The black Maserati purred to a stop before the wrought-iron gates of the DeLuca estate. The guards straightened in unison, rifles tucked close, eyes flicking from Marcus to the stranger beside him. Marcus DeLuca needed no introduction — the lion had come home — but Vincent? Vincent was the question nobody dared to ask.
"Welcome back, Signor Marcus," one of the guards greeted, voice clipped, stiff with the tension that always accompanied the boss's return.
Marcus gave a single nod. "Open it."
The gates groaned apart, the air heavy with old money and old sins. Vincent's gaze drifted across the mansion's façade — white marble washed gold under the sunset, ivy crawling like veins along the columns. The air smelled of sea salt and roses, the same contrast Marcus carried in his pulse — danger, wrapped in something heartbreakingly beautiful.
