Adriana's POV
6:40 AM – The De Luca Safehouse
Sunrise looked different when you had actively crawled through hell to see it.
Gold light sliced through the thick bulletproof glass like a blade. It bled across the black silk sheets. It illuminated the hard, scarred canvas of his skin. Finally, it caught the brutal, dark purple mark he had branded into the column of my neck with his teeth.
His. Entirely his.
I was still pinned beneath the heavy weight of his arm, bare skin fused against bare skin. The sheets were tangled hopelessly around our legs, a physical reminder of the chaos from hours before. His breathing was deep, anchoring him in a heavy, restorative sleep. No drugs. No painkillers. Just my presence keeping the demons at bay.
For the first time since I'd known him, Alessio De Luca looked peaceful. But it was the peace of a predator temporarily sated.
I shouldn't move. I should let him heal. Seventeen stitches. Two blood transfusions. A man who had looked death in the eyes three times last night and only clawed his way back because I commanded him to.
But the physical reality of my body didn't care about the dark poetry of our survival.
Slowly, carefully, I began to slide out from beneath his iron grip. Inch by inch, moving with a breathless caution so the mattress wouldn't dip.
His eyes snapped open instantly.
Pitch black. Lethal. The cold, unblinking stare of a killer ready to snap a neck before he was fully awake.
Then his gaze locked onto me. Just me, standing by the bed clad in nothing but his discarded button-down shirt. The dark fabric hit the mid-point of my thighs, leaving the rest of my skin entirely bare beneath his scrutiny.
The lethal edge in his posture melted, replaced by something far more dangerous: pure, unadulterated hunger.
"Where," he rasped, his voice rough from sleep, dark from the lingering heat of the night. "Where the hell do you think you're going, principessa?"
"The bathroom." I tugged at the hem of the shirt, a useless gesture that only drew his eyes down the curve of my legs. "Go back to sleep, Alessio."
He didn't answer. His gaze tracked up and down my body, heavy and deliberate. He wasn't just looking; he was rewriting his ownership over my skin, memorizing me until it burned.
"Come back to bed," he commanded. The low vibration of his voice brooked no argument. It was an edict.
"When I'm done."
The corner of his mouth twitched, a cruel, beautiful ghost of a smile. "Hurry. The bed gets cold without you."
Liar. The man burned like a furnace, fueled by a dark, relentless fire.
I made it exactly three steps toward the door before the heavy wood slammed open, striking the wall with a deafening crack.
Zia Maria stood in the threshold. She held a short-barreled shotgun loosely in one hand and a silver coffee tray in the other. Dressed in a flawless, tailored black dress with blood-red lipstick coloring her mouth. At 6:40 AM, she looked like an elegant reaper.
Her sharp eyes instantly locked onto me. They lingered on my bare thighs, the oversized shirt that belonged to her nephew, and finally, the dark, violent bruise blooming just below my ear.
She turned her gaze to the bed. Alessio was already sitting up, shirtless, his fresh stitches stark against his skin, the sheets pulled dangerously low on his hips. His eyes were slit, burning with a territorial rage that promised death to anyone else who dared enter.
Zia Maria smiled. It was a cold, razor-thin expression.
"Breakfast is waiting downstairs," she said, her voice smooth and entirely unbothered by the lethal aura in the room. "But I see my nephew has already found his feast."
I froze, the air turning heavy.
Alessio didn't hesitate. "Zia," he growled, a dangerous, low vibration shaking his chest. "Get the fuck out. And learn to knock."
"In a house I built?" She walked in, casually setting the tray down on the dark wood dresser. The two porcelain mugs clinked, steam rising in tight curls. "I bled for these foundations, Alessio. I watched you bleed on them as a child. I do not knock."
She crossed the room, stopping inches from the bed. She looked down at him, then pivoted the cold, black barrel of the shotgun until it pointed directly at my chest. She held it casually, as if it were a mere extension of her hand.
