Chapter 11 – The King’s Throne Isn’t Safe

The flames still burned long after the body of Giovanni Costa turned to ash. The villa was a smoldering ruin, its walls collapsing under the weight of fire and vengeance. Luciano stood in the distance, watching, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

It was done. Giovanni was dead. His empire crumbled. His name erased.

But victory never tasted as sweet as people imagined. Especially not in this world.

Sergio walked up, wiping blood from his gloves. "That's the last of 'em. None made it out."

Marco lit a cigarette, watching the fire with cold satisfaction. "Hell of a statement."

Valentina holstered her pistol, her lips twitching into a sharp smile. "The city will feel this. Every rat in the underworld knows now—there's only one king left standing."

Luciano didn't respond at first. His eyes were locked on the flames, but his mind... it was somewhere else. On someone else.

Ariana.

He turned suddenly. "Let's move."

The drive back to the penthouse felt longer than any war he'd fought. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, faster, sharper, more restless with every mile. It wasn't just the violence. It wasn't just the blood.

It was the growing realization that for the first time in years, someone mattered more to him than power.

The moment the elevator doors opened, Ariana was there, pacing. Her eyes widened when she saw him—alive, blood-splattered but standing. Without thinking, without a single word, she ran straight into his arms.

His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him like the entire world depended on it. Her face buried in his chest. His lips pressed against her hair.

"You came back," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"I always will." His voice was rougher than he meant, but true. Raw.

Her hands trembled as she gripped the fabric of his shirt. "I was so scared... I kept thinking... what if you didn't..."

"Shh..." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "I told you. Nothing happens to me. Not while I have a reason to come back."

Her breath hitched. Their eyes locked. Close. Too close.

His thumb brushed her lower lip.

Neither moved.

And then they did—both at once. His mouth crashed against hers, demanding, claiming. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands slid around her waist, lifting her, pressing her against the wall.

There was nothing soft about it. Nothing hesitant. It was fire. Hunger. Desperation.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, her forehead pressed against his. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Luciano... what are we doing...?"

His answer was a whisper against her lips. "Something we both can't stop."

But even as passion tangled between them, the shadows outside weren't done stirring.

Far from it.

Because across the city, in a dark room filled with smoke and whispers, a phone buzzed.

A man with cold eyes answered.

"Giovanni's dead," the voice on the other end said.

The man didn't flinch. "I know."

"What do we do?"

His fingers tapped the glass of whiskey in front of him. "Prepare the next move."

"But the De Luca boy..."

"Isn't the problem. Not yet."

The man leaned forward, eyes sharp as razors.

"The problem... is that he doesn't know who his real enemies are."