《The Don’s Secret Obsession 》全部章節：第 21 章 - 第 30 章

Sofia’s POV I was in the library when Victor knocked. Not Luca’s knock — I was becoming fluent in the specific language of this house’s knocks and Victor’s was precise and unhurried in the way of someone who had been trained to announce himself without imposing. Two measured taps. Nothing further. I looked up from my book. “Come in.” Victor opened the door and stepped inside with the particular quality he carried everywhere — present without being intrusive, visible without drawing attention to the visibility. He had a large flat box under one arm and in his other hand a bouquet that made me sit up straighter. Flowers. Not a modest bunch. Not something picked up as an afterthought. A proper bouquet — deep red roses and something white and delicate woven between them, wrapped in dark paper and tied with a ribbon the color of burgundy, full and carefully arranged and smelling, from across the library, of something that made the room feel different. Vi

(This Chapter Contains Mature Content) The penthouse was on the top floor of a building in the center of Rome that announced itself quietly the way expensive things did — nothing shouting, everything saying. The private elevator ride up to Luca’s penthouse hummed with electric tension. The date had been perfect — intimate, candlelit, his hand never leaving hers. Sofia had worn the dark navy silk dress he’d gifted her that afternoon. Now, in the softly lit living room with the Milan skyline sparkling behind them, Luca pulled her close. His hands framed her face as he kissed her slowly, deeply. “You wore it for me,” he murmured, voice already rough. “God, you look incredible in this color.” His fingers found the zipper at her side. He dragged it down torturously slow, eyes locked on hers. “Tell me you want this, Sofia,” he said softly. “Tell me you’re ready for me to make you mine completely.” “I want you, Luca,” she whispered, breath shaky. “I’ve wanted

This Chapter Contains Mature Content And Is Not For Readers Lower Than 18. The entire previous day had passed in a haze of silk sheets, whispered confessions, and Luca’s insatiable hunger. Sofia had been deliciously sore, her body tender from being claimed so thoroughly. Luca had refused to let her leave the bed except for baths and meals he fed her himself. He’d taken her slowly in the afternoon, then again at night — gentler this time, but no less possessive. By morning, the ache between her thighs had softened into a warm, constant reminder of him. When Luca suggested they go shopping, Sofia had blushed but agreed. She wanted to feel normal for a few hours… even if nothing about being married to Luca was ever truly normal. Their first stop was an exclusive designer boutique in the heart of Milan. As soon as they entered, the manager recognized Luca and immediately ushered them into the private VIP suite at the back — a lavish room with plush seating, champagne, and a raise

Ezio Conti arrived at the Virelli estate at three o’clock precisely. Not one minute before. Not one minute after. Luca had been told this about him — that Ezio Conti considered punctuality the most basic form of respect and had maintained it for sixty five years without exception. That he had once left a meeting because the other party arrived four minutes late and had never rescheduled it. He arrived at three o’clock precisely and Luca met him at the door. This was intentional. Not Romano. Not Victor. Not a member of staff. Luca. Because Ezio Conti was old school in the way of men who had built their understanding of power before the current generation was born and who still believed that how you received someone told them everything they needed to know about how seriously you took them. Luca took Ezio Conti very seriously. The old Don came through the gate in a car that was understated in the specific way of someone who had nothing to prove —

Bianca’s POV The Marchetti estate had a specific quality in the days after something went wrong. She had grown up with it. Known it since childhood — the particular atmosphere of a house that was reorganizing itself around a wound. The staff moving more quietly. The doors closing with more care. The meals appearing and disappearing without the usual commentary. Everything functioning with the specific efficiency of people who understood that the man at the head of the house was in a state that required management and were managing it without being asked. Santino Marchetti did not rage. This was something people who didn’t know him failed to understand. They expected a man in his position — head of one of the three great families, publicly humiliated at a dinner table in front of witnesses — to rage. To break things. To fill rooms with the noise of his injury. He didn’t. He went quiet. He went to his study and he closed the door and he made calls in a v