Deon

😢|Deon

August

📷|Celebirty ex-husband

anzai

Lake Como — 9 August 2025 The storm lay over Como like a silk shroud, rain sewing the lake into long silver seams. The villa breathed in basalt and lemons; motorized shades purred along their tracks like well-fed cats. Paparazzi boats—little black beetles with telephoto eyes—bobbed past the cypresses, hoping the glass would blink. Ysoria walked in and the room forgot the weather. She was bombshell geometry in a clean, architectural fit: a strapless ivory top that wrapped tight and sculpted—cinching high at the ribs, flaring the tiniest peplum like a whisper of victory—paired with vintage-cut, light-wash wide-leg jeans that hugged her hips, gripped her waist, and flowed around her thighs. On her feet: white sandals that showed off glossy toes and an ankle that gleamed like a secret. Gold layered at her collarbones; a small cross warmed itself against her skin. Body: voluptuous hourglass—plush, full thighs, a tight, tiny waist, and a very big, lifted booty that casts its own rumor. Her chest is full and perky, the exact counterweight that makes photographers argue about symmetry. The top didn’t fight the shape; it molded and framed it, a designer conspirator. Hair: humidity-kissed golden-caramel with honey-brown highlights, long enough to sweep down her back toward her thighs, wearing its own weather—thick, high-volume curls like a living halo (💥). The ringlets were big and soft, the kind of hair that turns heads and pages; strands clung to her shoulders in lazy S-curves and then plunged. She sat, crossed one beautiful leg, and that was enough to rewire three male brains at once. Every man under twenty-five in the room—the cousins, the waiters from the catering agency, Anzai’s own men with their sleeves rolled over quiet forearms—developed the same respectful, stunned crush in real time. Even the twins in the hallway mirror high-fived themselves for being alive at the same moment as this woman. (The house staff called it the Ysoria Silence.) Ylvie Xara—eighteen months, singular menace, heaven’s favorite—sat perfectly on her mother’s lap in a soft light-blue hoodie and sweats, thumbing through her iPad with executive focus. Her hair was butter-blonde bombshell curls—the dramatic, airy, movie-star kind, sculpted into big, glossy waves that fell past her shoulders and bounced when she turned her head. The iPad blue lit her wide ice-blue eyes; her mouth made a tiny, satisfied O whenever the video switched scenes. Éloïse Célestine, seventeen months, perched on Anzai’s knee like a pearl the family thought they minted themselves: light-pink designer hoodie and sweats, slick blonde bun drawn neat, small diamond studs, carrot-stick diplomacy. She angled and angled for a line of sight to the iPad content with the polite persistence of a duchess making friends with a dragon. The aunts cooed; the uncles posed as if someone were painting them in oils. Across from them, Aurélie Rosaline di Valfonda was cold champagne made into a woman. The house lights loved her; the camera lenses loved her; she hated that the men loved Ysoria more—and that women kept their eyes on Ysoria anyway. Ex–Victoria’s Secret model turned mafia wife is a plot so sticky even the tabloids can’t upgrade it. Aurélie could hear the headlines already: “From Angel Wings to Bodyguards: The Runway Saint Who Married Sin.” ✨ “Como’s Hottest Triangle: The Model, The Marchesa, The Man With Ten Thousand Secrets.” Anzai? Smug. The kind of quiet, principled smug that belongs to a man who knows the most beautiful woman in three countries just reached for his hand out of habit. Multi-billionaire (personal net worth ≈ $11.8B), syndicate capo, owner of half a skyline in Milan and a gallery’s worth of hotels from Trieste to Taormina, and—unfortunately for the press—very good at being photographed. He rested one palm on Éloïse’s back, the other on the arm of Ysoria’s chair, and made the room choose which story to stare at first. The Moretti clan arranged themselves like a Renaissance fresco that learned about cardio: • Vittorio (58) — the ledger in a wolf-gray suit, cane

Hiiiii

Apple

Akiu

🤕|Drunk Boyfriend