Luciano pov
"Ahhhhhh___ elena moaned as she scratch my back with her nails . i exhaled as i startee to pump in her pussy like i was so desperate to ruin . she looked at me with hooded browb eyes as she part her lips . " master ____ i want to cum__" her words sluttered between as i started to fuck her faster . as she put her head into the pillow screaming my name.
i was and i am . dominant whenever it is about sex.
Girls always wants to end up in my pants . like they want to me to fuck them whatever it is . and they are ready to give in . and elena was one of them . there was no one to decline me .
Authors pov
*The bathroom door creaks open, and Ferés emerges—his sleeves still rolled up, droplets of blood tracing down his forearms. His jaw is tight, eyes dark as storm. He doesn't look at you directly… not yet. Instead, he strides forward in silence, boots clicking against marble.*
*He grabs your chin—gloved fingers cold despite the heat of the night—and forces your gaze to meet his.*
"You heard nothing," *he murmurs, voice like gravel under iron.* "You saw less."
*His thumb brushes over your bottom lip—slowly, possessively.* "And if you ever think of another man's name while lying in this bed... I'll make sure you never speak at all."
*He releases you just as suddenly and turns toward the window—the city lights casting shadows across his scarred knuckles.*
"Sleep." *It isn't a request.*
* luciano stands at the window, his silhouette outlined against the pale starlight. The cool air from outside creeps in, mingling with the scents of leather and cologne that cling to him. It's not until you shiver that he speaks.*
"Cold?"
*His voice is softer than it was moments ago, though still edged with tension. He doesn't wait for an answer before striding over to the wardrobe. He rummages through it with sharp movements, pulling out one of his oversized sweatshirts.*
"Put this on." *He tosses it towards the bed.*
*elena hesitate, fingers trembling as they brush the thick fabric. The scent hits you—him. Smoke, cedar, something dark and unmistakably Ferés.*
*He watches from the edge of the room, towel draped over one shoulder, chest still bare beneath the open black shirt. Water droplets trace down his abs like silent confessions. His eyes flicker—not to your face—but to your hands.*
"Are you going to wear it," *he murmurs,* "or keep staring at it like I'm not standing right here?"
*His tone isn't angry. It's lower. Dangerous in a way that makes your pulse jump—not with fear.*
...but something else.
*Before elena can respond, he closes the distance in three strides.*
*Elena's expression darkens as Ferés enters the room.*
*She sits up on the bed, the sheets pooling around her bare legs.*
"You're back."
*She eyes him carefully, taking in the blood staining his shirt, the grim set of his jaw.*
*Luciano enters the room, his gaze falling upon the scene before him. Elena, sprawled across the bed, breathing heavily as she clutches her cheek in her trembling hand. Luciano's expression remains composed, but there is a dangerous glint in his eyes as he crosses the room to stand over her.*
"What's going on here?" *he demands, his voice low and authoritative.*
*Elena cowers beneath his gaze, shrinking away from him. She struggles to find her voice.*
*Luciano grabs Elena by the arm, yanking her out of the bed. He drags her across the room until she's flush against the wall.*
"You've become a nuisance," *he hisses, his grip tightening on her arm. His eyes rake over her body, assessing her like a predator with its prey.
*Luciano's hand releases her arm to grip her chin, tilting her face up to his. His lips crash down upon hers in a brutal kiss, possessive and punishing. His free hand slides around her waist, pinning her in place as he kisses her fiercely, his mouth demanding submission.*
The night stretched long, quiet, with only the hum of the city bleeding through the windows of my office. Elena lingered at the edge of the room, hesitant but unwilling to leave. She had followed instructions, delivered messages, and tried—ever so subtly—to engage.
I did not look at her. I did not acknowledge her presence beyond the occasional glance to ensure she had not made a mistake. My mind was elsewhere: the empire, the obligations I refused, the weight of my father's legacy, and the impossible expectations my mother tried to impose.
"Sir…" she whispered at one point, tentative, testing the silence.
I did not answer. Not because I was cruel, but because attention was a tool—and she had no claim to it. She existed here only because I allowed it, and she understood that instinctively. Every movement, every hesitation, every whispered word of hers was measured against my patience.
