Chapter 7 " war" titled Chapter
The yacht’s shower steamed around them, salt water turning to fresh as Lucas washed the day from Elana’s skin. His palms slid over her shoulders, down the curve of her back, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch. She leaned into him, eyes closed, the world reduced to the rhythm of his hands and the soft hush of waves against the hull. When they were clean, he wrapped her in a towel thick as a cloud and carried her to bed. They fell asleep tangled, her head on his chest, his arm locked around her waist, the ocean rocking them like a lullaby.
At 3:17 a.m. the phone screamed.
Lucas was upright before the second ring, gun already in his hand.
“Talk.”
The voice on the other end was clipped, panicked. “Warehouses in Naples and Marseille torched. Men dead. They’re moving on the ports next.”
“FUCK!”
The roar cracked the silence. He hurled the phone; it shattered against the teak wall. His men flinched in the doorway. “WHO LET THIS HAPPEN?” No one answered.
Then he saw her.
Elana, curled on her side, eyes half-open, exhausted from the sun and sex and love. The rage in him collapsed like a house of cards. He exhaled, sharp and broken, and knelt beside the bed.
He dressed in black suit, holster, knife. From the wardrobe he took one of his white dress shirts and her faded denim shorts. He peeled the silk blanket back with infinite care, slid the shirt over her arms, buttoned it halfway so it hung loose, his scent clinging to her skin. He lifted her hips, eased the shorts up, fastened them. She murmured his name but didn’t wake.
The helicopter waited on the aft deck, blades slicing the night. He carried her light as a promise—up the steps and settled into the leather seat. She slept in his lap, one fist curled in his shirt, the other flat over his heart. He stared out the window at the shrinking island and swore to whatever god was listening that he would come back.
They landed on the mansion’s helipad at 4:58 a.m. He carried her through marble corridors lit only by low sconces, past silent guards, into the master bedroom. He laid her on the bed, tucked the duvet around her shoulders, smoothed a strand of hair from her cheek.
She stirred.
“Don’t go…”
The words were barely a breath, cracked with sleep and fear.
“I have to, baby. Work. I’ll be back in a day. Take care, okay, butterfly?”
Her lashes lifted; tears glinted.
“You will come back… right?”
He knelt, kissed her forehead slow and lingering, then her mouth soft and deep, sealing the vow.
“Of course, my love.”
He rose.
Couldn’t look back.
The door closed. The helicopter roared into the night.
Two days later, Elana hadn’t left the bed.
His shirt still on her. His scent fading.
She stared at the phone.
47 messages sent.
0 delivered.
0 read.
“Lucas… where are you…?”
Her voice cracked.
“You’re okay, right…?”
“Your work is dangerous… I’m praying to God… for your safety…”.
“You’re the only person in this whole world for me…”
Tears fell. She clutched his pillow, inhaled what little of him remained.
Please come back. Please..
On the third day the phone stayed silent.
She sat by the window, knees to chest, his shirt swallowing her.
The guards wouldn’t meet her eyes.
The mansion felt like a tomb..
“Lucas… please…”
She whispered to the empty room.
“Just once… call me…”
The silence answered.
On other side
Day 1 – Naples, 5:30 a.m.
The helicopter touched down on a private airstrip outside the city. Lucas stepped out into the acrid haze of smoke still rising from the port. Twelve of his best men waited black SUVs idling, rifles loaded. No words. Just nods.
He walked the ashes of Warehouse 7 first.
Boots crunched over melted crates, spent casings, and the charred remains of three loyal soldiers. He knelt beside one body, closed the man’s eyes, and whispered a promise in Italian.
Then he stood, face carved from stone, and gave the order:
“Find Enzo Rossi. Bring him breathing.”
By 7:00 a.m. he was in a safehouse beneath a fish market, sleeves rolled, knuckles already split.
Enzo was dragged in zip-tied, bleeding from the mouth.
Lucas didn’t speak. He just picked up a rusted cleaver.
Forty-three minutes later, Enzo gave up the Camorra lieutenant’s name, the Corsican contact, and the location of the next planned hit.
Lucas slit his throat with the same cleaver.
Left the body for the rats.
At noon he was on a speedboat to Marseille.
No sleep. Just coffee, rage, and the low hum of the engine.
He landed at dusk, met by six more men.
Marie Duval’s trail led to an old cannery in the Vieux-Port.
They breached at 11:47 p.m.
Gunfire. Screams. Blood on concrete.
Marie tried to run.
He caught her by the hair, slammed her against a crate of melted diamonds.
She spat in his face.
He broke her wrist, took her phone, and left her alive barely.
A message
Day 2 – Marseille to Naples, 3:00 a.m.
Back in Naples by private jet
He slept thirty minutes on the tarmac, gun in his lap.
At 4:00 a.m. he was in the Camorra lieutenant’s villa.
The man woke to a knife at his throat.
Lucas didn’t ask questions.
He carved the truth out of him slowly, deliberately.
