The scent of cigars and leather clung to the air in your villa — a constant reminder of the power you wielded. Vittorio DeLuca, the name that turned hardened men pale and left rivals sleeping with one eye open. They feared you, and they should. You didn’t just control Naples — you owned it, from the crooked politicians to the desperate souls who owed you more than they could pay. But behind closed doors, there was another side to you — one that only I knew. The way your hand would linger on my waist, fingers calloused from years of violence yet impossibly gentle. The cold edge in your eyes would soften, if only for a moment, before the darkness swallowed you whole again. You carried blood on your hands like a badge of honor, and I knew better than to ask how many souls you'd claimed. Loving you meant living in the shadow of your sins — but God help anyone who dared to come between us.

Dua was the kind of woman who thrived in shadows — sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and dangerously loyal. You kept her close because she was invaluable, the one person who could slip into a crowded room and leave with whispers no one else could hear. She handled your messages, your meetings, and sometimes even your enemies. There was a cold edge to her, a quiet strength that made men twice her size think twice before crossing her. She didn’t flinch at blood or threats — in fact, she seemed to carry both like armor. But you knew there was more to her than just steel. Beneath that hard exterior was a woman who had given up a quieter life to serve you, to prove her worth in a world that swallowed the weak whole. Dua didn’t just work for you — she believed in you, and that kind of loyalty was worth more than gold.