Adriana's POV
9:02 AM – The De Luca Safehouse, Closet
Zia Maria cornered me with silk.
Dozens of scarves—crimson, midnight black, woven gold—were spread across the mattress like a vibrant, dissected crime scene.
"Pick," she commanded, leaning casually against the dark wood vanity with an espresso in one hand and the short-barreled shotgun resting against her hip. "Unless you want my men starting a blood feud over the state of that neck."
I reached up, my fingers lightly touching the silk already tied at my throat. Beneath the fabric, the two marks felt alive, burning with a lingering heat. His mouth. His teeth. His absolute claim.
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice tight.
"Liar." Zia Maria plucked a blood-red scarf from the pile, holding it up to the light. "This one matches the flush on your face whenever he looks at you."
The heavy oak door swung open before I could reply. No knock.
Alessio.
He wore a fresh black shirt, left completely unbuttoned to accommodate the heavy bandages hiding his stitches. His dark hair was still wet from the shower. He stood in the doorway looking like a lethal contradiction—as if sin and salvation had collided to create something entirely devastating.
"Zia," he said, his voice flat and cutting. "Out."
"No." She tossed the red scarf onto the bed toward me. "She needs armor. Your mouth is a weapon, Alessio."
Alessio's dark eyes instantly dropped to the column of my neck. His gaze was heavy, sudden, and scorching hot against my skin.
"Leave," he told her. The command was soft, yet wrapped in an undeniable danger.
Zia Maria merely offered a mocking salute with her espresso mug. "Fine. But if she faints from blood loss to her face because of the way you look at her, I'm blaming you."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence filled the vacuum, heavy and loaded.
He walked toward me, his movements slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried. He moved with the quiet arrogance of a predator who had already won the war.
"You're hiding them," he noted, stopping inches away.
"I'm not—"
His calloused fingers caught the edge of the silk scarf at my throat. He tugged. It was a gentle movement, yet entirely unyielding.
The silk slipped away, pooling onto the floorboards.
His breath hitched, a low sound vibrating in his chest.
Two distinct marks marred my skin—dark, deep purple imprints sitting right below my ear. The visual proof of his mouth, stamped twice into my flesh.
"Mio Dio," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
He didn't touch the bruised skin. He just stared down at it as if he couldn't believe he had been permitted to leave such a mark. Like I was a priceless canvas, and he was the artist who had claimed it.
"Does it hurt?" The question was raw, his voice completely wrecked.
"No." I swallowed hard, looking up into his dark eyes. "Yes. But not how you think."
He closed the remaining distance, pressing his chest firmly against mine. His heat enveloped me instantly, bringing the scent of clean soap, fresh copper, and the distinct, intoxicating aroma that belonged only to him.
"Then how?" he murmured, his forehead resting heavily against mine.
"Like you're buried deep inside my skin. Like even when your hands aren't on me, I can still feel the weight of you."
His large hands came up, framing my face, his thumbs brushing softly along my cheekbones in a gesture that felt terrifyingly reverent.
"Good," he growled low in his throat. "Because I feel you everywhere. All the damn time. Even when you aren't in the room, principessa."
He crashed his mouth into mine. It wasn't hungry or desperate this time. It was a slow, consuming kiss, deep and heavy, as if he were praying and I was the only god he recognized.
His lips tracked down my jawline, moving down to the column of my throat. He stopped right above the bruised swelling, refusing to press hard against the injury, choosing instead to let his hot breath ghost over the marks.
"Zia's right,"he muttered against my skin, his grip tightening on my face. "My men would kill just to put marks like these on you."
"Let them try."" I fisted my hands into the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer until the heat of his bare chest burned through my clothes. "I'm not theirs."
His teeth grazed the very edge of the first bruise—a sharp, electric promise that made me shiver.
"No," he agreed, his voice dropping into a register of pure possession. "You're mine."
He reached down, picking up the crimson scarf from the bed, and wrapped it around my neck himself. His movements were slow, his knuckles lingering intentionally against my collarbone as he tied it loosely.
"There," he murmured, smoothing down the edges of the silk. "Now they know you are thoroughly taken. But only we know the truth behind why."
I looked up down the length of his nose. "And why is that?"
His smile was wolfish—soft, ruined, and entirely dangerous. "Because you let me," he whispered, leaning down to press a firm kiss to my forehead. "Because you chose me when I was actively dying. Even when I was nothing more than a broken body covered in blood and terrible decisions."
"You were never nothing to me, Alessio."
His dark eyes went glossy for a split second, a rare vulnerability he instantly blinked away. Alessio De Luca didn't cry. He didn't break.
But the way he pulled me into his arms—holding me as if I were the single anchor keeping him tied to the earth—told me everything.
"Come on," he said after a long, quiet minute, his voice rough. "Zia's downstairs making her famous cannoli. She claims it's for my recovery."
"Is it?"
"No." A brilliant, genuine grin broke through his hard exterior. "It's pure bribery. She wants to ensure you stay right here."
He grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers tightly through mine, and led me toward the closet exit.
He reached the heavy door, gripped the handle, and suddenly stopped dead.
He turned back to face me, his gaze dropping to the crimson silk hiding my skin.
"Take it off," he ordered. His voice was incredibly quiet, yet filled with a sudden, absolute weight.
"What?"
"The scarf." His eyes burned like black fire, tracking the line of my throat. "In my house, surrounded by my family, you do not hide from me. Especially not from them."
I reached up, unwinding the red silk, and let it fall uselessly to the floorboards.
His gaze dropped to the exposed purple brands. Possessive. Unapologetically proud.
"Better." He leaned down, catching the corner of my mouth in a brief, heavy kiss. ""Now they will see. Now they will know."
"Know what?" I whispered.
He threw the heavy door open. He offered a sharp nod to the two heavily armed guards stationed right outside the threshold. The men instantly went pale, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of the dark marks tracking down my neck.
"That the Don is off the market," Alessio murmured, his hand tightening around mine until it nearly hurt. "Permanently."
Before we could take a step down the corridor, he pulled me backward, caging me flat against the heavy oak door. He didn't slam me, and he didn't trap me aggressively—he just moved his massive frame forward, caging my body completely beneath his, shielding me from the hallway.
"Alessio," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs as I glanced toward the corridor. "The guards—"
"Can wait." His hands settled heavily onto my hips, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. Skin on skin. Absolute dominance. "They have waited twenty-eight years for me to look like this. They can damn well wait five more minutes."
"Like what?"
"Alive." His forehead rested against mine again, his eyes shutting tight as if fighting off a memory. "You don't comprehend what you did, principessa. Three bullets. A flatline on the table. And all I could hear through the darkness was your voice screaming, 'Come back to me, you bastard.'"
A choked laugh escaped my throat. "I didn't say bastard."
"You did," he whispered, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke. "You said it loud enough for the doctors to hear. Loud enough for God to hear. You didn't leave me a choice but to wake up."
His thumb reached up, slowly tracing over the lower purple mark—the second one he had left, the one made with a softer, lingering touch. Like an apology.
"I mean it," he said, the quiet intensity in his voice chilling my blood. "Per sempre. Even if Moretti brings his entire army. Even if the syndicate burns to the ground. You go first. Always."
"Don't talk like that." I fisted my hands tighter into the fabric of his shirt, my voice trembling with a rare, desperate anger. "You are not going to fucking die again. I won't let you."
"No," he agreed. He leaned down and kissed me—once, hard, definitive. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a blood oath stamped against my lips. "Because I actually have something to live for now."
He stepped back slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he pulled the crimson silk scarf from the floor. He didn't offer a playful gesture. Instead, he simply folded the fabric with a cold, deliberate precision and shoved it deep into his pocket.
"For later," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, low register that promised absolute ruin. "In case I need to remind you—and everyone else—exactly who you belong to."
10:47 AM – The Kitchen
When we finally made it downstairs, the atmosphere in the kitchen turned thick with unspoken tension.
Zia Maria took one long look at my bare neck. Her eyes locked onto the two deep purple marks blooming against my skin, and then tracked down to the way Alessio's heavy thumb kept slowly brushing over the swelling flesh, as if he literally couldn't help himself from touching his brand.
She didn't say a single word. Her face remained a mask of pure, hardened stone.
Silently, she slid a plate of fresh cannoli toward me across the marble island. Then, she reached for the pot and poured a third black espresso.
Only then did she look directly at her nephew.
"You're smiling again," she noted, her voice smooth and entirely unbothered by the lethal aura radiating off him. "The boy smile."
Alessio didn't bother to deny it. He didn't even blink. Moving with an arrogant, unhurried possessiveness, he reached out and dragged my chair forcefully closer to his, closing the distance between our bodies until my thigh was flush against his. He casually reached onto my plate, taking a bite of the pastry, before sliding my espresso across the counter and taking a long sip.
"Problem, Zia?" he asked, a dangerous, low vibration shaking his chest.
"No." She reached down behind the counter, her manicured fingers wrapping around the grip of her short-barreled shotgun. She lifted the weapon onto the marble, checking the chamber with a sharp, heavy click. "Just thinking Moretti is going to die mad when he finally realizes exactly what he lost to you."
The mention of the name hung in the air like a death sentence.
Alessio's massive arm shifted, wrapping securely around the back of my chair. His long fingers slid upward, burying beneath the weight of my hair to press flat against the back of my neck. His palm settled directly over the dark purple brands. Holding me. Crucially, claiming me in front of the only family he had left.
"Let him come," Alessio growled, his gaze turning completely black, dilated with a lethal, predatory promise. "He will see exactly what it costs to touch what is mine."
The sheer danger of his world pressed in on us from every side, but looking at him, the fear melted away. I leaned heavily into his touch. Into his heat. Into the only version of home I had left.
I leaned closer, tilting my head up to whisper a vow meant for his ears alone:
"Yours. Always."