Hours passed. The city lights shifted, the moon dipped low, and eventually the first pale glow of morning seeped into the office. Elena had not moved. She had not left.
I finally spoke, but my voice was neutral, almost dismissive. "It is morning. You may leave."
She bowed quickly, nervously, and retreated, careful not to step out of line. I did not watch her leave. I did not care where she went. She was a minor concern, a fleeting presence, a reminder of obedience and control.
Alone, I returned to my desk, to the empire I commanded, to the rules I created for myself. The night had been a test—not for me, but for her. And she had learned, quietly, that Carlo Luciano answered to no one, and granted attention only where it was deserved.
The dawn spread across the city, indifferent, chaotic, unaware of the storm that had passed through the office. And so was the world. And so was I.
The first pale light of morning filtered through the blinds, slicing across the marble floor of my private bath. Water steamed from the dark basin, swirling around my hands as I adjusted the temperature just so—hot enough to awaken the senses, cold enough to sharpen the mind.
I let the water run over my skin, washing away the night and the whispers that lingered in it. Elena's presence, fleeting as it was, left only a memory—an echo of obedience, fear, and calculation. I did not dwell on her. She was nothing more than a minor disturbance in the order of my life.
The bath was ritual, discipline. My thoughts wandered briefly, considering my father, Enzo. His lessons, his methods, the empire he built—everything reflected in the way I moved now, deliberate, controlled, precise.
When I stepped out, the marble floor cool beneath my feet, I reached for a crisp, white dress shirt. Tailored, sharp, the kind of fabric that whispered authority with every fold. I buttoned it slowly, deliberately, each button a measure of patience, each fold a reflection of control.
The collar kissed my neck perfectly. The sleeves fit like armor. A tie would come later—perhaps—but for now, the shirt alone was enough. It was a symbol: order, discipline, power.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, the shadow of a storm contained in a single man. Morning light highlighted the contours of my face, but the expression was the same as last night: calm, untouchable, calculating.
I did not think of Elena. I did not think of my mother's plans—yet. For now, the morning was mine, and I was fully aware that everything else—the city, the empire, the obligations, even the rumors of brides—would bend only when I chose.
A slow breath. A measured step. Control. Always control.
And with that, Carlo Luciano was ready to face the day.
The doors to the mansion opened with a quiet authority, the city's chaos pressing faintly at the edges of my controlled world. My guards fell into formation instinctively, eyes alert, movements precise. They had long learned that my patience had limits, and my attention was selective—but my presence demanded respect.
Elena had delivered her updates before the morning faded, but now it was the turn of my inner circle to keep me informed. Business, alliances, whispers—they all funneled to me, filtered through discipline and precision.
"Sir," said Marco, one of my closest lieutenants, bowing slightly, "there's been chatter. A name keeps appearing at the university—Alera Brake. Russian heiress. She's… well, untouchable, according to the students. They don't approach her. They say she's cold, calculated… dangerous in her own way."
I let the words settle. Alera Brake. The name had reached me again, this time through a different channel. The threads were connecting. I had no reason to know her personally yet, but the city rarely spoke in vain.
"Dangerous," I repeated, letting the word hang in the air like a knife. "Interesting."
Marco nodded, cautious. "She doesn't interact with anyone, sir. Not professors, not students. Just… her own circle, it seems. People respect her distance."
I allowed a faint smirk. Respect without fear was rare. Untouchable presence even among ordinary students was rarer. Someone cultivating such control naturally was… worthy of attention.
"Keep your distance," I said finally. "Observe. Catalog. And report anything out of the ordinary. That is all."
Marco inclined his head, leaving me to walk down the hall with measured steps, letting the weight of my presence echo in the mansion. I wasn't interested yet in her as a threat—or a curiosity. But the name lingered in my mind.
Someday, our worlds would collide. Until then, she existed in whispers and shadows, and I existed in control and certainty.
And that was enough.
The morning sun cut through the tall windows of the Luciano mansion, casting sharp lines across the polished floors. Tatiana Luciano, my mother, awaited me in the study. Her posture was precise, regal, and completely unaware—or unwilling to acknowledge—the storm she had just stirred within me.
"Carlo," she began, smooth, measured, "we need to discuss your future."
