Chapter Six

Smoke and Silk

The morning after did not come with sunlight.

It came with a silence. Dense, layered, like smoke after gunfire. The only sound in Luca's Palermo penthouse was the ticking of a heavy clock and the distant hum of the city below. Amara sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his black shirts, staring at the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass like she was looking for herself somewhere out there.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Hadn’t meant to stay.

And yet here she was, skin still humming from the aftermath, every breath reminding her of the hours she spent tangled in the arms of the man she was supposed to hate.

Luca hadn’t said a word since waking. He stood behind her now, bare-chested, a towel slung around his hips, droplets of water sliding down his skin. Even his silence carried weight—not anger, not indifference, just presence. 

“I don’t know what last night was,” she said quietly. 

“It was inevitable,” he replied, voice gravel low.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Not without betraying the chaos in her.

“You think too much,” he said after a moment. 

Amara turned slightly, arching an eyebrow. “And you think k too little.”

He crouched in front of her resting his hands on her bare thighs. She should've pushed him away. Instead, she froze—not in fear but in awareness. No man had ever looked at her like this. Like he was on his knees not for forgiveness, but for possession. 

“You want me to pretend last night didn't matter?” He asked, eyes locked with hers. “To act like it was just lust? A mistake?”

Her pulse raced.

“That would be easier,” she whispered. 

“For who?”

“For me.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His thumb moved slowly across the curve of her thigh. “Then lie to yourself. But don’t lie to me.”

Amara’s throat tightened. There was something terrifying about being seen so clearly. Especially by the one man who had the power to destroy her all over again.

She looked away. “We’re still enemies.”

“You want to be,” he corrected. “Because it's safer than being mine again.”

Her heart cracked at the truth in that. But safety had never been part of the equation with Luca Moretti. He was a warzone dressed in a three-piece suit—fire with a heartbeat. 

And God help her, she missed the burn.

He stood, his voice shifting—colder now. “I have a meeting at the docks. There's food in the kitchen. Clothes in the guest closet. Do what you want.”

Just like that, the heat was gone. Replaced by the hard chill of the mafia king he truly was.

Amara watched him leave without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with the silence again. 

Only this time it felt emptier.

—

The docks were soaked in rain by the time Luca arrived. 

Steel-gray skies cast everything in monochrome. Workers moved with crates like ants, the air thick with salt, sweat, and secrets. But this wasn't a delivery. This was business. Blood business. 

Luca approached the blacked-out SUV parked near the warehouse entrance. A tall man in a tailored coat stood waiting, cigarette dangling from his lips. He exhaled slowly, watching the approach like a vulture waiting for meat to stop twitching. 

“Sergio,” Luca greeted.

The man flicked ash to the side. “You're late.”

“I was busy.”

Sergio gave a dry laugh. “Ah. The American.”

Luca's jaw tensed. “Careful.”

“Relax,” Sergio said, lifting his hands. “I don’t care where you bury your cock. But you should. That girl's not from our world.”

“She was. And she still knows how to survive in it.”

“She knows too much.”

“She knows me,” Luca said sharply. “That makes her useful.”

Sergio looked unconvinced. “You're getting soft.”

“I haven't been soft a day in my life.”

“Then you won't mind when the Commission starts taking questions.”

Luca's stare hardened. “Let them.”

Sergio dropped the cigarette, grinding it beneath his boots. “Your father didn’t build this empire for you to gamble it on a woman.”

Luca stepped close, his voice iron. “My father is dead and I am the empire now.”

Sergio met his gaze. “Just remember, kings fall harder than soldiers.”

With that, he walked off, coat flaring like wings behind him. 

Luca didn’t flinch. Didn’t watch him go. 

But something twisted in his gut.

—

Back at the penthouse, Amara had showered, dressed, and paced a dozen times. The kitchen smelled like espresso and unfamiliar spices. She hadn’t touched the food. Her appetite had drowned somewhere between guilt and confusion. 

The doorbell rang.

Not a knock. A bell.

Someone wanted to be heard. 

She approached with caution, fingers grazing the knife drawer as she passed. 

Peeking through the camera screen, she froze.

It was a woman.

Blonde. Elegant. Cold as glass.

Amara opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

The woman smiled thinly. “You must be the American.”

“And you are?”

“Bianca Romano,” she said. “Luca's fiancée.”

Amara blinked.

Laughed. Once, disbelieving. “You've got the wrong apartment.”

“No,” Bianca said sweetly. “I have the wrong timing.”

She pushed past before Amara could stop her. Heels clicking on marble, she walked in like she belonged there. Her dress was designer, her perfume sharp enough to draw blood.

Amara shut the door behind her. “You've got two minutes before I make this ugly.”

Bianca turned, still smiling. “Oh, honey. It's already ugly.”

Amara crossed her arms. “So? what do you want?”

“To warn you.” Bianca said. “You're not the first ghost to crawl back from Luca's past. But you will be the last.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “You threatening me, Bianca?”

“I'm informing you. Luca and I—we're political. Strategic. We don't do love. We do power. And you? You're a memory. A liability.”

Amara stepped closer. “You know what I hate about women like you?”

Bianca blinked. “Enlighten me.”

“You think money makes you dangerous.”

She leaned in, voice quiet, sharp. I was surviving cartels and corrupted kings in Juarez when you were still sipping champagne in Milan. So if you are going to come into my space and play mafia princess, at least bring teeth.”

Bianca's expression faltered for half a second—just enough.

Then she smiled again. “Enjoy your little reunion. It won't last.”

And with that, she left.

No threats. No screams. Just poison in silk.

—

That night when Luca returned, Amara was waiting. 

He paused when he saw her—heels on, hair slicked back, red lips like blood.

“I had a visitor,” she said. 

“Bianca,” he muttered.

“She thinks you're hers.”

“She thinks wrong.”

“She also thinks I'm disposable.”

“You're not.”

“She thinks you'll choose her in the end.”

Luca stepped forward, slowly, until there was no space between them. 

His hand gripped her waist. “I already chose you, gattina. The moment I destroyed half of Sicily looking for you.”

Her breath caught.

“You never stopped wanting power,” she said.

“I want you. Everything else is strategy.”

Amara touched his face, searching for the truth.

She found it in his eyes.

And kissed him like it was the last time. 

Because maybe it would be.

But tonight she'd let herself forget.