"You," she murmured, studying my face. "You made him smile last night. A real smile. Not the mask he wears for the Commission. The boy he buried years ago."
My throat went dry, but I forced myself to meet her gaze. "I did."
"Good." She lowered the weapon, the metal clicking against the floorboards. "Keep doing it. He's been a ghost walking in a corpse's shoes since his mother was blown to pieces."
Alessio's entire frame went rigid, his jaw clenching so hard the bone looked ready to snap. "Zia. Enough."
"She is family now, Alessio. She needs to know the blood she's wading into." Zia Maria picked up one of the mugs, stepping closer to shove it into my hands. Her eyes searched mine. "Drink. You look like a beautiful, ruined sin. But a sin nonetheless."
I took the mug, the heat of the porcelain burning into my palms. The tension in the room was so thick it felt suffocating.
Alessio buried his face into the black pillow, a low, frustrated growl escaping him. "I am going to put a bullet in her."
"No, you are not," Zia replied smoothly, patting the top of his dark head with an icy affection. "You love me too much. Now eat, both of you. The doctor said he needs to replace the blood he lost, and you need the strength for whatever he demands of you next."
She let her eyes drop significantly to my neck one last time, a dark eyebrow raised in wordless evaluation.
A fierce, hot flush crept up my throat, burning my cheeks.
Alessio looked up from the pillow, catching the bright red blush on my skin. The dark, possessive grin that spread across his face was predatory. Feral.
"Zia," he said, his voice dropping into a register that meant absolute obedience. "Out. Now."
"Fine." She turned toward the door, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. Before she crossed the threshold, she paused, looking back over a sharp shoulder. "Oh, and principessa?"
I stood frozen, the mug halfway to my lips.
"Find a scarf," she ordered, pointing a manicured finger at the mark on my skin. "My guards don't need to see how violently my nephew claims what belongs to him. They'll start a war just to taste a fraction of the chaos you bring out in him."
She stepped through, and the heavy oak door clicked shut, locking us back in our dark sanctuary.
Silence filled the vacuum she left behind.
Then, a low, rich sound broke the quiet. Alessio threw his head back, a dark, consuming laugh tearing from his throat. The sound was raw, filling every empty corner of the room, vibrating straight through the floorboards and into the broken spaces of my own chest.
I just stood there, mesmerized by the dangerous beauty of his amusement.
"What?" he asked, wiping a stray drop of moisture from his eye, his gaze locking onto me like a target. "She isn't wrong. You should see what I did to you."
I set the mug down with a sharp clink, turning on my heel into the bathroom. I flipped the light on, bracing myself against the marble sink.
Oh, God.
It wasn't just a bruise. It was a brand. A deep, dark purple imprint perfectly tracing the shape of his mouth, stamped violently below my ear. A visible declaration to the world that I had been thoroughly, aggressively ruined by the Don.
I marched back out into the bedroom, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You absolute animal."
He was propped up on his elbows, the silk sheets slipping down past his hips, exposing the jagged lines of his fresh stitches. He didn't care about the pain. His eyes had gone entirely black, dilated and hungry as he tracked my approach.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly spell. "Come here and say that to my face."
"Alessio, your stitches—"
"I don't give a fuck about the stitches." He patted the mattress right beside his thigh. "The doctor ordered bed rest. He didn't say I couldn't use you to get it."
Every instinct told me to step back, to protect him from himself.
But the dark romance of our ruin pulled me forward.
I crawled onto the mattress, moving slowly until I straddled his thighs, keeping my weight off his torso. My hands flattened against his bare, warm chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart. Instantly, his large hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt, gripping my waist with a bruising force. Skin on skin. Absolute possession.
He pulled me down, his mouth crashing into mine. There was no gentleness, no apology. Only a deep, consuming hunger that demanded everything I had left to give.
