Luciano De Luca had always believed that control was a choice.
A discipline. A skill sharpened through years of blood, strategy, and ruthless decisions. Control was what separated kings from corpses. It was why men feared him, why alliances held, why his name alone could end conversations.
Tonight, control felt like a lie.
He stood in the shadowed corner of his office, fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn't touched in over an hour, staring out at the city like it might offer answers. It didn't. The lights below blurred into meaningless patterns because his thoughts were not on territory, rivals, or upcoming negotiations.
They were on Elena Michaelson.
That realization alone infuriated him.
She was not supposed to occupy space in his head. She was collateral. A reminder of a debt. A responsibility, nothing more. And yet, since the moment her lips had parted beneath his, since the heat of her body had pressed into his, something fundamental inside him had shifted.
He had tasted defiance before.
But never like hers.
Across the mansion, Elena sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn close, staring at the door as if it might open on its own. Her heart still raced, echoing with the memory of Luciano's voice-low, restrained, dangerously honest.
I don't know how to stop wanting you.
The words replayed again and again, each repetition settling deeper into her chest. She had spent weeks convincing herself she was merely surviving, merely enduring his world. But that kiss had changed the rules.
Luciano De Luca did not kiss without intent.
And intent was never harmless.
Morning arrived wrapped in tension.
Luciano barely slept. When he did, Elena followed him into his dreams-her eyes steady, unafraid, challenging him without words. He woke before dawn, jaw clenched, body tight with frustration he refused to acknowledge.
By the time the mansion stirred awake, he was already dressed, composed, mask firmly back in place.
No one would know.
Except Elena.
She felt his presence before she saw him.
The hallway was quiet, bathed in pale morning light, when the air shifted. It always did when Luciano entered a space. A subtle tightening. A pressure that made breathing feel deliberate.
He stood at the far end of the corridor, speaking quietly to one of his men. His posture was relaxed, casual, but his eyes were sharp, scanning, always aware.
Then they landed on her.
And didn't move.
Elena didn't lower her gaze.
She had learned something dangerous the night before: looking away gave him control. Holding his gaze unsettled him.
So she held it.
Luciano dismissed the man beside him with a flick of his fingers, his attention never leaving her. The echo of footsteps faded, leaving only the two of them suspended in silence.
"You're awake early," he said.
"So are you," she replied.
A faint muscle ticked in his jaw.
They walked in silence toward the dining room, not together but aware of each other in a way that felt intimate and exposed. Guards nodded as Luciano passed. Their eyes flicked to Elena, then away, uncertain.
That was new.
Luciano noticed.
And he didn't like it.
Breakfast was a performance.
Luciano took his seat at the head of the table, posture composed, expression unreadable. Elena sat several chairs away, aware of every movement he made, every subtle shift of his attention.
He spoke of business. Of shipments. Of territories.
But every so often, his gaze flicked to her.
Lingering.
Assessing.
Possessive.
Elena pretended not to notice, even as her pulse betrayed her.
When she reached for her glass, his eyes followed the movement of her hand. When she crossed her legs, his jaw tightened.
He was watching.
And she knew it.
After breakfast, he summoned her without words.
Just a look.
Just a pause.
Just expectation.
She followed.
The study door closed behind them with a soft, final click. Luciano moved toward the desk, loosening his cufflinks, movements precise but restless. Elena remained near the door, refusing to shrink back, refusing to apologize for existing.
"You're testing me," he said without turning.
"I'm breathing," she replied. "You're the one reacting."
He turned then, slowly, eyes dark and dangerous.
"You think this gives you leverage," he said.
"I think it makes you human," she whispered.
Silence fell hard between them.
Luciano stepped closer.
One step.
Then another.
"You don't get to decide what I am," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed. "But I get to see it."
His gaze dropped to her lips for half a second.
That was all it took.
Luciano felt it the instant it happened-the shift inside him, sharp and irreversible. One look. One unguarded second where Elena stood too close, her chin lifted in quiet defiance, her eyes meeting his without apology.
Something inside him fractured.
He reached out before he decided to.
His hand closed around her wrist-not rough, not gentle either. Controlled. Intentional. Enough to stop her from stepping back. Enough to remind her of exactly who he was.
And who she stood in front of.
Elena's breath caught, but she didn't pull away.
That was his second mistake.
"You should go," Luciano said, voice low, strained, as if every word cost him something. "Now."
Her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. He felt it. God help him, he felt it.
"And if I don't?" she asked.
Luciano's jaw tightened. His grip flexed-just slightly. A warning. A confession.
"Then I won't stop myself."
Silence slammed between them.
The air grew heavy, charged, thick with everything he refused to name.
Elena swallowed. Her gaze dropped-not in submission, but in awareness. In realization. She knew now. She could feel it too. The tension wound tight between their bodies, drawn so close it was almost unbearable.
"You're staring," she said softly.
Luciano exhaled sharply, as if dragged back from the edge of something dangerous.
"I'm assessing," he corrected.
"Liar."
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Luciano's eyes darkened.
"Say that again."
She should have backed down. Should have lowered her gaze. Should have remembered that this was a man who ended lives without hesitation.
Instead, she whispered, "You're lying to yourself."
That was all it took to snap the last thread of restraint.
Luciano stepped into her space, forcing her back until the edge of the desk pressed into her lower spine. He braced one hand beside her, caging her in without touching her again.
Control. Always control.
"You think you know what this is?" he murmured. "What you're provoking?"
"I think," Elena said, breathless now, "that you see me."
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like he was memorizing them.
"That," he said hoarsely, "is the problem."
His hand lifted again-hovering just inches from her face. He didn't touch her. Didn't allow himself the indulgence. His fingers curled instead, shaking once before he forced them to still.
"I've spent my life mastering restraint," Luciano continued. "Fear. Desire. Mercy. I don't lose control."
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
"And yet?" she whispered.
"And yet," he said, voice rough, "you stand in front of me like you don't belong to the rules that keep men like me alive."
His thumb brushed her jaw.
Just once.
Barely there.
Electric.
Elena sucked in a sharp breath, her hands curling at her sides, knuckles white. The contact was nothing-and everything.
Luciano froze.
The sound she made did something vicious to him.
He pulled his hand away like he'd been burned.
"This ends here," he said.
But his body betrayed him-still too close, still angled toward hers, still unwilling to retreat.
"You don't sound convinced," she said.
Luciano's lips curved into a dark, humorless smile.
"I'm not."
The admission sat between them, heavy and volatile.
"If I kiss you," he said quietly, "it won't be gentle. It won't be a mistake. It will be a claim."
Elena's breath stuttered.
"And if I let you?" she asked.
Luciano closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, the hunger there was unmistakable.
"Then I won't let you go."
The words weren't a threat.
They were a promise.
He stepped back abruptly, breaking the tension like snapping a wire.
"Leave," he ordered, voice iron-hard now. "Before I forget why I shouldn't want you."
Elena didn't move right away.
"Luciano," she said softly.
He turned away.
"If you walk out that door," he added, "you walk back into my protection."
"And if I stay?"
He didn't answer.
She left.
Luciano stood alone long after the door closed.
His reflection in the darkened window looked unfamiliar. Unsettled. Exposed.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where something dangerous had taken root.
Desire, he could control.
Obsession, he understood.
But this-
This was something else.
And for the first time in years, Luciano De Luca was afraid.
Not of enemies.
Not of betrayal.
But of what would happen the moment he stopped fighting the woman who was slowly undoing him.