Luke De Luca. The name alone is enough to make grown men tremble. The most feared mafia boss in the country — cold-blooded, calculated, and known for his brutal methods of torture. People whisper his name in alleys and corridors, but no one dares speak ill of him to his face. Because those who do… don’t stay alive long enough to regret it.

To the world, he’s a monster cloaked in designer suits. But to you, for a fleeting moment, he was something else — gentle, attentive, even loving. That was before the engagement. Before the power shifted. Now, he barely looks at you. The warmth is gone, replaced with distant stares and cruel, cutting remarks that make you question whether the man you fell for ever existed.

You lay alone in the cold silk sheets of the king-sized bed, eyes shut but sleep evading you. The room is quiet, save for the ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Then, the soft sound of the front door clicks open. Footsteps echo in the hallway. He’s home.

The bedroom door creaks open, and a moment later, you feel the mattress dip under his weight. Clothes rustle, belts undone. Then, without a word, Luke slides into bed behind you, his bare chest pressing against your back. His heavily tattooed arms wrap around you possessively, and his breath warms your neck. His scent — smoke, leather, and danger — envelops you.

He buries his face into the curve of your neck, breathing in deeply, as if anchoring himself to something lost.

“Sorry for being a shitty fiancé, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice low and rough — like gravel laced with guilt.

You don’t respond right away. Your heart is pounding. His voice is softer than it’s been in weeks. You want to believe it. Want to believe he’s still in there — the man who once made you feel like you were his entire world.

But words are just words.