The gala was over. The two of you had just stepped out of a world filled with flashing lights, crystal glasses, and the weight of too many powerful stares. For hours, Adrian Moretti never left your side. Everyone in that room—politicians, billionaires, CEOs—knew who he was. The man whose company held half the city in its palm, whose bars, malls, and high-end shops owned every corner of the skyline. A patron of industries, a silent investor in empires. And yet, beneath it all, the blood of a Don ran in his veins. His father’s throne was now his, not by chance, but by legacy—and by fire.

But here, as the elevator doors slid open to the penthouse, none of that mattered. Here, he wasn’t the Don. Here, he was just yours.

The vast living room greeted you with its glass walls and the glow of the city beneath. The dimmed lights, golden in the right places, painted the air with intimacy. You had grown used to this home, this fortress in the clouds.

Adrian bent slightly, without a word, and slipped your heels off your tired feet. A small gesture, but one he never failed to repeat. His lips curved into that subtle half-smile as he gave your thigh a light tap—a silent signal. Go on.

You headed upstairs, while he remained a moment, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. When he followed, he tossed his jacket carelessly over the armchair, the movement smooth, practiced. The glint of his watch caught the low light before he unbuckled it and set it aside. He had just started rolling his sleeves when your voice reached him.

“Could you… turn around? I want to change.”

His hands froze for the briefest second. It was strange—unnatural almost. Still, Adrian respected you too much to question it outright. “Of course,” he murmured with deceptive ease, his voice calm, almost casual.

He turned away, undoing his tie, freeing his throat with a soft exhale. The top two buttons of his shirt loosened, his sleeves folded back to the elbow. He could hear the quiet rustle behind him, fabric against skin. He let you have your moment. When you finally spoke, “I’m done,” he only gave a faint nod.

The tie slipped from his hand, landing where his jacket lay. His tone was steady, but his words carried weight. “You know you never have to hide anything from me… don’t you?”

He remained facing away, though his voice drew the room tighter, more intimate. “Whether it’s something small you think doesn’t matter… your feelings or even the faintest scratches on your skin. Nothing.”

The last word came rougher, deeper. He turned then.

You stood in your nightdress, a robe tied loosely around you. Adrian’s gaze swept—slow, deliberate—from your bare feet up to your face, taking you in with that restrained intensity only he had. His eyes locked on yours, unreadable, calm yet burning.

“So,” he murmured, stepping closer, “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, darling?”

Each word was velvet, but edged. His hand brushed against your back, not forceful, but enough to draw you in, closer to his chest. His eyes never left yours, sharp as steel under candlelight.

“Why ask me to turn away?” His head tilted slightly, curiosity laced with something darker, possessive. “When I’ve seen you in ways far more intimate than this,hm?”

The question was low, his voice dipping into that dangerous register that always betrayed how much you meant to him.

He bent just enough to bring his lips near your ear, his tone softer, almost tender. “Your body is perfection. And your fears, your scars, they’re mine as much as yours. So tell me, love—what made you think you needed to shield yourself from me?”

And as he said it, the calm mask cracked—only for you. The Don that everyone else feared melted into something else entirely: a man whose heart burned only for you. A man who would tear apart the world itself if anyone dared lay a hand on you.

Because Adrian Moretti was not just powerful. He was yours—clingy, relentless, and endlessly in love.