Rosalia's POV**

The space beside me was cold when I woke.

Wrapped in sheets that smelled just like him

For one breath, panic curled in my chest, but then I saw it the tray by the corner, steam curling from a cup of coffee, bread and eggs , Clothes folded neatly over the chair. A note pinned beneath the cuff of a shirt.

I slipped from the sheets, the air cool against my bare skin, and padded barefoot across the floor. The room was larger than I remembered last night tall windows veiled in soft linen, walls painted in shades of storm grey and gold, a closet with doors slightly open, rows of shirts and suits arranged with ruthless precision. Luca's world smelled of cedar, leather, and faint cologne the kind that clung to me now, even after he'd gone.

The shower was marble and glass, big enough to fit more than one body. Steam rose around me like fog, and I leaned against the wall, letting the water pound over my skin until the bruises in my muscles softened. But when I wrapped myself in a towel, the mirror betrayed me.

Dark marks. My pulse stuttered as I touched them one at my neck, bold as ink, another just above the swell of my breast. Hickeys. Luca's.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, to every part of me that remembered his mouth, his hands. They were proof, possession, and promise all at once.

I dressed in the clothes he'd left for me a soft ivory blouse, loose trousers. The fabric was gentle, expensive. But the blouse dipped low enough at the collarbone that nothing could hide the mark he'd left. It stood there, dark and certain, like he had planned it that way.

Picked up the note before touching my coffee
"Good morning amore I had an early meeting at the warehouse. I didn't want to wake you you looked too perfect while sleeping. Refresh. Eat. I'll see you later.

My fingers lingered on the paper longer than they should have.

The Coffee warmed my hands as I stood at his window, looking out at the lawn where guards moved like restless shadows. Everything outside was calm. But my body, my thoughts, my heart nothing inside me was calm anymore.

Last night had been fire, reckless and consuming. But this coffee, clothes, his mark on my skin was something far more dangerous.

And there was no hiding it.

**Luca**

The warehouse was alive before sunrise. Metal doors slammed shut, forklifts groaned, and men moved like shadows between crates. The smell of oil and gunpowder hung in the air.

Rocco was at the center table, papers spread out, cigarette burning low. "We've got a problem at Pier 9," he said as Luca approached. "Shipment didn't move clean. The Broken Crown showed up."

Luca's jaw tightened. "That doesn't happen without help from inside."

"Exactly," Rocco said. He shoved a folder forward. "They cut the cameras for less than a minute. When they came back, our rivals were already in position. That's not luck. That's a mole."

Luca opened the file. A handful of names stared back at him dock workers, dispatchers, clerks. Some circled, with notes: debts cleared, sudden money, too clean too fast.

"Where are they keeping what they stole?" Luca asked.

"Old glass factory on Merton. They've been running trucks in and out for weeks."

"Tonight we hit them," Luca said flatly.

Rocco smirked. "Good. I've been waiting for this."

"Two teams," Luca continued. "You take Ghost cut the power. Three minutes later, I go through the front with Hammer. No noise, no survivors. If the mole's there, I'll find him myself."

Rocco nodded, but his eyes flicked briefly to Luca's collar, to the faint shadow of a bruise there. "Rough night?"

Luca ignored the comment, shutting the folder with a snap. "Get the men ready for 23:00. By tomorrow, Broken Crown won't have a name left."

**Writers POV **

The training studio was too bright. Rosalia stepped inside in the ivory blouse Luca had left her. The mark at her throat was impossible to miss.

Leon noticed instantly. His expression didn't change, but his jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

"Gloves," he said shortly, tossing them at her.

She caught them, raising an eyebrow. "Good morning to you too."

"Stance," he cut her off. "Jab, cross. Don't stop until I say."

She hit the bag. The sound of leather against canvas filled the room. Leon circled her, corrections sharper than usual. His hand gripped her wrist too hard when adjusting her form. His voice was clipped.

"Chin down. Guard up. You're open."

"You're harsh today," Rosalia muttered, sweat already on her brow.

"Or maybe you're distracted," Leon said coldly. His eyes flicked again to her neck. "Some distractions echo louder than they should in this house."

Her cheeks flushed. "That's none of your business."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "It is when people are already talking. When guards can hear you through walls. You think that makes you safer?"

The bag swung between them, her fists slowing. She stared at him, shocked at the bite in his words.

He stopped the timer, the silence loud. For a moment, his eyes betrayed something jealous, raw, something he couldn't hide. Then he looked away.

"Again," he said tightly, pressing the timer.

Rosalia hit the bag harder, anger fueling her punches. Leon stood back this time, arms crossed, mask back in place. But his eyes didn't leave the bruise on her neck.

The kitchen was warm, full of steam and the smell of the fresh food Gina was making Rosalia tried to slip in quietly, but Melissa spotted her instantly.

"Oh my God," Melissa gasped, grabbing her arm. "Is that?!" Her eyes landed on the hickey, and she let out a squeal. "It is! Don't even try to deny it."

Rosalia groaned. "Melissa, please—"

"No, no, don't even start." Melissa dragged her onto a stool. "Tell me everything. Was it him? It was, wasn't it? Luca?"

