The morning sun climbed lazily over the Roman horizon as the jet wheels touched down on the private airstrip. Stefano sat still, his elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed out the window. The war was over.He had found them all. Every single Russian tie that had snaked into his empire’s foundation. The traitors had paid in blood. Their networks dismantled, their money seized, and their homes reduced to ash. What once breathed and boasted as alliances had crumbled under his retaliation. It hadn’t been elegant or charming.It wasn't supposed to be.It had all been effective.Stefano adjusted the cuffs of his suit as the steps lowered from the jet. He descended in silence, not the man who had fled his burning mansion, but the one who had risen from its ashes. Rome looked different now. It wasn't the city of wine, women, and hidden weapons anymore. It was the city where he would rebuild. The city where he would return to her.A black car waited. Inside it, Marco.Stefano slid into the p
SerenaThe warmth came first. And she felt it along her bare arms, trailing up her legs and along the curve of her spine. However, it wasn’t sunlight or the hum of electricity, it was busy heat from last night, coupled with a strong scent that wasn't hers.She woke up alone in her bed. But she remembered everything. The cold marble floors. Marco’s hands. His mouth. The tangle of clothes they never picked up. How his body had pressed against hers, hard and strong, and how she had fallen asleep wrapped up in his arms, her cheek resting on his chest as he breathed into her hair.She sat up slowly, the silk sheet slipping from her shoulders. Her thighs ached slightly from the night before. A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hair was a complete mess, her lips tender. There was a lazy soreness between her legs, the kind only one kind of night could leave behind.Then came the smell, and her nose flared.Something warm, buttery, and crisp. Bacon. Toast. Eggs. And the sharpne
Morozov Morozov stood at the edge of his private armory, fingers drumming against the table, eyes sharp and unblinking as he stared at the screen before him.His family. Their life in the hands of Stefano De Ricco.The image on the screen flickered slightly, grainy surveillance footage relayed from a drone his men had scrambled. But it was enough. He could see his son shifting in his sleep. His daughter curled up against her mother’s side. Lorenzo stood like a shadow behind them. A traitor. A coward.“You’ve seen enough,” said Sokolov, one of his lieutenants, standing nearby with a rifle strapped across his back.Morozov didn’t move for several seconds. His jaw clenched.“I’m not letting that bastard touch my son.”Sokolov said nothing.Morozov turned to the rest of his men gathered around the planning table. A dozen trained killers. All of them veterans of the cold operations from Syria to Serbia. They knew what had to be done.“We act like we’re surrendering,” Morozov said. “No wea
The kiss deepened until it was impossible to tell where her breath ended and his began.Serena gasped as Marco lifted her up effortlessly from the balcony railing, his hands firm around her waist. The sea roared below them, waves crashing like a private orchestra playing according to their intimate rhythm. Not like either of them could hear it though. The only sound Serena could register was the wild thump of her own heart and the slight, trembling exhale that left Marco’s lips as he laid her gently on the cold marble floor.The tiles beneath her were smooth, kissed by the moon and wind, but they were no match for the heat spreading beneath her skin.They were already halfway undressed.Her hair sprawled around her head like a halo, and her nightgown rode up with a single sweep of Marco’s hand. He hovered above her, shirtless now, eyes burning into hers as though trying to memorize this moment. Every breath, every movement, every inch of her counted.“Tell me to stop,” he said again,
The third night came colder than the first. Yet, they were no calls, no messages. Nothing. Just ear deafening stillness.Serena stared up at the ceiling above her bed, the soft Roman artwork now familiar and distant all at once. Red velvet sheets cocooned her, but they offered no warmth. The shadows on the walls stretched longer tonight, deeper, heavier.The silence was maddening. Stefano hadn’t reached out. Not even Marco had knocked or hovered nearby like he had the day before. It was as though the entire villa had become a breathing tomb with silk sheets and million-dollar paintings. A gilded cage in the middle of nowhere.The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 2:43 AM.She rose and abruptly got off the bed.Still wearing the satin nightgown, pale silver with lace that clung too softly to her healing skin, she padded barefoot across the warm wooden floor. The bandage along her ribs itched, but she didn’t care. Her thoughts buzzed louder than her pain.Through the winding hallw
There was little left of the captured Russian named Lorenzo Ivanovich, that looked human, by the time Stefano was done with him.He was bound to a metal chair inside a windowless room; concrete walls, blood-stained floor, and a single overhead light that flickered like it was trying to look away. Stefano leaned forward slowly, the barrel of his silenced Glock tapping Lorenzo’s knee in slow, deliberate beats.“You have two choices,” Stefano said, voice flat. “You take me to Morozov. Or I kill your family. One by one.”Lorenzo was missing three fingernails. His face was swollen, one eye sealed shut with blood and skin. But he still had enough strength to mutter something in Russian under his breath, something defiant.Stefano didn’t respond with words. He nodded to one of his men. A door opened.The screen flickered on the wall. Stefano had made sure of the setup beforehand; remote access to the feed, full surveillance. Lorenzo’s grandparents sat in their modest kitchen, visibly shaken.