HIS POV
I kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Claiming.
Her back hit the nearest wall—I'd moved us without thinking, without breathing, without anything but the need to feel her against me. One hand cupped her jaw, the other pressed flat against the wood beside her head. I kissed her like a man starved. Because I was.
Three years. Three years of telling myself she was a ghost. Three years of pretending I didn't dream about the way she laughed, the way she said my name, the way she looked at me like I was already hers.
She tasted like wine and something sweeter. Vanilla. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling, demanding. She kissed me back just as hard—no shyness, no hesitation. This wasn't a girl anymore. This was a woman who had tattooed my name on her body and meant every letter.
Her body pressed against mine. Soft where I was hard. Warm where I was burning. I wanted to drown in her. I wanted to tear that black dress off with my teeth and trace every inch of her skin until she forgot her own name.
Stop.
The thought came like ice water.
Stop. Now.
I ripped my mouth from hers.
We were both breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, her eyes half-closed, her chest rising and falling beneath that high-necked dress. She looked at me with confusion, then something darker—fear—when she saw my face.
"Lorenzo?" Her voice was small. Not the confident woman from moments ago. Young.
God, she was young.
"No." I stepped back. My hand left her jaw. My other hand left the wall. I put distance between us—three feet, four, five. Until I could think. "This is wrong."
Her expression hardened. "Don't."
"I'm serious, Vivienne." I raked a hand through my hair. My pulse was still hammering. My lips still burned with the taste of her. "You're twenty-one."
"And you're thirty. We established this."
"You're in your final year of college. You live in Russia. You have your whole life ahead of you—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence." She pushed off the wall, stepping toward me. Her eyes were blazing now. Not hurt. Angry. "Don't you dare tell me what's best for me. You walked away once. You don't get to do it again."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"From what? From you?" She laughed—sharp, broken. "Lorenzo, I have your name tattooed on my body. I've spent three years learning about your enemies. I've been in love with you since I was eighteen years old. There is no 'protecting me' from you. You're already inside my bones."
Her words hit me like a fist.
"I'm a mafia king," I said quietly. "I've killed men. I've ruined families. I am not a good man, Vivienne."
"I don't want a good man. I want you."
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me." She grabbed my hand—the one that had just been on her throat—and pressed it against her chest. Against her heart. It was racing. "You feel that? That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done."
I closed my eyes.
God help me.
When I opened them, she was still there. Still fierce. Still young. Still everything I shouldn't want.
"I can't," I said. The words scraped out of me. "Not yet."
Her face fell. Just for a second. Then she pulled her hand back. Lifted her chin.
"Then I'll wait." She smoothed her dress. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've waited three years. I can wait longer."
"Vivienne—"
"But don't expect me to stop wanting you." She walked past me toward the study door. Paused with her hand on the handle. "And don't expect me to stop fighting for you."
She looked back. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't let a single tear fall.
"You know where to find me, Lorenzo."
Then she opened the door and walked out.
---
I stood there in the silence.
Marco appeared in the doorway. "Boss? You want me to—"
"No." My voice was hoarse. "Let her go. Make sure she gets home safe. But let her go."
Marco hesitated. Then nodded. Disappeared.
I walked to the window. Watched her car wind down the driveway, past the gates, past the guards, until the taillights vanished into the night.
I pressed my palm against the cold glass.
Wrong. She's too young. I did the right thing.
But my hand still burned where I'd touched her skin. My mouth still tasted like her kiss. And somewhere deep in my chest, a voice I couldn't silence kept whispering:
You're a liar. And a coward. And you just let the only woman who's ever mattered walk out that door.
I poured a drink.
I didn't sleep.
---
HER POV
The car door slammed behind me.
I didn't look back at the mansion. I couldn't. If I looked back, I'd cry. And I refused to cry over Lorenzo De Luca. Not again. Not tonight.
The driver—one of his men, I recognized the face—said nothing. Just pulled away from the gates, past the guards who had watched me walk in like a queen and leave like a fool.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window. The estate shrank in the side mirror. Then the gates. Then the trees.
Then nothing but dark road and the ache in my chest.
"I can't. Not yet."
His voice still echoed in my ears. The way he'd said it—like the words were being ripped out of him. Like he wanted to say something else. Like he wanted to pull me back and finish what we'd started.
But he didn't.
Because he's a coward.
