The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the subtle rustle of sheets as Leona shifted beside Valerio. Afternoon light filtered in through the cream curtains, casting golden stripes across the room, across his skin—still marked by her last night's passion. Hickeys along his collarbones, nail trails on his back… remnants of her jealousy-fueled dominance.
But right now, she wasn't fire.
She was warmth.
Leona sat up on one elbow, brushing a few strands of hair away from Valerio's face as he slept. His breathing was steady, features softened, the usual sharpness in his jaw eased with sleep. The sight made something stir in her chest—a pang of guilt mixed with something far deeper than she dared to name.
She leaned down, pecked his cheek. Then again, a little lower on his jaw. Her lips moved feather-light across his face, apologetic yet tender, brushing his temple, the corner of his lips, down his throat—where the purple bruises she'd left bloomed like wildflowers on pale skin.
"Sorry," she whispered against his neck, not expecting him to be awake.
But he was.
"I liked it," Valerio murmured, eyes still closed but voice thick and raspy.
Leona stilled, then pulled back to look at him, heart fluttering stupidly at how easily he said it.
He opened his eyes slowly, meeting hers, lids still heavy with sleep but gaze clear. "All of it. Every scratch, every kiss, every look you gave me when you were jealous. I liked knowing you wanted me that bad."
A blush crept up her cheeks, and she looked away, biting her lip.
Valerio raised a hand and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. "You don't have to feel guilty, Leona. I was yours long before last night."
That hit different.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. "Still… I was a little too much."
"You always are," he said, grinning slightly, "but it's never in the wrong way."
Her eyes softened as she stared at him. Then, without warning, she straddled his waist again, this time not with hunger but something gentler. She bent forward and pressed a slow, soft kiss to his lips. He responded with a sigh, arms sliding around her waist, holding her like she might vanish.
Leona peppered more kisses across his jaw, his cheek, his throat. Her fingers carefully traced over the marks on his chest, the slight swelling from her nails, and her heart clenched.
"You really didn't mind?" she asked quietly, forehead resting against his.
"No," he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. "I wanted you that badly. I still do."
Leona pulled back slightly and studied his face. No hesitation. No lies. She wasn't used to someone surrendering like that. She wasn't used to being the one someone surrendered to.
"I've never been like this with anyone," she admitted.
Valerio smirked lazily. "Didn't look like it last night."
She groaned, hiding her burning face against his neck. "Don't make me regret being soft."
He laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest under her.
"Never. You being like this? Sweet? Affectionate? Kinda makes me wanna lock the door and keep you here."
Her lips curved against his skin. "You like this side of me?"
"I like all sides of you," he said honestly, hands moving up and down her back.
She let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the sheer peace of the moment. No threats. No masks. No fear. Just him, her, and the space between them—raw and real.
Leona leaned down, kissed him again, slow and deep, her hands cupping his face this time. There was no fire now—only a gentle burn, the kind that warms rather than scorches.
When she pulled back, Valerio blinked at her, dazed. "God, you're dangerous," he muttered.
"You just realized?" she teased, a smile tugging at her lips.
"I don't care. Let me get burned."
He was ridiculous—and she loved it.
She laid back down beside him, head resting on his shoulder, tracing idle circles on his chest as he held her close. The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward. It was comfortable.
Leona didn't say anything for a while, her mind replaying the night before, the look on Chiara's face, the flicker of something unreadable in Mason's eyes.
But none of that mattered now.
Because in the end, Valerio hadn't even looked at anyone else.
He had submitted himself to her—heart, body, soul. Unquestionably. Unashamedly.
And now, she owed it to him to protect that, to be worthy of that devotion.
"Thank you," she whispered suddenly.
Valerio turned his head, confused. "For what?"
"For loving me like that."
Valerio didn't respond with words. He just kissed the top of her head and pulled her tighter into him.
And Leona… for once, let herself be held.
Meanwhile back at the NYC, De Luca was getting impatient
The Moretti estate basked in soft sunlight, miles away from the chaos of New York City, but the same could not be said about the mind of Salvatore.
He sat alone in his private apartment, surrounded by shadows and the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock that only seemed to mock his increasing restlessness. For hours, he'd done nothing but scroll through old texts, listening to her voice notes again and again—memorizing every giggle, every sigh, every pause she took before saying something she wasn't sure she should. Each sound was a dagger twisted in his chest.
