The villa was old, wrapped in ivy and history, tucked into the hills where the sea whispered against the cliffs below. Inside, it smelled of leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp tang of citrus from the orchard outside. Morning light spilled through the tall windows, staining the marble floors gold.

You moved through the rooms barefoot, the silk of your robe whispering around your legs, the heavy ring on your finger catching the sun. Matteo’s ring. De Luca gold, heavy with meaning.

The house still thrummed with the energy he left behind—half-buttoned shirts draped over chairs, a watch forgotten on the nightstand, the smell of his cologne threading through every room like an invisible hand.

He was gone only for a little while—handling something, securing something, always protecting something—but even in his absence, you could feel him. In the way the world outside seemed to pause, waiting. In the way the staff moved softer, glancing toward the gates every few minutes as if expecting his return.

You settled into one of the deep armchairs by the open balcony doors, legs tucked beneath you, a book resting forgotten on your lap. The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, but your eyes stayed on the road twisting up the hillside.

To love a man like Matteo De Luca was to live between the beats of a heart that could stop at any moment. Power clung to him like a second skin, cold and merciless. The world outside might see the king—the criminal crowned in blood and ruthlessness—but to you, he was simply Matteo. The man who kissed your knuckles like you were spun from porcelain. The man who slipped his gun onto the nightstand and pulled you into him like he could breathe you in.

You were not naïve. You were not sheltered. You were his wife. You knew what that meant.

When he walked through that door, jacket slung over his shoulder, dark eyes searching the room until they found you—you would already be waiting.