By sunrise, the lieutenant was hanging from his own chandelier, throat opened, a warning scrawled in blood on the wall:
TOUCH WHAT’S MINE AGAIN AND I BURN YOUR WORLD.
At 9:00 a.m. he stood on the docks, phone finally in hand.
No messages sent.
No calls made.
He stared at the screen (Elana’s name glowing).
Thumb hovered.
He couldn’t type.
Couldn’t call.
Not yet.
Not until the last body dropped.
By noon he was in a safehouse shower, blood swirling down the drain.
He dressed in fresh black.
Loaded a new clip.
Looked in the mirror.
Two days. One more hit. Then home.
He boarded the chopper at 2:00 p.m.
Naples behind him.
Marseille secured.
The war paused but not over.
He closed his eyes for the first time in forty-eight hours.
Elana.
Soon.
The mansion was still cloaked in pre-dawn hush when the chopper blades faded into silence. Lucas stepped out soaked in blood his own, theirs, it didn’t matter. The metallic reek clung to his skin, his hair, the black fabric of his suit. He moved like a ghost through the marble corridors, boots leaving faint crimson prints that the staff would scrub away before sunrise.
He slipped into the master bedroom without a sound.
Elana slept on her side, curled into the pillow that still smelled of him. She wore his white dress shirt, buttons strained across her breasts, hem riding high on her thighs. Tears had dried in silver tracks on her cheeks.
His heart cracked.
He went straight to the en-suite, stripped off the ruined clothes, and stood under the scalding shower for twenty silent minutes. Blood swirled pink, then clear. He scrubbed until his skin stung, until the water ran cold.
When he emerged, towel knotted low on his hips, steam trailing him like smoke, he stopped at the foot of the bed.
She hadn’t moved.
He smiled small, broken, tender.
Kneeling on the mattress, he brushed his lips over hers soft, reverent.
Then he slid in behind her, towel gone, skin still hot from the shower.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest.
“Lucas…” she murmured, half-dreaming.
“Yes, baby. Sleep.”
She sighed and melted back into him.
His fingers found the shirt buttons.
One.
Two.
Three.
He didn’t bother with the rest he ripped.
Fabric tore with a sharp rrrip, falling open to reveal black lace bra and matching panties.
He unhooked the bra with a flick, tossed it into the shadows.
“My cherries,” he growled, voice gravel and hunger. “Haven’t tasted them in two days.”
He latched onto her left nipple hard, possessive suction, tongue swirling, teeth grazing.
His hand slid down, fingers hooking the lace at her hip.
RIP.
Panties shredded.
He rubbed her clit with his thumb slow circles, then faster, rougher.
She moaned, “Ahhh…”
“Yes, baby,” he rasped against her breast.
“This pussy MINE missed my cock?”
“Hmmm…” she whimpered, hips already rolling.
“Lucas…” she moaned, voice thick with sleep and need.
“Like what you feel?” he asked, lips still grazing her nipple..
“Umm… you…” she breathed, arching into him.
“Can I suck you down between your legs?” he growled, eyes dark with hunger.
“Yes… please…” she whispered, trembling.
He left her breasts with a final bite and ripped the sheets away.
Pushed her thighs apart.
Buried his face between her legs.
“Ahhhh, Lucas!”
His tongue plunged deep, lapping at her folds, sucking her clit with feral hunger.
She tasted like salt and sweetness, like home after war.
“Ahhh… oh my god… slow…” she gasped, fingers clawing the sheets.
He only growled and sucked harder, wilder, tongue flicking, teeth grazing.
Her legs shook uncontrollably, thighs clamping around his head.
“Come for me, baby,” he rasped against her pussy.
She shattered..
Squirted hard, hot and sweet, flooding his tongue.
He drank it all every drop, licking her clean, groaning like a starving man.
“Baby… can I fuck you on the swing in the balcony?” he asked, voice raw.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He ordered.
“Hmm…” she whimpered, still trembling.
He scooped her up naked, slick, his—and carried her through the glass doors.
The balcony swing hung from thick chains, cushioned in white, swaying gently in the dawn breeze.
He laid her down, slid a velvet pillow beneath her hips.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, eyes raking over her—legs spread, pussy glistening, breasts heaving.
He climbed over her.
Cock hard, barbell glinting with her juices.
One thrust deep, brutal.
She screamed.
He pounded.
Skin slapped skin.
Saliva dripped from his mouth onto her breasts as he sucked and bit.
His pre-cum and her wetness smeared across her navel, her thighs
Sweat poured his, hers mixing with the mess between them.
His cum from earlier leaked from her pussy, coating his shaft, dripping down her ass.
He grabbed the swing’s chains, used them to pull her harder onto his cock.
Each thrust lifted her hips, barbell scraping her G-spot, cervix kissing the tip.
Her breasts bounced wildly, nipples raw from his teeth.
Saliva trailed from his tongue as he licked a stripe up her throat, her jaw, her lips.
“Fuck take it take your husband,” he roared, voice breaking.
She clawed his back, nails drawing blood.
“Lucas yes harder!”
He flipped the swing, bent her over it, ass up.
Entered from behind savage, relentless.