"Your neck," he growled against my lips, his thumb rough as it rubbed over the fresh mark he'd left on my throat. His gaze was terrifyingly obsessive. "I did that. Everyone who looks at you will know who owns you."
"Yeah," I breathed, leaning down to press my lips against the sharp line of his jaw, tasting the rough stubble. "Now the whole damn house knows."
"Good." His fingers fisted into my hair, pulling my head back until my throat was entirely exposed to him again. His mouth hovered just millimeters from mine, his hot breath ghosting over my lips, torturing me with the proximity. "Let them look. Let them try to take you. I'll let the entire world burn before I let you go."
"That you are mine," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave as his lips found the sensitive skin beneath my ear again. The kiss was slow, deep, and deliberate, as if he were rewriting the rules of time itself just to hold me. "Mia. Per sempre."
Mine. Forever.
The coffee on the dresser went cold.
We didn't notice.
He kissed me until the room spun, until the sharp image of Zia Maria faded, until the blood on Moretti's face ceased to exist. I forgot everything except the brutal weight of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, and the dark reverence in the way he breathed my name against my flesh.
When he finally pulled back, our breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"Breakfast," I whispered, trying to anchor myself back to reality.
"Later." His teeth grazed the edge of my earlobe, a sharp promise of what was to come.
"I'm not close to done with you yet."
"Alessio, your stitches—"
"Fuck the stitches." His hands slid deep beneath the hem of his oversized shirt, his palms hot and calloused against my bare skin. "They can sew me up a hundred times over. As long as you're the reason I'm bleeding, I don't give a damn."
A breathy sound escaped me—halfway between a laugh and a sob—before I pulled him back down to my mouth.
Outside the heavy fortress walls, the syndicate was waking up. We could hear the muted sounds of soldiers moving through the corridors, phones ringing, the vast machinery of a crime empire turning.
But inside this room, the world had shrunk to a single point. Just us.
His mouth moved back to my neck, his lips softer this time. He was apologizing, worshiping, and claiming all at once as he pressed a second dark purple brand right beside the first.
"Now there are two," he murmured against my heated skin, his thumb smoothing over the swelling flesh. "A matching set."
"Alessio!"
"What? Let Zia see exactly how thorough I am."
I pressed a fist against his chest, but he caught my wrist mid-air. He didn't push me away; he brought my hand to his mouth, kissing each bruised knuckle—the skin split from where I had smashed the heavy iron chain into Moretti's jaw.
"Thank you," he said. The predatory edge was gone, replaced by a quiet, raw intensity. "For coming for me."
"Thank you for living," I replied, my voice shaking as I leaned over him. "For staying alive."
He looked up at me, his dark eyes taking in every single detail. My tangled hair, the shirt draped over my frames, the dark marks he had stamped into my skin. All of me. Entirely his.
"With you?" A slow, genuine smile broke across his face—the rare, unguarded look Zia Maria had recognized. "I could live forever, principessa."
8:21 AM – The Kitchen
We finally made our way downstairs.
I wore a thick silk scarf pulled tight around my throat. He wore a dark, dangerous smirk.
Zia Maria took one long look at the second mark peeping out from beneath the edge of the silk. She didn't say a single word. Her face remained a mask of pure stone.
Slowly, she slid a plate of eggs across the marble counter toward us, poured two bitter shots of espresso, and reached down behind the counter.
When her hand came back up, she was holding the short-barreled shotgun.
"Eat," she commanded, her voice dropping into a freezing whisper as she checked the chamber. "We have an empire to run. And Moretti to kill."
Beneath the heavy wood of the table, Alessio's large hand found mine. He laced his fingers tightly through my knuckles, his grip pure iron.
He looked over at me. In the morning light, he wasn't the feared Don or the ruthless executioner who had broken a man's wrist hours before.
He was just mine.
He brought my hand up to his lips, kissing the bruised skin one last time, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding possessiveness.
"Welcome home, principessa."