She had vanished into the Italian countryside without a word. Not that she owed him anything—but still, she had always responded. Until now.
His gloved hand clenched around the armrest of his leather chair. The dim lights of the room flickered, catching the slight glint of the silver throwing knife he had been twirling in his fingers all evening.
"Where the hell are you, Leona?"
A question he'd whispered at least a dozen times now, yet the silence of the room never answered back.
For someone like Salvatore, silence was dangerous. It gave his mind too much room to wander. To assume. To feel.
He wasn't someone who got attached. Not in the emotional sense. But Leona had been different. There was a spark in her—something unrefined, unpredictable, and hauntingly familiar. He hadn't just watched her from the shadows… he had studied her. Mapped every smile, every twitch of her jaw, every lie laced behind her charm. And now, she was slipping through his fingers like sand.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he moved to the far wall where a table held an array of weaponry. Throwing knives, blades, firearms—all cleaned, polished, and deadly. It was almost meditative how his fingers traced the outline of his favorite silver blade.
He lifted it.
Its sharp edge shimmered as he brought it to his face, aligning it with the framed photo on the table—an old, grainy surveillance still of Leona smiling as she exited his club a few months back. She looked happy. Carefree.
That infuriated him.
Was she smiling like that now too?
With someone else?
Was someone else touching her the way he thought about?
The knife shot out of his hand and embedded itself into the wall just beside the photo, pinning the edge of it like a trophy.
"I want you," he muttered under his breath. "And no one—no one takes what's mine."
He knew she wasn't really his. But logic was a poor antidote for obsession.
Salvatore stormed across the room, throwing open his laptop, pulling up recent surveillance data. His tech guy had managed to ping Moretti's private jet landing in southern Italy. A few faint images showed Leona stepping out beside Valerio. Him. The one who was always too close, too protective. Salvatore had underestimated him before.
Not again.
He zoomed in on the still, jaw tightening as he caught the sight of Valerio's arm protectively at Leona's lower back.
Too familiar.
Too casual.
Too intimate.
He smashed the laptop shut, running a hand through his hair, breathing hard. The only thing that stopped him from shattering the screen was the thought that he might need it again later. His mind was spinning, bouncing between rage, jealousy, and confusion. He wasn't even sure what he wanted anymore—Leona back at his side, or Valerio six feet under.
"Maybe both," he whispered, half-laughing to himself.
His phone buzzed on the counter. A message from one of his informants.
"They're staying at a Moretti property. A villa. Guarded, but not impossible."
Salvatore's lips curved into a slow, eerie smile.
"Good," he whispered.
He picked up a lighter and flicked it on, watching the small flame dance like temptation itself.
"Let the pretty illusion last a little longer, amore. But I'm coming for you."
And this time, he wouldn't stay in the shadows.
Later in the evening
Valerio leaned back in his chair, fingers curling loosely around the heavy glass of whiskey. The soft hum of conversation echoed across the terrace, where the men of the house—Mr. Russo, Mr. Moretti, Dante, and Mason—shared a moment of calm. But Valerio wasn't listening. His mind was still trapped in the haze Leona had left behind.
The scent of her lipstick still clung to his skin. His shirt was back on, barely hiding the red crescents along his neck and chest. Even the fabric brushing his back reminded him of her nails—how wild, how deliberate she'd been. And God, he hadn't stood a chance.
He took another slow sip, jaw tense as heat bloomed across his cheeks. His usual impassive mask had shattered the moment he entered the room. Every single one of them had looked at him—and Valerio knew. Knew they knew.
Mr. Moretti had raised a brow, his smirk far too smug. Mr. Russo simply clinked his glass in knowing amusement. Dante had snorted, mouthing a quiet 'damn, bro' under his breath. But Mason? Mason's eyes lingered too long. Calculating. Quiet. Too quiet.
Valerio shifted uncomfortably.
Leona had ruined him tonight—and he wasn't even mad about it.
He almost smirked to himself. That woman had stormed into his life with her clumsy charm and fake innocence, and now she owned him. Body. Mind. Soul.
And now he had to sit here like nothing happened—while everyone around him pretended they hadn't just witnessed him get claimed.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "You guys drink like you're hiding bodies."
Mr. Moretti raised his glass again, eyes twinkling. "Some of us are, Valerio."
And for once, he couldn't even argue back.