Chapter 11

The quiet hum of the engine was the only sound between them as the city lights slipped past the windows. Emilia sat turned slightly toward the glass, her breath fogging it faintly, the sparkle of the night’s glamour still clinging to her dress, but not to her expression. She was silent, still. Luca kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap—relaxed in posture, but his jaw tight.

Finally, he spoke.

“You were scared of me.” His voice was low, not accusing—just observant, and maybe a little resigned.

She didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to her briefly, then back to the road.

“You flinched,” he added. “Even after what I did. Even though it wasn’t for you.”

Emilia let out a long breath, as if the question had been lingering in the car for miles, waiting for her to find the right shape for it.

“I wasn’t scared because you shot him,” she said. “I was scared because you didn’t hesitate.”

He looked at her again. Her eyes were on the passing dark, but her voice was steady. “You pulled the trigger like it meant nothing. Like it was breathing.”

He didn’t respond, but something shifted in his posture—a tiny tightening.

“And Isadora?” He asked “why did seem so concerned after?”

Emilia said slowly, “because she recognized the look in my eyes. Because she saw me—” She hesitated, pressing her lips together.

“She knew I’d seen it before.”

Now she turned to face him fully, her voice quieter.

“My sister. Adriana. She was twelve. We were at the park. I watched a man walk up and shot her in the head while she was eating ice cream.”

Silence swallowed the car like fog. Even the sound of the engine seemed far away.

“She didn’t die right away,” Emilia added, voice barely audible now. “So yeah, Isadora helped. Because she knew that kind of thing doesn’t just stay in the past.”

Luca didn’t speak. His knuckles had gone white on the wheel.

The driveway lights came into view ahead of them, casting a soft glow over the gravel path as the house loomed into sight.

As he pulled up and killed the engine, Emilia leaned back, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“I don’t scare easy anymore,” she said flatly. “Not after that.”

She paused with her hand on the door, glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Besides,” she said with a faint, ironic curve of her mouth, “you get used to the mafia life eventually.”

Then she opened the door and stepped out into the night, heels clicking on the stone as the heavy front doors swung open ahead.

Luca stayed in the car a moment longer, staring at the place where she’d been sitting, her words still hanging in the space between them like smoke.

The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that felt like a verdict. Emilia didn’t bother turning on the lights. The moon spilled across the marble floor from the balcony, silver and cold, and it was enough. She slipped off her heels and let the silence devour her footsteps as she walked toward the bathroom.

Steam curled quickly from the showerhead once the water was on. She didn’t wait for it to heat fully—just stepped in, dress and all, letting the chill pierce her before it warmed. Her hair clung to her face. Mascara streaked black trails down her cheeks, hidden in the spray.

It started as a shudder in her chest. Then a breath that caught. Then the sob came—sudden and deep, torn from someplace she didn’t know still hurt.

Five years. Five years of running, of hiding, of clawing her way into something clean. And now—back. Just like that. Like it was never over.

Isadora.

Her sister hadn’t even smiled when she saw her. No warmth, no relief. Just that same cold calculation she always wore like perfume. Emilia had dreamed of that reunion so many times—different outcomes, better ones. But Isadora hadn’t changed. If anything, she looked more at home here than ever.

And me?

But the tears kept coming, and the water mixed with them until she couldn’t tell what was hers and what wasn’t.

The cruelest part was, she wasn’t afraid. Not of the guns. Not of the blood. Not even of Luca.

Especially not Luca.

Her fingers curled into fists against the tile. God help me, she thought, I want him.

The way his hand had slid around her waist at the ball, possessive but reverent. The way their bodies had fit together so perfectly, like he knew her rhythm before she even moved. The world had watched them in that moment—a power couple, she thought with a breathless laugh. As if they were born to rule something dark together.

She hated how true it felt.

A noise behind the glass jolted her. The door. She turned, heart thudding—but it was him.

Luca.

He stepped into the shower, clothes still on, soaked within seconds. His hands went to her arms gently, not pulling, not forcing. Just there.

Her lip trembled, but no sound came out.

His hands came to her cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears or maybe just the water. He looked at her like he was trying to figure out what part of her he’d broken.

“I thought I could protect her too” he said, voice low. “But maybe I just failed again at my second chance.”

Her body folded toward him without permission. And he caught her like he always would—arms strong around her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. He stepped out of the shower with her in his arms, water dripping everywhere, and carried her to the bed, laying her down with a care that made her want to cry all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “From the moment I heard you speak I knew you weren’t your sister. I shouldn’t have stretched this whole thing out for this long.”

“I was already here,” she murmured. “This was the closest I had come to my sister.”

And for once, there were no more words between them. Just the sound of breath, of water on skin, and the undeniable ache of two people who didn’t know if they were a tragedy or a beginning.

“I want you. Now.” She said, her voice still low but steady, demanding but begging also.

Luca hovered above her, his chest bare, soaked shirt forgotten on the floor. His eyes searched hers like he was looking for a reason to stop—but he wouldn’t find one. Not tonight. Not in her.

Emilia's fingers brushed along his jaw, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest.

“Luca,” she whispered, “don’t treat me like I’m fragile. I’m not.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then leaned down, lips brushing hers. “You are,” he said quietly, “but I’ll break with you.”

