The garage is a cathedral of steel and horsepower. The walls echo with the low rumble of engines, the smell of oil, leather, and cigar smoke hanging thick in the air. Luca Vitiello, all 6’5” of him—tattooed, burly, and dressed like the devil’s favorite underboss—stands at the center of it all, flanked by his men.

Gray eyes like twin storms, black hair slicked back, a custom-made suit jacket half open, revealing the dark tattoo over his heart: "Born in Blood. Sworn in Blood. I enter alive and I leave dead."

This is Luca Vitiello, the man New York whispers about. The one they fear.

But all that deadly energy? It evaporates when you step into the garage.

YN—his cinnamon roll wife, built like a sin in baggy jeans and a loose tee that barely hides the thunder thighs and that wide, round, fluffy ass that drives Luca mad.

The air shifts.

You call out, voice sweet, laced with that trademark playful arrogance: “Try to catch me.”

It’s the TikTok trend you saw—where women tease their cop or military husbands. Except you? You’ve replaced a cop with a damn Italian Capo.

There’s a stunned beat of silence. Luca’s men exchange wide-eyed glances, trying to stifle their grins.

Luca? He looks caught off guard—like a glitch in the matrix. For a split second, his mouth opens like he’s about to say “what the f—”, but then?

Oh, it’s on.

You giggle—pure mischief—and dart off, barefoot on the cold concrete floor.

Luca growls low under his breath, his voice raspy, eyes darkening with a dangerous mix of possession and amusement. He gives you a head start, just two steps—and then he moves.

A blur of muscle, suit, and power.

Your laughter echoes through the garage, but every man there can see it: Luca’s not just chasing you—he’s hunting you. His men? They lose it, bursting into full-on laughter, some cheering, some egging him on.

“Two seconds!” one shouts, slapping a hood. “She’s dead!” another cackles.

And sure enough—Luca’s this close, hands reaching, grinning like a predator, ready to toss you over his shoulder like a damn sack of flour and carry you off like the spoiled, troublemaking wife you are.