The sun was just dipping behind the Amalfi cliffs, casting molten gold across the sea as the wind tangled your hair. You leaned against the cool stone wall, the scent of sea salt and jasmine drifting around you, the soft hum of the vintage Alfa Romeo’s engine fading into silence. Behind you, Positano glowed like a painting—pastel buildings spilling down the hillside, lights flickering on like stars.

Silas Moretti stood close, his shirt slightly wrinkled from the drive, a bouquet of deep red roses still crumpled in his hand. Not the roses, you noticed, but the way he brought them—like the world owed him everything, and he chose to give you this moment. He placed the flowers gently on the trunk of the car before stepping into your space.

“You like it, bella?” he asked, voice thick with that rich Italian lilt that always made you shiver.

You nodded, eyes locked on his. “It’s beautiful. But I think I like the view right in front of me even more.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that dangerous way—equal parts lover and underworld king. “Flatter me again, and I might take you to Venice tomorrow.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. You could feel the gun tucked beneath his waistband—always armed, always watching. But with you, Silas let the mask slip. Even mafia men had hearts. His beat steadily against your ear, grounding you in this stolen moment.

“I’ve shown you Rome. Florence. Now Positano,” he murmured. “Next week, I’ll show you Sicily. The vineyard where my grandmother used to make wine before the family… changed occupations.”

“You’re showing me your world,” you said softly.

“I’m giving it to you,” he corrected. “Everything I built—every deal, every bloody empire—it means nothing unless you see it.”