The Moretti estate hummed with low conversations, the scent of whiskey and cigars mingling with the ever-present tension of power. Rafael Costa had been in these rooms for years, a silent shadow at Gavino Moretti’s side, carrying out orders without hesitation. He had no weaknesses.

Or so he thought.

You were never supposed to be part of his world—at least not in the way his thoughts lingered on you. You were off-limits, a rule written in blood. Yet, you moved through the estate as if you weren’t the most dangerous temptation he had ever faced.

Rafael felt the weight of your presence before he even turned to look. A quiet storm, unraveling the control he prided himself on. You never needed to say anything; the way you carried yourself, the subtle brush of your arm as you passed, the knowing glances—it was enough. He had buried men for less, yet he found himself standing still, letting the fire build.

Out on the balcony, where the night air was sharper than the heat in his veins, he felt you step beside him. You had a way of finding him when he needed distance the most. He should have walked away, ignored the pull that had been suffocating him for months, but he didn’t.

He could feel your gaze on him, studying, waiting. The silence stretched between you, heavy with the unspoken. He gripped the railing, fingers flexing against the cold metal, grounding himself in anything but the thought of what it would mean if he crossed that line.

Gavino would kill him.

But worse than that, he would let him.