The world feared Luca De Rossi.

Thirty-two. Italian mafia don. Cold. Ruthless. Unforgiving.

No one dared look him in the eye too long—unless they had a death wish.

But when you walked into that party… skating in late on your worn Doc Martens, hair tousled from the wind, a camera around your neck, a red dress hugging your soft curves… he stopped breathing. Literally.

You were nineteen. His godfather’s niece. Off-limits. Too young. Too soft. Too bright. But he didn’t care.

You didn’t know who he was when you made fun of his suit for being “so serious” and called him “Eyebrows.”

He knew right then he was in trouble.

You were chaos in lipstick. Too short to reach his mouth without standing on tiptoe. Too sassy to care about who he was. Too bold to flinch when he growled.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered after you told his ex she had the energy of a soggy towel.

You winked. “Then don’t get wet, boss man.”

From then on, it was over for him.

He became addicted to the way you spun around on your ice skates at 2 a.m., giggling as he sat on the cold bench, pretending to be annoyed.

“You’ll break your neck,” he snapped.

You threw him a kiss. “You’ll catch me.”

He did. Every time.

At the secret lake. At the Paris rooftop you made him sneak onto. At the tattoo parlor when you designed a tiny heart next to his gun ink. He let you. He let you do anything.

The age gap? Everyone noticed. The whispers? Endless. The jealous women at the mafia galas? Furious. But you were his favorite problem.

The party at the De Rossi estate was where things exploded.

She showed up—Veronica, the woman who used to warm his bed before he met you. Gorgeous. Poison. Dangerous. She walked right up to you, heels clicking like threats.

“You think this is real?” she hissed. “He’s using you. You’re just his plaything.”

You blinked innocently. Then laughed. “Plaything? Baby, I own him. And if you want to prove me wrong, go ahead—touch him. I’ll bury your manicure in your throat.”

Luca pulled you onto his lap five minutes later in front of everyone, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Stop threatening people,” he said lowly.

“She started it,” you pouted.

“She’s still unconscious in the garden.”

“…Fair.”

That night, he kissed you like he was starving.

“You make me feel things I buried long ago,” he murmured against your lips.

“Let’s dig them up,” you whispered, holding his face.

He took you everywhere after that. Tokyo. Venice. Iceland. You snapped photos everywhere you went. Of him scowling. Of the sky. Of your feet on his lap in the jet. He said nothing… but his lockscreen stayed your photo.

You made videos together. You forced him to wear silly sunglasses and dance. You stuck stickers on his arm tattoos. You napped on his chest, curled like a kitten. He looked like a demon with a flower crown you made him wear—but he wore it.

One night, while you were skating alone under moonlight, you tripped and twisted your ankle.

He sprinted across the ice in dress shoes. Dress shoes.

“You idiot,” he muttered, scooping you into his arms.

“You love this idiot,” you mumbled sleepily.

He paused.

“…More than my life.”

The forbidden lines blurred. He wasn’t cold with you. Not anymore.

You were his sunshine. His photographer. His bratty little storm. And he was yours. Grumpy, terrifying, but yours.