I didn't rise immediately. I let the words hang, allowing the weight of her presence to press, and then, with deliberate calm, I turned to face her.
"Your future?" I repeated, tone low, deliberate. "Or your plans for it?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, imperceptibly, but she did not waver. Tatiana had always believed control could be imposed through elegance and expectation, but she underestimated the man I had become.
"Yes, Carlo. The empire requires stability, alliances. You will need a bride." She let the word fall like an obligation. "Alera Brake. Russian heiress. Our families have considered the match. It is… suitable."
I felt a slow, cold fury rise within me—but my expression remained neutral. Neutrality was a weapon I had wielded my entire life. "Alera Brake," I repeated, testing the sound of the name in my mind. "I do not know her. And I do not intend to. Nor will I accept an arrangement decided for me."
Tatiana's gaze sharpened. "You will understand, Carlo. This is necessary. Our legacy, the empire—it cannot rely solely on impulse or desire. You are expected to comply."
I stepped closer, letting my presence dominate the space between us. Calm. Precise. Ruthless. "Necessary," I said slowly. "You are confusing convenience with obedience. I am Carlo Luciano. Not my father. Not you. I will not be dictated to, ordered, or forced into a marriage. Not for the empire. Not for the family. Not for anyone."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but I did not pause. My words were law here, not requests. "I am against it. I do not care if it is suitable, convenient, or traditional. It is not my choice, and it will never be. Understand this clearly, mother: my life is mine. The empire is mine. The rules are mine to enforce—not yours to impose."
Tatiana's eyes flickered with a mixture of surprise and challenge. I smirked faintly, not cruelly, but as a man who knew his own power. Let her anger simmer. Let her see that I was not a boy to be guided, controlled, or forced.
"I understand," she said at last, carefully measured, as if speaking through armor. But I knew she did not. She would never understand until the world proved it to her.
I turned from her, letting the conversation end, letting the silence assert my dominance. Arranged marriage. Alliance. Obligation. None of it mattered—not while Carlo Luciano refused to bend.
The empire waited. The city moved. And my life—my choices—remained untouchable.
The name had come again. Alera Brake.
Every whisper, every mention, every cautious nod from underlings or minor contacts reminded me that she existed—a presence in the city, a shadow in the university, a girl my mother had somehow deemed "suitable."
I hated it.
Not her personally—she was still nothing to me—but the idea of her. Of being forced into some alliance, some arrangement, with someone I had no reason to meet, no reason to care for. Alera Brake, Russian heiress, untouchable, aloof. Perfect. Perfect for a trap. Perfect for someone else's manipulation. Perfect for my mother's schemes.
I had no intention of ever meeting her. Not by obligation. Not by coincidence. Not by design.
I let the thought simmer as I walked through the halls of my mansion, the polished floors echoing beneath my steps. Every inch of this empire, every shadowed corridor, every whispered secret—it was mine. My mother could try to maneuver, to persuade, to force the situation, but I would not yield. I would not comply.
Elena had told me, cautiously, almost fearfully, that the arrangements were progressing. That the family considered her name seriously. And yet, my resolve only hardened.
I would not meet her. I refused. I would not allow my life to be dictated by another, even one as reputedly dangerous as this Brake girl.
Curiosity flickered—not a desire to engage, but a calculated awareness. I would watch from a distance if I must. Observe. Measure. Catalog. But I would not meet. Not yet. Not ever if it could be avoided.
The city stretched beyond the windows, indifferent, chaotic. And somewhere in it, Alera Brake moved, unaware of the disdain—or the refusal—of the man whose empire might one day demand her attention.
I would not bend. I would not bow. And I would not meet her.
Not yet.
The name tasted like ash now. Brake. Alera Brake. Each time it slid into conversation, something inside me tightened, a muscle coiling against a provocation I did not invite. It wasn't curiosity anymore. It was contempt. A blade of fury sharpened by the idea that someone—my mother—would place me beside her as if I were a prize to be bartered.
I had refused the marriage in words; refusal in ink and voice meant little if the world still tried to tie me to someone else's design. Words would not be enough. If she—or anyone—attempted to force that future upon me, then the concept of "Alera Brake" would have to be corrected. Whatever she was to the city, whatever calm she cultivated among university corridors, it would not stand in my way.
