her eyes for a second, letting the quiet hum of the city settle over her.
The sun hung low, a last thread of gold stretched thin across the horizon, casting long shadows and bathing everything in soft amber. Evening was coming, and with it, the weight of things she hadn't faced yet.
Then—tires on gravel.
She opened her eyes.
The first sound wasn't a car.
It was thunder.
A Harley rumbled through the front gates, all chrome and midnight steel. Marco rode it like it was an extension of himself, spine straight, jaw locked. The bike roared like it remembered every war he'd fought, and every one he still might. He parked just shy of the steps and killed the engine, the silence that followed somehow louder.
Behind him, the low growl of a G-Wagon filled the driveway. Matte black, windowless, and looming like a threat. Massimo. The SUV looked like it could flatten a man and not notice. He stepped out with a phone pressed to his ear, barking orders already. He didn't look at the house. He didn't need to. He belonged to it, and it to him.
Next came a different sound entirely—a smooth, purring hush. Leo's Maserati. Midnight blue with mirrored windows, so polished it reflected the gates as they shut behind him. He stepped out in silence, tailored and timeless. A man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard.
Then came the Audi—low, fast, impatient. Nico. The R8 hissed to a stop, engine ticking like it missed the road already. He got out slowly, almost like he didn't want to leave the car behind. His silver hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, sharp eyes scanning the house like it might be a canvas he hadn't finished painting yet.
Luca arrived next. His Dodge Viper—deep, glossy green with a sleek silhouette that caught every last bit of light—slid in like a shadow, its growl low and dangerous. The door opened with a clean click. Luca stepped out dressed in a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled, storm in his expression. There was something barely contained in the way he moved—like elegance barely masking the wolf underneath.
Maria's gaze lifted just as Felix stepped out onto the porch. She caught his muffled, "Heyyy," carried on the breeze, followed by low, indistinct replies. His voice was calm, casual — but there was something in the way he moved that held quiet authority.
She heard snippets—"Yeah, I cleaned her up"—catching enough to know Felix was brushing off a comment, maybe joking with Massimo or Marco. She let her eyes follow his steady walk toward the black Rolls parked among the others.
Massimo, Marco, and Leo were clustered near the G-Wagon and Maserati, deep in conversation, gesturing at engines and polished chrome like boys showing off their toys. Massimo's laugh was rough and loud; Marco's was quieter but sharp, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. Leo's calm voice cut through the noise, measured and precise.
Nico was off to the side, glued to his phone, thumbs flying — mostly checked out of the moment but still part of the circle.
And then—hellfire.
A Ducati screamed down the lane, its rider leaned into every curve like he was trying to outrun gravity. Red, fast, reckless.
Dante.
He didn't park so much as skid into place, cutting the engine with a flourish and flipping up his visor with a grin. He pulled off the helmet with one hand and raked the other through his white hair, yelling something that made Massimo shake his head and Leo glance away like he didn't hear it.
Maria stood frozen, drinking it all in. The men. The machines. The laughter. The subtle tension beneath it.
These were ghosts in her blood. Shadows from every corner of her childhood.
And she didn't know if she was ready to face them again.
This was home. And it was far from quiet.