Rosalia blushed, looking down at her mug. "I... I don't want to talk about it."

Melissa grinned wickedly. "That's exactly what girls say when it was good."

Rosalia swatted her arm. "You're ridiculous."

Melissa leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You realize Leon saw, right? He's been in a mood since this morning. I swear he nearly cracked the bag in half."

Rosalia froze. "He... noticed?"

Melissa raised her brows. "Sweetheart, everyone noticed. You walked in glowing. But Leon? He looked like he was ready to kill someone."

Rosalia sipped her coffee, heat rushing through her again. Confusion tangled with the memory of last night.

Melissa smirked, watching her. "Careful, Rosa. You've got two storms circling you, and neither of them is safe."

*************

The industrial block smelled of rust and sleeping machines. Night had folded itself over the complex, leaving only thin slits of light where windows leaked. Men who weren't supposed to be there moved in half-lit rooms, confident in the safety they'd bought. They were wrong.

Luca stood for a long breath on the edge of the lot and watched the place like a man reading a page he already knew the ending to. He did not hurry. There was no need. Rocco's voice came low in his ear short confirmations, no chatter. The crew lined up around him faces he trusted, hands he had seen steady in the worst of nights.

He stepped off when the moment came, not with the clamor of a show but with the economy of a man who expected results. They flowed through shadows and gaps that were already part of the building's bones, slipping into corridors and service stairwells. The men moved with purpose; there was no bravado, only work.

Inside, the rival group was taken by surprise the way people are when life suddenly refuses its usual narrative. Doors that had seemed solid opened for them; men who'd counted on numbers found themselves disoriented. Confusion lasted seconds. Decisions lasted less.

Luca's orders were short: move, secure, find. He didn't shout plans. He gave outcomes clear, sharp and let capable men make the necessary moves. Rooms that had been storage turned into scenes of panic crates overturned, voices rising, a few desperate slaps against doors that would not open in time. Some men tried to fight; most were too slow to collect their courage.

He found the hub quickly enough the room where they had kept the ledger and the petty comforts that make men feel like kings. The men around the table looked up, surprised enough to lose their posture. Luca's presence filled the doorway like a verdict.

"Who opened the door for them?" His voice was quiet but absolute; the sound of it made a few heads bow.

The man at the table greasy, nervous tried to speak fast, names spilling out like a poor map. Luca listened. He watched the fingers twitch, watched eyes flick to other faces. The man's words were bargaining thin as smoke.

Luca didn't bargain. He closed the distance with the slow certainty of someone finishing a job. The room tightened around that certainty somewhere between confession and punishment. The man's pleading filled the air briefly, an ugly, human sound that didn't change the verdict.

They took names. They took things that mattered to the Broken Crown: the ledger, the phones, the small receipts that spelled out who owed who. Where men tried to hide something valuable, they were stripped of the illusion of safety, left only with the starkness of consequences.

When one of the men tried to run, the response was immediate and uncompromising. He fell, and the room went still. Luca's face did not show triumph; it showed the clean exhaustion of a man who had done what needed doing. That was the difference Luca did not enjoy cruelty. He practiced it when it was necessary.

At a table, under the sallow light, the man who'd opened the gate who'd taken money to point others where to realized bargaining had no allies left. He named more names, useless in the moment. Luca listened, his expression flat. The betrayal was a small, stupid thing beneath a larger line Luca did not permit anyone to cross.

The decision came without ceremony. It was a final accounting, the kind men in Luca's world understood: choices had prices, and someone had to pay. The man met Luca's eyes for a long, loaded second and then not at all. There were no dramatic pronouncements just the silence of a ledger closed.

Outside, the rest of the complex unravelled into the same clean ending. Men who'd thought themselves untouchable found their confidence stripped away. Those who tried to stand and fight were quickly made examples not for spectacle, but so the lesson would not need to be repeated.

When the men pulled back, they left the place quieter than when they'd arrived. It was not the quiet of reconciliation; it was the quiet of a job concluded. The Broken Crown's reach had been cut. Their swagger had been traded for a careful hush.

Back at the lot, Luca watched the men return one by one. No one celebrated. They checked each other, eyes meeting with that small, wordless recognition that they'd done what they had to do. Rocco gave Luca a nod that meant the rest had been handled. Men filed off into the trucks and the darkness, each heading back to the house, to the business that needed tending, to the accounts that needed mending.

Luca walked the perimeter alone after the crew left, feeling the weight of what had been done settle into his bones. The results were as he intended—clean, severe, and unmistakable. He had removed the immediate threat and the voice that had let the enemy in had been silenced. The city would remember a different kind of night; people would think it a warning and, for a while, change their habits.

He did not return to the house the way a man might come home to rest. He went to his office, closed the door, and sat with the ledger of names that now needed erasing and rewriting. He thought of the man at the table small, frantic and of the softness that had entered his life in the shape of a bruise at a woman's throat and the way that softness made him rougher in other places.

He would make sure the house was steady. He would make sure the walls were tight. And when he finally let himself breathe, it would be a breath that measured what he'd paid to keep what he wanted.

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