Chapter Eight

The Morning After Ruin

Amara woke before the sun.

The bedroom was cloaked in dusky blue, the last remnants of night curling against the tall windows. She lay still, her limbs sore and tangled in silk sheets that reeked of heat and sin. Beside her, Luca slept like a man who hadn't known peace in years—one hand fisted lousely arounaround the edge of the sheets, his other arm resting on her waist, anchoring her to him even in sleep. 

She studied him in silence. 

There was something dangerous in how soft he looked here—this man who ruled with bullets and fear, who touched her like she was a religion, not a ruin. His lashes lay dark against his cheekbones. His lips, parted slightly. A faint scar slashed his right jawline, a new one she didn’t remember, and it made him look even more untouchable. 

But no one was truly untouchable. 

She knew that. She'd learned it with blood in her mouth and bruises on her thighs. 

Carefully, Amara slid from the bed, suppressing a wince as her muscles protested. Her body still ached from the night before—from the fury, the fire, the desperate way they had consumed each other like starving things.

Her legs trembled slightly as she moved toward the en-suite bathroom. 

The moment the water hit her skin, memories poured in.

His hand on her hips. Her back on the table. The brutal tenderness in the way he said her name, like a man confessing to a crime he'd commit again.

It wasn’t love. 

It was something worse.

Obsession. 

Possession. 

And now, the lines between past and present had blurred beyond recognition. 

Amara wrapped herself in a towel and stepped into the walk-in closet — and froze.

On a leather bench sat a sleek black box, matte with a gold trim, untouched.

Wear this. We're not done. 

—L

Her pulse kicked.

The box opened to reveal a fitted black dress with a plunging neckline and lace cutouts—sensual, commanding.  Alongside it, blood-red stilettos and a velvet choker.

A gift. A warning. 

She almost laughed. 

The Luca she once knew never needed to command her. Now? He did it without a word.

She dressed.

Not for him.

For the power it gave her.

When she stepped back into the bedroom, Luca was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, cigarette burning between his fingers.

His eyes lifted. Dark. Hungry.

He exhaled smoke slowly, eyes dragging over her like a possessive oath. “You look like sin.”

She arched a brow. “You should know. You're the one who keeps dragging me to hell.”

His lips curved. “And yet you keep coming back for more.”

“Only so I can burn it down.”

He rose from the bed, the way men did in war—slow, sure, deadly.

“You won't burn this kingdom, cara mia.” He moved to her, brushing a knuckle down her bare collarbone. “You'll rule it.”

“Is that what you want?” She asked, voice steady. “Your queen by your side?”

He leaned in, voice thick. “I want you in every way. Every room. Every shadow. Whether you love me or hate me—I'll take both.”

She swallowed hard. “And your fiancee?”

His jaw tensed. “Handled.”

“You mean dead?”

“No,” he said with a wry smile. “Yet.”

The warning lingered between them.

But so did something else—something far more dangerous. 

Desire.

He stepped back. “Come downstairs. The Commission arrives in an hour.”

Her blood chilled. 

The Commission—a council of the six most powerful mafia families across Europe. Old money. Old codes. Men who would smile as they slit your throat. 

“Why?” She asked. 

“Because if they suspect you're a threat, they'll move first,” Luca said simply. “But if they see you with me—marked, protected, wanted—-they'll think twice.”

“Wanted?” She echoed. 

Hus eyes glinted. “Publicly.”

It wasn’t a request. 

It was a move.

She didn't argue. There would be time to play her cards later. For now, she had to survive the table. 

The Moretti estate was already alive when she descended the stairs.

Security swarmed the halls in sleek suits. Staff moved like shadows. Outside, three bulletproof cars lined the drive.

Luca stood near the grand doors, now fully dressed in an immaculate black suit, a gold pin shaped like a lion's head gleaming on his lapel.

Hos gaze found her instantly. 

He offered his arm.

She hesitated. 

Then placed her hand on his.

He didn't smile, but the warmth in his touch betrayed something close to it. Not quite affection.

Possession. 

The meeting was held in the estate's sunken conference room—an arena of polished obsidian and tension so deep it could be carved.

Six men waited.

Six kings of bloodied empires. 

Luca didn’t flinch.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth, cold. “Thank you for coming.”

Their eyes shifted to Amara. 

Whispers followed.

“La Verela?”

“I thought she was dead…”

“What game is this Moretti?”

Luca's grip on her hand tightened slightly. “No game. She's mine.”

Amara stood tall.

She didn't lower her gaze.

She didn't flinch.

She smiled—the kind that warned of firestorm. 

One of the older men—grey-haired, sharp-eyed—leaned forward. “Does this mean the engagement to Romano is void?”

“She was never meant to be my queen,” Luca said. “This one was. Is.”

“And what does she say about that?” Another challenged.

Luca didn’t answer. 

Amara did.

“I say if you doubt me, try me.”

Silence.

Then a low chuckle from the man in the far seat. “She has bite. I like her.”

And just like that, the tension splintered—not broken, but cracked.

The meeting unfolded over the next hours in a flurry of unveiled threats and hollow alliances.

Amara said little. Observed everything. 

Luca held the room like a god.

When it was done, and the final cigar was crushed into a golden tray, the men left one by one. 

But not before a warning from Sergio Vitale—a man too smooth, too calculating. 

He stopped at Amara’s side 

“Welcome back to the fold, Miss Varela,” he murmured. “I hope you know what you are stepping into.”

She smiled. “I never left. I just changed weapons.”

He gave a soft laugh. “And which one are you wielding now? Luca's heart?”

“No.” She leaned in, her lips near his ear. “His ruin.”

When they were alone again, Luca turned to her.

“What did hecsay?”

“Nothing important.”

He grabbed her chin, tilting her face to his. “Amara.”

“I can handle him.”

“I'm not worried about him,” Luca said. “I'm worried about you.”

She yanked free. “Don't.”

“You're not the same girl,” he murmured. 

“No,” she whispered. “She died in a warehouse in Juarez.”

Silence fell between them, heavier than the bodies they'd buried.

And then—softly—he reached for her hand.

“I want to show you something.”

She didn't ask where.

She followed.

Luca led her through a locked corridor she'd never seen before—down a flight of stone steps, into a chamber cold and silent as the grave.

The walls were lined with relics. Old photographs. Weapons. Family crests.

But at the center of the room stood a pedestal. 

On it—a ring.

Her ring.

A ruby set in a band of twisted gold.

“I kept it,” he said quietly. “All this time.”

She stared at it. Memories crashing like waves.

He picked it up and stepped to her.

“I don’t care if you love me.”

Her breath hitched. 

“I don’t care if you hate me.”

The ruby glinted between them like blood.

“But I will not let you go again.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

And just like that… she belonged to him.

Or maybe he belonged to her.

Neither of them spoke.

Because the war wasn't over.

But for now—in this moment—the past bowed to the present 

And the ruin was wearing a crown.