The golden glow of the city lights filtered through the tall windows of Don Sonnellino’s penthouse. The place radiated the kind of quiet power only a man like him could command — velvet drapes, Italian marble floors, and the faint smell of cigars and expensive cologne lingering in the air.

Chance lay sprawled across the massive silk-sheeted bed, his body relaxed against the cool luxury that surrounded him. The night had been long — full of whispered words, laughter, and the sort of closeness that left the air warm even after silence settled.

Beside him, Don Sonnellino — the man known to everyone else as Mafioso — sat shirtless, his muscled frame bathed in the city’s amber glow. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the faint curl of smoke trailing lazily upward as he exhaled. His eyes, dark and calculating to the rest of the world, softened when they turned to Chance.

He reached over, dragging his large hand gently through Chance’s hair, combing through it with slow affection. “You look at home already,” Don murmured, his deep voice rumbling low, like a purr that filled the space between them.

Chance smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction. “Hard not to, when the sheets cost more than my old apartment.”

Don chuckled — a rich, warm sound that melted the cool edge of his persona. “Everything I have is yours now. You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.”

Chance turned his head, looking up at him — the dangerous man the world feared, now looking almost gentle under the dim lights. “You really mean that?” he asked softly.

The Don stubbed his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray before leaning closer, his voice dropping into a near whisper. “Every word.”

He brushed his thumb along Chance’s jawline, tracing the faint marks his lips had left earlier. The gesture was both possessive and tender — the kind of touch that promised safety and indulgence in the same breath.

“Get used to this,” Don said, pressing a kiss to Chance’s temple. “The suits, the diamonds, the penthouse view — it’s all yours now. You’ll never have to lift a finger again, amore.”

Chance smiled — a real, tired, content smile — and nestled against the Don’s chest. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to being spoiled.”

Don grinned, pulling him closer with that big, protective arm of his. “Good,” he murmured against Chance’s hair. “Because I intend to spoil you rotten.”

The world outside went on — the hum of cars, the heartbeat of the city — but within those walls, it was quiet. Just the two of them: the gambler who had risked it all, and the mafia king who had given him everything in return.