Sunset bled crimson across Slumberland's skyline, painting Vitale Tower in molten gold as I paced Luca's penthouse like a caged panther. The rose tattoo hummed contentedly on my hip, a constant reminder of my new reality—queen to the Mafia King, estranged from Daddy's empire, whispers of Rossi's shaky truce echoing in every shadow. Lila recovered in a safehouse, guards tripled, but tension coiled tighter than last night's sheets. Luca stood by the panoramic windows, phone pressed to ear, barking Italian orders—voice steel, but eyes softened when they found me. "Handle it. No mistakes." Click. Turned, sleeves rolled, scars glinting. "Dinner, amore. You need strength."
Strength. After yacht chaos, family standoff, I craved normalcy. "Not hungry." Stomach growled traitorously.
He chuckled, low rumble warming me despite everything. "Liar. Come." Kitchen gleamed—black marble, pro chef-grade, untouched by takeout kings. Apron tied, he moved fluid—chopping garlic, heirloom tomatoes from his private rooftop garden (who knew?), simmering sauce that filled air with basil heaven. "Nonna's recipe. Sat here when Pa died, cooking for siblings. Kept us alive." Shared scars, now recipes. No guns, just garlic press.
Sat barstool, chin on hands, mesmerized. Luca Vitale—ruthless empire-builder—whisked eggs one-handed, tasting spoon to my lips. "Too salt?" Eyes earnest, seeking approval. Shook head, heart melting. "Perfect."
Plates steaming: handmade ravioli, stuffed crab, sauce hugging curves like his hands did me. Candles flickered; no guards intruding. "Eat." Forked bite, fed me first—gentle, reverent. Stories flowed: childhood Slumberland streets, stealing bread but sharing with orphans; first kill defending sister, haunted eyes even then. "Not proud. Necessary. But power protects now." Vulnerability cracked king's armor—green flag waving.
"Protects *me*?" Teased, twirling pasta.
"Always." Hand covered mine, thumb circling wedding-ring finger. "Rose chose queen worthier than throne."
Post-dinner glow: couch snuggled, his arm anchor. Movie queued—*Roman Holiday*, my guilty teen favorite. "Audrey's free spirit. Like you." No mafia flicks; understood my escapism. Halfway, paused: "Cold?" Blanket draped, body heat shared. Kissed forehead, not demanding—just there.
Midnight call shattered peace—Rossi underling defecting, intel on next hit. Luca tensed; I braced for absence. Instead: "Stay. Watch." Laptop opened; calls routed through me—*"Miss Moretti, confirm docks clear?"* Guided his decisions, voice steady. Praised after: "Natural queen. Safer empires with you." Trusted my instincts, no alpha override.
Dawn patrol: insisted tagging warehouse check. Armored SUV convoyed docks—me shotgun, bulletproof vest snug (fitted personally, "for my flame"). No coddling; explained routes, rival signals, escape vectors. At site: goons tensed seeing me; Luca silenced with glance. "She's second-in-command." Respect rippled. Inspected shipments—artifacts, not drugs (his line: "Trade power, not poison"). Caught kid goon pocketing cash; Luca didn't rage—instead, knelt eye-level: "Family man? Take double, loyal. Steal again, walk." Kid teared up, swore oath. Mercy with muscle.
Return: charity drop. Unmarked van to Slumberland slums—Luca's secret fund, orphanages, clinics. No press, no glory. Hands-on: unloaded rice crates himself, ruffled kids' hair, slipped envelopes to single moms. "Pa gone, Nonna fed streets. Cycle breaks here." One girl, my age, clutched doll—reminded me pre-rose Aria. Luca noticed: "Like you, fierce eyes." Donated college fund on spot, anonymous. Greenest flag: king who built from shadows he once haunted.
Lunch: rooftop garden—his oasis amid concrete jungle. Tomatoes ripe, herbs fragrant. "Therapy," admitted, hands soil-stained. Planted seedlings together—fingers tangled dirt, laughter free. "You heal concrete too." Vulnerability again: "Lost Ma young. Garden remembers her scent." Kiss under trellis, slow sweet—no frenzy, just *us*.
Afternoon storm: tabloids exploded—*Enchantment Missing? Moretti Heiress Vanishes!* Daddy's PR spin. Phone buzzed his line; ignored. Luca: "Handle together?" Conference call—his hacker masked location, fed false trails. My input shaped statement: *"Aria exploring passions. Family supported."* Protected my image, no mafia mention. "Your name stays gold."
Evening crisis: Lila's safehouse breached—minor scout, no harm. Luca mobilized fury; I suggested decoy. "Smart. Run it." Plan executed flawlessly—scout captured, spilled Rossi plots. Victory debrief: takeout pizza (his guilty plebe), feet tangled couch. "Could've lost her. You saved."
Night deepened intimacy—not lust-first. Bath drawn—scented oils, bubbles. Undressed slow, reverent: "Beautiful, every mark mine." Washed my hair, massaged scalp—king serving queen. Tub shared: back to chest, his stories whispered—dreams beyond crime, legit resorts post-truce. "For us. Kids running gardens." Future painted soft.
Bed: candlelit slow-burn. Explored mapping—kisses tracing scars, learning stories. "This?" Finger bullet wound.
"Rossi, years back." Voice steady. "Protecting what's mine." Me on top, guiding pace—empowered, cherished. Peaks built waves, not crashes—shared, eyes locked. "Ti amo," breathed post-glow. Real. Green flag: love beyond possession.
Morning revelation: Daddy summoned—neutral café. Luca drove, hand interlaced. "Your terms." Café quaint; Christ arrived weary. Standoff thawed—Luca: "Debts cleared. Aria chooses." No threats; respect. Daddy glimpsed king's light: "Protect her." Handshake genuine.
Slumlord buzzed—Rossi summit tomorrow. Luca prepped warily; I trained beside—guns steady now. "Proud," murmured range-kiss.
Yet shadows lingered: Lila's odd texts (*Know more than say*), rose pulsing warnings. Prophecy deeper? Luca's garden mercy masked iron will when crossed.
But tonight, king shone emerald—protector, builder, lover true. Enchantment found throne worth ascending.
Green flags bloomed brighter than thorns.