Page 142 of King of Omen

‘I understand, honey,’ I said, squeezing him tighter and lending him my quiet, unwavering support.

‘The battle isn’t over,’ my man murmured. ‘Someone once said the mafia is Medusa-like, and like the myth, no matter how many times you cut off its snakeheads, more sprout in their place. My prayer is that we’ve escaped the worst of our nightmare.’

The following day, Lorenzo disappeared until mid-afternoon, telling me he’d had an important errand.

I lost myself in the breathtaking views of his home, the ocean, and the vibrant colours of the sea and garden. I spent time in the kitchen with Lorenzo’s housekeeper, Mrs Venetio, with whom I practised my rudimentary Italian.

When he returned to pick me up, my man had a shit-eating grin.

‘What’s made you so happy, honey?’ I asked as he whisked me away for an early meal.

‘I stared at evil in the form of an old man and lived,’ he murmured from behind the wheel.

While Mauri flew with us to Italy on this trip, Lorenzo had given him a few weeks off, so a second SUV followed ours as our security detail.

‘Tell me more,’ I invited, intrigued.

Lorenzo sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘I wish it, bella, but this one stays at the highest level of Omertà. What I can say is, a mali estremi, estremi rimedi. To extreme evils, drastic remedies.’

‘You mean desperate times call for radical measures?’ I clarified.

He nodded with a curl to his lips. ‘Esattamente.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’

His jaw tightened, and I glanced away with a smile, dropping the topic. Perhaps it was for the best.

Minutes later, we soon strolled into a magnificent restaurant with one of the finest sea views I’d ever seen.

Our stunning meal was served in a romantic, laid-back atmosphere on an outdoor patio overlooking the bay. Every bite, from the fresh prawns to the tender squid and buttered grilled fish, was packed with genuine Mediterranean ingredients and experiments with sweetness, acidity and superb flavour.

Later, we wandered hand-in-hand through the cobblestone streets.

We rambled past the city’s inset shrines, walled-in memory boxes depicting loved ones long lost. We explored the historic heart of the city, its nooks and crannies, and its delightful small markets.

‘Do you miss it?’ I asked my love.

His face clouded for a moment. ‘I do. Most people in Australia think I was mad to leave this place. But it holds too many sad memories for me, bella. You and my new life are what I want to cherish. I can always visit Naples.’

At the Mermaid’s Fountain, one of the most beautiful in the city, located in Sannazaro Square, Lorenzo nabbed me at the waist and danced with me in his arms.

Gliding together, the splendour of the breathtaking night ambience and the lights reflecting off the water created a perfect and molto romantico moment.

Later, we drove home, thrumming with passion for each other.

We raced up the steps from the driveway and into the villa.

He chased me to our room, where I fell laughing on the bed as our lips melded, hands working over our skin in a rush of desire.

I twisted into his arms as he locked them around me, one hand in my auburn hair tugging back, his mouth crashing down with fever.

He took my lips without mercy, the kiss scorching in seconds.

Thrusting his tongue inside me with a feral growl that shot right through me, straight through, down deep, detonating between my legs.

Lorenzo bent over me, tongue snaking, licking, fingers sliding, stroking, owning me. One hand slid under my hips, pushing me up against his hard length.

I swayed, savouring his firm lips, his musk, and his sizeable muscled frame I’d never tire of.

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