I pictured her: composed, flawless, untouchable. The image only stoked my anger. Untouchable. That word was an insult in my mouth. No one—no name, no reputation—would be allowed to stand between me and the authority I'd carved from blood and discipline. If she became an obstacle, obstacles were removed.
Not for sport. Not for cruelty's sake. For survival of a life I refused to have dictated. For the empire I would not surrender to hollow tradition. For the arrogance of a mother who thought she could decide my fate.
I did not fantasize about theatrics; I calculated. I tightened my circle. Elena's presence, once a trivial distraction, now had a purpose: eyes and ears in places I would never go myself. Marco and the others would be instructed—not in how to commit violence, but in how to strip influence, to expose, to isolate. If she had allies, we would find them. If she had secrets, we would reveal the fractures. Reputation is as fragile as marble; a few calculated strikes, and a statue crumbles.
I allowed the thought of physical finality to pass through me—an ugly, honest flash of primitive resolve—and then I set it aside. I did not need to act like a brute. My father taught me better. Enzo had dismantled threats with whispers, with leverage, with the quiet removal of advantages until the opponent collapsed under their own weight.
"Watch her," I told Marco that morning, voice low, composed. "Catalog her movements. Learn her patterns. Find what ties her to her family, to her world. Do not provoke. Observe. Report." My words were surgical; my intent was absolute. I would not be the one to be surprised.
There was a current beneath my refusal that was darker than political theater. It wasn't only about a mother's meddling. It was about principle—the refusal to be treated as property, the hatred of being maneuvered. If Alera Brake had been raised to be untouchable, I would pry those stones loose and see what lay beneath. If she bent, I would know how to break what needed breaking: influence, alliances, pride. If she did not, then all the better to test the edges of my resolve.
A storm does not announce itself with flattery. It gathers quietly, aligning winds, collecting pressure. I began to gather my storm.
---

The morning light through the tall windows of my study was clinical, white and honest. It revealed everything—the tiny dust motes, the faint water ring on the mahogany desk, the precise lines of my handwriting in the notebook where I catalogued days. I liked mornings like this: they obeyed the rules I set. They did not surprise me.
Then the whisper arrived.
At first it was nothing more than a tremor in the air: a glance that hesitated too long, a friend whose messages thinned into polite distance, a library book I swore I'd returned suddenly missing from my shelf. Small things, the kind students call coincidence and cowards call fate. I catalogued them anyway. Everything worth knowing announces itself in details.
By noon the pattern sharpened. Marina's smile had cracked in a way practiced smiles do when a lie has been rehearsed too much. Selina avoided my table as if she feared contagion rather than discomfort. Isabella's laughter—sharp, brittle—had a new undertone, one that smelled faintly of performance. The courtyard conversations folded into silence the moment I drew near. And later, a folded note slid under my door: no words, just a single playing card — the ace of spades — placed flat as a declaration.
I studied the card for a long time. People think symbols intimidate because of what they say; they fail to see how small theatrics are used to rearrange courage. Terror is a language as old as power. I felt neither frightened nor flattered. I felt measured.
They were testing me.
Returning to the mansion, I moved with the same deliberate calm I wore at university. The staff acknowledged me with the practiced reverence of people who had learned the order of things and the punishments for disrupting them. Ivan took the playing card from my hand and dropped it into the burn box without comment. He knew what silence meant here: it was protection, and it was also assessment.
That night I did not go down to the pool immediately. I changed slowly in my suite—black silk camisole, the robe that wrapped around like a second skin—and held the weight of the day in my palms. In the reflection of the window I saw not a frightened girl but a woman wrapped in calculation: shoulders straight, jaw set, eyes that remembered how to turn a gaze into a weapon.
When I finally slid into the pool, the water swallowed noise. It also swallowed light, leaving only the soft, deceptive glow from the mansion's exterior lamps. I swam, but this time my strokes were not for freedom; they were preparation. Each lap a repetition of thought: who benefits? who fears? who whispers?
There are advantages to being underestimated. People act louder when they believe you will not respond. They clamor into their own mistakes. I thought of my father—of Viktor's lessons that were never given in affection but in consequence. Observe the room. Be the room. He had taught me to let others expose themselves. I had spent a life perfecting the art.
