My monster.My protector.
When I sink down onto him, it’s not frantic or desperate.It’s grounding.I ride him slowly, drawing pleasure from him like a slow-burn vengeance against the world that tried to take me.Against the hands that touched me without permission.
But this…this is mine.
Damiano’s head falls back, a strangled sound leaving his throat.He holds back, trembling under my control, letting me push him to the edge.And when I bring us both over, it’s like reclaiming every piece of myself that fear tried to steal.
Afterward, he pulls me into his chest, his breath ragged against my temple.He runs his hand through my hair and whispers into the quiet, “You own me, little flower.Body, soul…darkness and all.”
I don’t say anything.I don’t have to.I already know.
* * * *
Damiano
She only spent one night in that goddamn place, thank fucking God.But it was enough to light hellfire in my veins.One night, and I will burn the entire world down for what they did.
Lily hasn’t said much about it.She won’t let me coddle her.She doesn’t cry, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t beg for space.She moves through the days with quiet defiance in her eyes, her chin held high even when the shadows circle under her lashes.
But I still hear the nightmares.I wake to her soft, gasping breaths, the tension vibrating through her as she curls closer in our bed.She never asks for comfort but she still reaches for it in the dark.I hold her without saying a word, anchoring her to the present, to me.And she never pulls away.
During the day, she carries herself like she is fine.But I see the way her fingers twitch when she passes a dark hallway.The way she hesitates and scans a room before she steps inside.The way she keeps her back to the wall when she thinks I’m not watching.She is strong, fierce, even in pain.But I know what damage looks like when it hides beneath armor.And I won’t let it fester.So while she pretends not to be haunted, I do what I do best.
I hunt.
Gian Mancini’s trafficking network wasn’t a local operation—it stretched like rot through multiple cities.I’ve pulled every string, threatened every coward in a tailored suit who thought hiding behind money would protect them.It didn’t.
By the end of the week, every man connected to Gian is either dead, missing or begging for mercy they won’t get.Lucas handles the logistics.Matteo runs the cleanup.I oversee every single strike.And when it’s done, I stand over the ashes of the Mancini empire and know I’ve only begun.
Lily doesn’t ask about it, but her eyes soften when I come home, sometimes covered in blood that isn’t mine.She never asks me to stop, though.
Tonight, after the last deal has been crushed and the last safe house breached, I come back to the penthouse and find her on the balcony, barefoot, wrapped in one of my shirts, hair dancing in the wind like liquid silk.“You’re home,” she says, her voice calm, steady.
“I always come back to you.”She gives me a small smile and leans against me when I wrap my arms around her from behind.We stand there for a while, silent.The city glows below, and for once, it doesn’t feel like it’s on fire.She tilts her head to look at me.“You got them all, didn’t you?”
I nod.“Every last one.”
She doesn’t flinch.“Good.”
Her gaze wanders back to the view, assessing the city in the glowing light.Her kingdom.Does she know that all of this is hers if only she wanted?
“My mother was my father’s mistress.”Her voice is barely a whisper.I tighten my arms around her, wanting to shield her from her past, but I know she needs to tell me.I kiss her temple to urge her to go on.“She was miserable as long as I could remember.I watched her light fade day by day.It was as if she was a shadow posing as a human.In… In the end when she knew she was…” Her voice breaks and she takes a steadying breath.“She warned me away.From this life, from thefamiglia.From men like Father, like Gian.”
She raises her face to mine, eyes burning.“From men like you.”
And just like that, my breath rushes out of my lungs, a sick, gut-wrenching feeling claws up my throat and I can’t breathe.
“Little flower…” I rasp.
She turns around in my arms and puts her hands on my chest, eyes locked on mine.“But I am not my mother.And you are not like Gian or Father.”She slides her small hands up my neck to the back of my head and pulls my head down to her.My heart starts to beat again when our lips connect.
Later that night, when we lie in bed, her body soft against mine, I brush her hair back from her face and kiss her temple.“You’re safe,” I murmur.“No one will ever touch you again.”
“I know,” she whispers, nestling closer.But I hear the faint tremble in her voice.I feel the tension in her back.I know she’s still not sleeping through the night.She’s healing, yes.But even the strongest hearts can bruise.I press a kiss to her shoulder and say, “I want to bring someone in to talk with you.A therapist, someone we trust.You don’t have to say yes right away.Just think about it.”
She’s quiet for a moment.Then she asks, “You think I need fixing?”
“No,” I say without hesitation.“I think you’ve been carrying everything alone, and maybe…maybe you don’t have to.”