And then he kissed her.

Deep. Full. And this time there was no hesitation.

His body pressed into hers with purpose, not force—heat unfurling between them like smoke. Her back arched instinctively beneath him, drawing him closer, closer, until there was nothing between them but skin and breath and need.

Clothes slipped away—her wet dress peeled down her frame with his help, delicate as silk falling from a rose. His fingers brushed over her hips, the soft slope of her waist, her thighs, and it was like he was committing every inch of her to memory. Not just as a lover—but as someone he could lose.

Luca was inside her, but it wasn’t just their bodies that moved—it was their pasts, their pain, their unspoken promises tangled into the rhythm.

He rocked into her with slow, deliberate control, like he wanted to worship her, not rush her. And Emilia, beneath him, opened herself completely—not just her body, but her soul.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

She was afraid of how much she needed him.

How he touched her like she wasn’t something broken, but something powerful. Something meant to be devoured.

Her hands slipped up his back, nails grazing lightly down his spine, and he groaned—a deep, guttural sound that came from somewhere primal.

He pressed his forehead to hers, bodies locked, sweat slick between them, and murmured her name like a sacred thing.

“Emilia…”

She caught his face in her hands. “Don’t hold back.”

Something in his restraint cracked. She saw it in his eyes.

And then he kissed her like he was starving.

Their bodies moved faster now, grinding together with a raw urgency—still tender, but burning hotter. His lips trailed down her throat, to the soft hollow at the base of her neck. He lingered there, tasting her skin, feeling her pulse thrum wildly beneath his mouth.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered.

“I do,” she breathed, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “Because it’s what you do to me too.”

He growled softly and rolled them suddenly, taking her with him, placing her on top of him. She gasped as she straddled him, breathless, hair wild and wet, curves glistening under the soft moonlight still spilling in through the windows.

“Take what you want,” he said, voice rough, eyes dark with something close to worship. “I’ll give you all of it.”

And she did.

Emilia moved above him like she owned him—slow and intentional at first, her hands on his chest, his name on her lips. He gripped her hips, guiding her, reverent and undone all at once. Their eyes never left each other’s.

In that moment, it wasn’t about dominance. It wasn’t about power.

It was about belonging.

Her pace quickened, both of them chasing the edge together, hearts thundering. He sat up, arms around her, their mouths crashing again, chests pressed tight.

The climax took them both like a wave breaking on the shore—violent, beautiful, whole. She cried out his name; he groaned hers into her neck, holding her like a man drowning clings onto something to stay afloat

Neither of them moved for a long while—bodies tangled, limbs still trembling, breath rising and falling in the dark. The world outside no longer existed. No ball. No mafia. No blood. No Isadora.

Just skin. Just sighs. Just this.

Emilia lay beneath Luca, legs still wrapped around him, her fingers running absently through the damp strands of his hair. He hadn’t pulled away, not even an inch. His forehead rested against hers, his breath warm and uneven.

“I didn’t know it could be like that,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion.

“Like what?” he asked softly.

“Like…” Her thumb brushed his jaw. “Like I’m not just being touched—but seen.”

Luca’s eyes fluttered closed at her words. “You’ve always been seen. You just stopped believing anyone could look that deep.”

She swallowed hard. “I forgot what it was like… to want to be known.”

His lips found hers again—softer this time, with something deeper beneath it. Not hunger. Devotion.

“I’ll never un-know you now,” he said, like it was a promise.

And then he started again.

Not with urgency.

With intention.

He kissed her with his whole soul, his whole body. His hands trailed down her sides, across her thighs, up again to her ribs, slow as the turning of stars. He shifted down her body, his mouth exploring her like he needed to learn every detail by heart: her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip between her hips.

She gasped, hips arching toward him, but he wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t chasing release. He was worshipping her.

“You’re killing me,” she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.

“No,” he murmured against her skin. “I’m bringing you back to life.”

Then his lips found the softest, most sacred part of her.

And he took his time.

Her fingers clenched the sheets, her body arching off the bed. She moaned, low and breathless, head falling back. He moved slowly—so slowly—his hands anchoring her thighs, his mouth learning the rhythm of her body like music.

She didn’t come apart quickly.

It built like thunder.

A rising storm of pleasure and disbelief and emotion that stole every breath. When she shattered, she sobbed his name, clutching at him like he was the only solid thing left in a world that had never been gentle.

And when he rose over her again, sliding inside her with exquisite care, it wasn’t need.

It was oneness.

Their bodies moved as one, slow and aching. Their eyes never broke. She saw everything in his gaze—his pain, his protection, his fear that he’d tainted something too good for him. And she showed him—through her kiss, her hands, her moans—that he hadn’t.

He completed her.

Their final climax came quietly, like a prayer. Not wild. Not fast. Just full. Just complete. Like a lock clicking into place.

Afterward, she curled into his chest, pressing her ear to his heartbeat.

They didn’t speak.

Because there were no words for what they had just become.

And outside that room, the world waited—cold, cruel, complicated.

But in here, wrapped in his arms, breathing as one…

Emilia knew she had just fallen.

Not into danger.

Not into ruin.

But into love.

And this time, there was no turning back.