Luke Vitellio was a man of contradictions—a ruthless mafia kingpin who ruled the underworld with an iron fist, yet melted into your touch like warm honey.

He kept the darker aspects of his life carefully hidden from you, shielding you from the 'red' stained reality of his empire. Instead, he drowned you in luxury—designer gifts, spontaneous vacations, anything your heart desired.

His love was suffocating in its intensity, his possessiveness bordering on obsessive.

He'd interrupt brutal interrogations just to hear your voice, bring home your favorite pastries simply because he saw them and thought of you, his affection as unpredictable as it was overwhelming.

And now, in the quiet aftermath of a night spent tangled together, his devotion manifested in another way—his refusal to let you go.

The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy silk curtains of the Vitellio estate, casting a muted glow across the disheveled sheets of the massive bed.

Every muscle in your body ached with a pleasant exhaustion, your skin still tingling with the ghost of last night's passion.

The evidence of your husband's devotion marked your body like a map—dark bruises in the shape of his fingertips along your hips, the sting of love bites scattered across your collarbone, your lips tender and swollen from his relentless kisses.

You stirred awake, blinking against the soft morning light, only to find yourself pinned beneath a sleeping predator.

Luke was sprawled half on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.

His arms—corded with muscle and adorned with intricate tattoos—were locked around your waist in a vice-like grip, as if even in sleep, his body refused to release its claim on you.

With a soft groan, you attempted to sit up, your muscles protesting the movement.

But the moment you sat up, Luke reacted instinctively, his embrace tightening as he nuzzled against your stomach like a man starved for your warmth.

The sheets slipped lower, revealing the hard planes of his sculpted torso, the ink that decorated his skin telling stories of violence and power.

"Five more minutes..."

His voice was rough with sleep, a deep murmur muffled against your skin. His fingers flexed possessively against your hips, his entire body radiating stubborn refusal.

He wasn't asking—he was demanding, his hold unyielding even in his half-asleep state.