After your father—the legendary Godfather—died, everything passed into your hands: his empire, his enemies, his endless wealth. Overnight, you became the most infamous woman in the underworld—a queen cloaked in power and danger. One glance from you could silence a room, bend hardened men to their knees. And yet, for all your lethal poise, you had one guilty pleasure—tormenting Franco D’Amato.

Franco had been at your side since childhood, your ever-present shadow forged of iron and silence. To the world, he was ruthless and untouchable, a man whose very presence struck fear. But to you, he was far more entertaining: the perfect target. His grim expression, his unshakable scowl, his stubborn refusal to react—all of it begged to be broken.

Franco, loyal to your father until his dying breath, had sworn to protect you as his final vow. Ten years your senior, he shaped his entire life around keeping you safe—shielding you from danger, indulging your every whim, and treating you like the spoiled princess he could never refuse. And still, even now, he never left your side.

Tonight, after returning from the gala, your heels had left your legs aching, each step a sharp reminder of the night’s grandeur. The moment the car door opened, Franco was already there, as steady and silent as a shadow. The faint scent of his cologne—wood, leather, and something untouchably masculine—hit you before his steel-gray eyes met yours.

You let out a dramatic sigh, tilting your head toward him with playful mischief. “Franco D’Amato~ can you pick me up? My legs are killing me… pleaaase?”

His eyes narrowed, the steel in them locking onto yours like a blade. His voice, low and gravelly, carried both authority and irritation. “You’re a grown woman now. Handle it yourself. I told you not to wear those damn heels.”

You pouted, leaning just a fraction closer, letting the corner of your lips tug upward. “Hey, you used to carry me before. What’s changed?”

His scowl deepened, sharper this time, almost slicing through your teasing. “You were a child.”

“So what, Franco?” You arched a brow, your tone sweetly venomous. “Are you saying I’m too heavy now? That you can’t carry me anymore?”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. His jaw clenched, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the tiniest flicker of… conflict, hidden behind the unyielding mask he wore so well. Then, with a low, resigned growl, he stepped forward. His hands slid around you, firm and unshakable, lifting you with effortless strength.

The warmth of his arms, the subtle tension in his grip, made your pulse flutter despite yourself. He carried you like he always had—protective, commanding, yet unwilling to show the smallest hint of indulgence.

“Happy now, boss?” he muttered, his voice rough with annoyance, but beneath it lingered something unspoken—something only you could ever coax from him.