Page 49 of Mafia Kingdom

A fucking grenade. I didn’t expect that.

The house is silent when I return; the halls are quiet and still. I should shower, clean the blood off, change out of these ruined clothes. Instead, I find myself outside her door, drawn like a compass needle finding north.

I don't knock. I turn the handle slowly, half-expecting it to be locked as I instructed. It isn't.

The room is dim, lit only by the silver glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. For a moment, I think she's asleep, but then I see her curled in a chair by the window, a book open on her lap. She's wearing a silk robe that's slipped just enough to expose the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her collarbone.

She starts at my entrance, sitting up straight, instantly alert. "Marco?" Her eyes widen as she takes in my appearance. "What happened?"

"I’m okay," I say, closing the door behind me.

She rises from the chair, the book falling forgotten to the floor. Without hesitation, she crosses to me, reaching upto examine the cut above my eyebrow. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Her concern is achingly genuine, and it hits me like a physical blow. I'm not used to gentleness, to someone caring about my welfare. My world is built on power, on fear, on respect born from violence. Not this—not the soft touch of a woman looking at me with worry in her eyes.

"Nothing serious," I manage to say.

We're standing so close I can smell the jasmine scent of her skin, can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Her robe has slipped further, revealing more than she likely realizes. I should step back, maintain some control, but I can't make myself move.

"I was worried," she admits softly.

The confession undoes me. Years of wanting her, of denying myself, of telling myself she was better off without me in her life—all of it crumbles in the face of those three simple words.

"Were you?" I ask, my voice rough with need.

She nods, and I see the same hunger in her eyes that I know must be visible in mine.

I can't help myself. I reach out, brushing my fingers against her cheek, half-expecting her to pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.

"You should have been asleep," I say, a last attempt at restraint.

"I couldn't," she whispers.

I glance at her lips, remembering our first kiss—angry, desperate, a release of frustration. I want more. I want everything she's willing to give me.

"Sasha," I say her name like a prayer, a warning, a plea.

She answers by closing the distance between us, pressing her lips to mine.

The kiss shatters what little control I have left. This isn't like before—this is deeper, slower, a culmination of years of wanting. I slide my hands into her hair, cradling her head as I deepen the kiss, and she melts against me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.

She tastes like everything I've ever denied myself, sweet and intoxicating. Her hands move to my shirt, working the buttons open with trembling fingers, and I break the kiss only to trail my lips down her neck, across her collarbone, unable to get enough of her.

"We shouldn't," I murmur against her skin, even as my hands work the knot of her robe loose.

"I know," she agrees, helping me shrug off my shirt.

"You're leaving in a day," I remind us both, my voice strained as her robe falls open, revealing her body in the moonlight.

She meets my gaze steadily, unflinching. "Then we have tonight."

In that moment, looking into her eyes, I know I'm lost. I've wanted this woman for years, kept my distance, told myself she deserved better. But tonight, she's choosing me, and I don't have the strength to deny us both any longer.

I lift her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed, marveling at how right she feels in my arms. I lay her down gently, taking a moment to simply look at her—the woman who's haunted my thoughts for so long, now here, real, wanting me as much as I want her.

"You're so beautiful," I tell her, my voice reverent as I join her on the bed. "I've wanted you for so long."

Her eyes widen slightly. "How long?"

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