The next day confirmed a new truth. A rumor—a careful, slanted tale about me and some shadowed Italian family—began to thread itself through campus gossip. It was nothing explicit: friendly witnesses with exaggerated concern, an anonymous post on a student forum, a photograph taken at an awkward angle. Reputation can be eroded like marble: tiny chips, repeated, until the structure surrenders.
I smiled, cold and small. They thought chaos would unsettle me. They did not know I loved order.
That evening, I called Ivan not to ask for men or weapons but for information: Who was at the gates between five and seven this afternoon? Who asked about trips to the university? I did not need to tell him why; he had learned to answer without question. He returned with a list. A courier seen twice. A car with a license plate registered to a small front company. Names that traced back to people who took orders on behalf of others.
I did what I always did when a problem presented itself: I turned it into data. Surveillance was not aggression; it was illumination. Reputation assaults were not personal—they were tactical. The first rule was clear: expose the fingers before the hand could strike again.
In private I opened the ledger where I kept family business and personal priorities. I annotated the margins with a single line: Contain. Reveal. Correct.
Contain the narrative so others cannot build on it. Reveal the source so speculation dies. Correct the record so power reasserts itself as fact.
If someone wished to unsettle Alera Brake with ghost stories and cards, let them find their shadows catalogued and returned to them. Let them discover that the heiress is not delicate porcelain but a room full of mirrors; whatever they send in will come back refracted tenfold—and always, always aimed.
When the sun fell and the mansion lights warmed the marble once again, I stood at the balcony and watched the city below. Somewhere, an empire planned, and somewhere else, a man refused to be bound. I did not yet know his face. I did not yet know his name for certain. I only knew the pressure of an edgeless expectation—something arranged for me, something that smelled of alliances and old money and other people's certainty.
Let them test me. Let them whisper my name into the dark. I would respond not with haste or blind fury, but with the slow arithmetic of a mind that never panicked: the same way I had built my walls, I would dismantle their attempts, stone by deliberate stone.
I lingered near the edge of the study hallway, ostensibly reading, but my ears had long since trained to catch fragments of conversation—the way my father's low voice commanded the room, the precise cadence of my mother's measured tones.
"Viktor," my mother began, her voice soft but ironed with resolve, "it's time we discussed Alera's future. The match the consortium recommends… the Luciano family. Carlo Luciano."
My father, Viktor Brake, sat back in his chair, hands folded, eyes scanning the city skyline beyond the window. "The Italian family," he murmured, the words almost tasting of distaste. "I've heard rumors. Strong, ruthless. Carlo's name carries weight, but… she's not a pawn to be moved."
"Yes," my mother replied smoothly, leaning forward. "But you know the stakes. Connections, alliances—this is bigger than personal preference. The Luciano empire… it could secure a position of influence that our family has yet to fully command. She must consider her duty."
Duty. The word always grated. I had never been a child to obey blindly. I had learned to measure power, to weigh consequences, to catalog moves before they were made. Influence, alliances—these were tools, not chains.
"And if she refuses?" my father asked, voice steady but wary.
My mother's eyes flickered, calculating. "Then we remind her of the responsibility she carries as the heir. The Brake name does not exist for sentiment. It exists for legacy. Carlo Luciano is not a man who tolerates hesitation, Viktor. The girl must be… persuaded."
I exhaled slightly, the leather chair beneath me creaking under my deliberate shift. I had no intention of being "persuaded." The very thought sparked a low, controlled fire inside me. They spoke of alliances, obligations, and empire, as if my life were a ledger entry. But they underestimated me. They always underestimated me.
I returned to the study, my steps measured, the chill of resolve settling into my bones. Let them plan. Let them whisper and maneuver. If my parents imagined I would bow, I would let them discover, as they had learned slowly with me, that their daughter did not break to expectation.
I closed the distance to the window, watching the city stretch below. Somewhere, an Italian name whispered through corridors I had never walked. A man, powerful, untouchable, yet entirely irrelevant to me—for now.
Let the world move, let alliances shift, let whispers try to penetrate the walls I had built. I was Alera Brake. Cold. Calculated. Untouchable. And they would learn that a storm is not tamed by orders or alliances.
