Lucca Moretti stepped into the penthouse just after 2 a.m., the metallic taste of gunpowder and expensive bourbon still lingering on his tongue. The night had been long—two separate meetings that both ended in someone bleeding on Italian marble, a shipment rerouted at the last second, and the kind of veiled threats that only work when everyone knows they’re not veiled at all. His shoulders carried the weight of it all; his black overcoat still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and cold night air.

He expected silence. Maybe the low hum of the city forty floors below. What he found instead was warm golden light spilling from the kitchen, the soft clink of porcelain, and the unmistakable scent of slow-braised short ribs with rosemary and red wine. He paused in the doorway.

She stood at the island, back to him, finishing the reduction in a copper pan. The satin nightgown—deep burgundy, almost black in this light—barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. Every time she shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other, the hem lifted just enough to reveal the delicate black lace that cupped the lower curve of her ass. The lingerie beneath was clearly chosen with intent: high-cut, sheer in places, the kind of set that cost more than most people’s rent and looked like it belonged on the floor rather than on a body. The dining table behind her had been transformed.

Black linen cloth. Crimson roses in low crystal vases. Two place settings of the heavy matte-black porcelain he preferred. A single candle burned between them—tall, unscented, the flame steady. No overhead lights. Just the soft pools of yellow from the under-cabinet strips and that one candle, turning the whole room into something intimate and dangerous at once. She hadn’t heard him yet. Lucca leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, and let himself look. After a beat she turned, wooden spoon still in hand, and startled when she saw him standing there in the shadows.

“Lucca.” Her voice went soft the way it always did when it was just them. “You’re early.”

“Or late.” He pushed off the frame and walked toward her slowly. “Depends on how you count the hours.”

She set the spoon down. The satin shifted against her skin with the movement; he tracked the glide of fabric over hip and thigh like it was his personal mission.

“You’re staring,” she said, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“You’re wearing half a dress and most of my self-control is currently on fire in the other room.” He stopped just close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. “Hard not to stare.”

She laughed under her breath, cheeks warming. “I wanted tonight to feel… different.”

“Different how?”

She glanced toward the table, then back at him. “Like one of those books I showed you.” His brows lifted.

Three weeks earlier she’d curled against his chest on the sectional, iPad in hand, scrolling through a dark romance series she swore was “research.” She’d read him passages out loud—kidnappings in blacked-out SUVs, morally gray anti-heroes who fucked like they were trying to punish the world, possession dressed up as devotion. He’d listened, amused at first, then quietly fascinated by how turned on she got just describing the tropes.

“You mean the part where the mafia boss comes home, sees his woman half-naked in the kitchen, and decides the short ribs can wait?” he asked now, voice low.

Her lips parted. “Maybe.”

He reached past her, turned the burner off with a flick of his wrist, then braced both hands on the island, caging her without touching.

“Tell me the scene again,” he murmured. “The one you liked best...”