No. I shook my head, angry at myself for the thought. He wasn't a coward. He was afraid. There's a difference. Cowards run from what they want. Lorenzo was running to something—to some twisted version of honor that told him walking away was protection.
He was wrong.
I touched my waist through the fabric of my dress. The tattoo was still warm from his fingers. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, tracing the letters of his own name like he was reading a love letter he'd never sent.
"You're too young."
I laughed. It came out bitter, wet.
Twenty-one. Old enough to vote. Old enough to drink. Old enough to travel across the world and study in a foreign country and build a file on mafia enemies without anyone noticing. But too young to choose who I love.
Bullshit.
The car wound through the city. Streetlights flashed across my face. I watched them pass and made a decision.
I wasn't done.
I pulled out my phone. My hands were still shaking—from anger, from want, from the memory of his mouth on mine. I scrolled to a name I hadn't called in weeks.
Katya. My best friend in Moscow. The only person who knew everything. The one who had held my hair back the night I got the tattoo and said, "You're insane, but I respect it."
She answered on the third ring. "Viv? It's—what time is it there?"
"Late." I swallowed. "I saw him."
A pause. Then: "Oh, shit. Tell me everything."
"I kissed him. He kissed me back. Then he stopped and said I'm too young."
Katya was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was low, careful. "And? How do you feel?"
"Like I want to break something." I gripped the phone tighter. "Like I've spent three years becoming someone he couldn't ignore, and he still managed to push me away."
"Did he push you away? Or did he say 'not yet'?"
I replayed his words. "I can't. Not yet."
"Not yet," I admitted.
"Then there's your answer." Katya's voice turned sharp, practical. "He didn't say no. He said not yet. That's not rejection, Viv. That's fear. Men like him—they don't know how to want something softly. They fight it. They run. But they come back."
"What if he doesn't?"
"He will." A rustle of sheets—she was probably sitting up in bed now, fully awake. "You have his name on your body. He knows it. He touched it. That man is already yours. He just needs to stop being an idiot."
I almost smiled. "And if he never stops?"
"Then you fly back to Moscow, finish your degree, and let him rot in his lonely mansion with his guards and his guilt." Her voice softened. "But we both know that's not what's going to happen."
No. It wasn't.
The car pulled up outside my father's house. I wasn't ready to go inside. To pretend. To smile at the staff.
"Thanks, Katya."
"Always. Now go sleep. Tomorrow, you make a plan."
I hung up. Sat in the dark car for a long moment.
The driver cleared his throat. "Miss? We're here."
"Thank you." I opened the door. Paused with one foot on the ground. "Tell Lorenzo I got home safe."
The driver's eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. "I will, Miss."
I walked to the front door. Didn't look back. But I felt the weight of the mansion behind me, the ghost of his kiss still on my lips, the echo of his voice in my bones.
Not yet.
Fine.
I could wait.
But I wouldn't wait forever.
---
INSIDE – HER ROOM
I closed my bedroom door. Leaned against it. Slid down to the floor.
The dress was still rumpled from where he'd pressed me against the wall. I touched my lips. They were still swollen.
I pulled out my phone. Stared at the screen.
His name sat there in my contacts. Lorenzo De Luca. I could call him. I could text him. I could beg him to change his mind.
No.
I tossed the phone onto the bed. It landed softly against the pillows. I wasn't going to chase a man who'd already tasted me and still chose to walk away.
Instead, I stood up. Walked to the mirror.
I turned sideways. Lifted the hem of my black dress.
His name. Still there. Still permanent. Still his.
I traced the letters with my own finger—the way he had done. The memory made my chest ache.
"You're an idiot, Lorenzo De Luca," I whispered to my reflection. "But you're my idiot."
I let the dress fall.
Then I crossed to my suitcase—still unpacked from the flight home—and pulled out a small leather notebook. The one Katya had given me. The one I used to track every piece of information I'd gathered on his enemies, his allies, his world.
I opened to a fresh page.
At the top, I wrote: Things Lorenzo De Luca is afraid of.
Underneath, I wrote:
1. Losing control.
2. Hurting someone he loves.
3. Me.
I stared at the last line.
Then I closed the notebook and tucked it under my pillow.
I wasn't going to text him. I wasn't going to call him. I wasn't going to beg.
But I was going to make him come to me.
On my terms.
In my time.
I turned off the light and lay down in the dark.
Somewhere across the city, in that cold mansion with its guards and its silence, I knew he was thinking about me.
And that was enough.
For now.
---