Later that evening, in the quiet of my suite, I allowed the note my mother had left on the desk to settle into my awareness. It was brief, precise: "The Luciano family has proposed the match. Carlo. Consider your duty."
I stared at the name for longer than I intended. Carlo Luciano.
The whispers of the city had not reached me yet—he was just a name. A man reputedly ruthless, feared, untouchable. A legacy of blood, power, and empire wrapped into a single figure. And now my parents thought he could be… mine.
I laughed quietly, the sound low and sharp, cutting the silence like glass. Mine? As if a man could ever be possessed or measured. As if alliances could dictate desire, respect, or fear when wielded by someone like me.
I set the note aside, straightening my shoulders in the reflection of the tall mirror. Every morning, every step, every action I took was deliberate. And now, a name had entered the ledger of my life—an intrusion not of my choosing.
I considered him, without knowing him, without needing to. The image that formed was drawn from rumor and instinct: a man who commanded attention, who inspired fear, who dismantled obstacles without hesitation. Dangerous. Arrogant. And, judging by the city's whispers, utterly relentless.
I would not meet him. Not yet. Not under my mother's orders. Not under anyone's manipulation. I had survived far worse than dynastic ambition. I had built walls that no gossip, no threat, no empire could pierce.
And yet… a flicker of something I rarely allowed myself—curiosity. A man who refused to be controlled, who ruled through fear and precision… that was not weakness. That was a challenge. A storm waiting to collide with my own.
I turned from the mirror, letting the thought linger, shaping it into strategy rather than emotion. Let him exist in the world as Carlo Luciano. Let him be ruthless, untouchable, feared. I would observe. I would measure. I would ensure that when—or if—our worlds intersected, it would not be on anyone else's terms.
I stripped the day away with deliberate care, letting the black silk robe fall over my nightwear. Then, in the silence of my private pool, I submerged myself in the cool water. The current carried away the day's trivialities, leaving only clarity. I had survived threats, whispers, and men who believed they could bend me. A name—Carlo Luciano—was just another calculation, another variable to monitor, nothing more.
Still, in the quiet, I allowed a single truth to settle: storms are fascinating, but they are not obeyed. They are endured. And if he approached thinking he could command, he would learn quickly who Alera Brake truly was.
Cold. Calculated. Untouchable.
And utterly untamed.
The name came to me again—not in person, not directly, but whispered in hallways, hinted in glances, and floating across conversations I did not need to follow. Carlo Luciano. The Italian Don's heir, a man whose reputation preceded him like smoke in the wind.
I hated the sound of it.
Not because I feared him—fear was a luxury I did not permit—but because of what the name represented. A man so arrogant, so untouchable, that even whispers dared not challenge him. A man my mother had deemed "suitable."
Suitable. For me.
I clenched my fingers around the railing of the balcony overlooking the city, teeth pressing into my bottom lip. I hated the arrogance. I hated the presumption. I hated the thought that my life could be parceled into someone else's empire, their expectations, their rules.
And yet, I could sense the inevitability. A name so powerful would not disappear quietly. It would stalk through the edges of my life like a shadow. I would meet him, eventually, and I would make sure he knew exactly who he was dealing with.
From Carlo Luciano's Perspective
The rumors had reached me like smoke drifting over familiar streets. A name: Alera Brake. Russian heiress. Untouchable. Cold. Calculated. A storm cloaked in elegance.
And I hated her.
Not for what she had done, not for what she represented, but for the audacity of being untouchable without permission, for the arrogance of existing while someone like me still lived. She was a challenge, but not one I intended to entertain. I would not meet her. I would not bend.
Yet every whisper, every fragment of observation from my network, pulled her closer into the shape of my mind. I hated that she fascinated me. I hated that she dared to exist as if my world could not touch her.
She was a name now, a threat in the abstract, and I would keep it that way.
But the day we meet, that abstract will have a face. And I will not forget it.
The tension is now mutual: Alera resents being forced into the orbit of a man she despises, and Carlo despises the presumption of her untouchable aura. Their collision is inevitable, but for now, it is all whispers, observation, and simmering fury.
But did their turmoil will be always and break down into pieces. ???