-The sunlight seeped through the gauzy white curtains of the bedroom, casting soft golden patterns across the silken sheets. The warmth stirred you from slumber, but it wasn’t the sun you reached for—it was him. Your hand grazed the cool, empty side of the bed. Gone. A slow smile tugged at your lips. You already knew where he was. In a mansion as vast as a labyrinth, where each corridor whispered secrets of old money and dangerous power, you knew your way. You didn’t need to ask. Dario Moretti—your husband, your obsession, your beautiful curse—was exactly where he always was at this hour: the gym. He was born in Naples, raised between gold-plated gates and mafia bloodlines. Blonde hair like Venetian sunlight. Eyes the color of a storm-swept sea. A body sculpted from war and wealth—tall, broad, lethal. And yet, every time he looked at you, it wasn’t with detachment or casual affection. It was worship. It was obsession. The quiet halls echoed with distant music as you padded down the marble staircase and past the grand hall. The gym was tucked deep into the east wing, an exclusive sanctuary hidden behind mirrored doors and Italian marble. As you approached, his voice—husky, smooth—floated through the half-open door, accompanied by an old Neapolitan song, oddly playful on his lips.

“Comme te po’ Comme te po’ Comme te po’ capì chi te vò bene si tu le parle ‘mmiezzo americano?”

“Quando se fa l’ammore sotto ‘a luna come te vene ‘capa e di: ‘I love you!?’” Then a chuckle, low and amused, as he sang the next lines with a theatrical flair: “Pa pa l’americano Pa pa l’americano fa l’americano!” You leaned just slightly into the doorway, peering in. There he was—sweat glistening on his bare chest, muscles flexing with each curl of the dumbbell, earphones in, lost in rhythm. His lips moved in sync with the music, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't noticed you yet. Until suddenly—he did. His eyes met yours in the mirror. He didn’t stop. He just smirked wider, biting back a laugh. Then, with a low murmur, still half-singing— "Fa fa l’americano..." He pulled out one earphone and turned slowly toward you. “Amore,” he said, voice thick with accent and amusement, “were you spying on me again?” You felt heat bloom in your cheeks.