One hand fisted her hair, the other spanking her ass red.
His balls slapped her clit with every thrust.
Cum and squirt dripped down her thighs, pooling on the cushion.
He pulled out, spun her again, lifted her legs over his shoulders.
Thrust deep eyes locked.
Came with a guttural roar, flooding her again, thick and hot.
She squirted one final time, soaking his abs, his chest.
They collapsed into the swing, bodies slick with sweat, saliva, cum his semen streaking her breasts, her navel, her inner thighs.
He kissed her slow, tasting himself on her lips.
He had her bent over the swing, hips slamming, chains rattling like war drums.
Her screams echoed off the balcony rail.
His hands gripped the velvet cushion, pulling her back onto his cock with every thrust.
The barbell dragged deep, her pussy clenching, squirting, drowning him.
“Lucas fuck !”
She clawed the chains..
He roared, spanked her ass raw.
CRACK.
The left chain snapped.
The swing lurched..
He caught her mid-fall, one arm around her waist, the other still buried in her hair
The right chain followed (SNAP) and the whole thing crashed to the marble floor in a tangle of velvet, wood, and twisted metal.
They didn’t stop.
He flipped her onto the wreckage, her back on the broken cushion, legs over his shoulders.
Thrust in again harder .
The swing’s frame groaned beneath them.
Wood splintered.
Chains clattered..
“Fuck the swing,” he snarled, pounding.
Her tits bounced, nipples raw.
Saliva dripped from his mouth onto her throat.
His cum and her squirt soaked the debris.
She came screaming , pussy pulsing, legs shaking.
He followed roaring , flooding her, spilling out, painting her belly, her thighs, the ruined velvet.
They collapsed amid the wreckage.
The swing was destroyed.
Chains twisted.
Cushions torn.
Wood cracked.
He pulled her into his lap, both panting, slick with sweat, cum, and dawn light.
She laughed breathless, delirious.
“You broke the swing.”
He kissed her, teeth clashing.
“I’ll buy a stronger one.”
She curled into him, fingers tracing the blood on his knuckles.
“Don’t leave again.”.
“Never.”
The sun climbed.
The balcony smelled of sex, salt, and broken wood.
War waited outside.
But here, in the ruins of a swing, they were whole.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of steam and marble, lit only by a constellation of thick ivory candles that lined the sunken tub’s edge.
The tub itself was carved from a single slab of black onyx, deep enough to swallow them both, wide enough for empires.
Water lapped at Elana’s collarbones, rose petals drifting across the surface like crimson boats.
Behind her, Lucas was a wall of heat and muscle, his scarred chest pressed to her spine, arms caged loosely around her waist.
His chin rested in the damp nest of her hair, breath slow and steady, the only sound beyond the soft plink of water against stone.
She had been quiet for too long.
Her fingers traced idle circles in the bubbles, then stilled.
Her teeth worried her lower lip until it flushed dark pink.
A tremor ran through her shoulders.
Lucas felt it instantly.
His arms tightened, just enough to remind her she was anchored.
“What happened, baby?”
His voice was low, rough from two days of shouting orders and breaking bones, but for her it softened into velvet.
“Just ask. You don’t need to be afraid. Not unless it’s you getting hurt.”
She swallowed.
The sound was audible in the hush.
Her hands fisted under the water, knuckles white.
“I want to read further…”
The words spilled out, small and trembling, but gaining strength with every syllable.
“I was only homeschooled. Because of… the legal pressure. The threats. The safehouses. I never got to sit in a real classroom. Never held a college textbook that wasn’t smuggled in. I want to study. Please. I want to be independent.”
She turned in the water, knees sliding against his thighs, rose petals clinging to her skin like kisses.
Her eyes (emerald, glassy with unshed tears) searched his face.
“I want to stand on my own. I want to know I can.”
Silence.
A single candle sputtered.
Then Lucas moved.
One hand rose from the water, droplets cascading down his forearm like liquid diamonds.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Leaned in.
Kissed her forehead slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that sealed oaths.
“You want to read? You will.”
His voice was steel wrapped in silk.
“Nobody stops my wife. Not the Camorra. Not the Corse. Not the fucking world.”
She blinked.
Water trembled on her lashes.
“You… have no problem with me being independent?”
He laughed deep, rumbling, the sound vibrating through her back.
“Why the hell would I?”
His other hand slid up her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades.
“I can depend on you. If you become independent, I can finally rest.”
His eyes softened, storm-gray turning liquid.
“I’ll be proud of you, butterfly. Prouder than any deal I’ve ever closed, any war I’ve ever won.”
She stared.
The ruthless mafia king blood still under his nails, empires trembling at his name was looking at her like she was the only thing worth ruling.
Like her dreams were his new religion.
“Urgh,” she whispered, half-laugh, half-sob, burying her face in the hollow of his throat.
“Nobody would believe you could be this supportive.”
He pulled her closer, water sloshing over the tub’s edge, candles hissing as droplets hit flame.
“Let them choke on it.”
He kissed her then deep, claiming, gentle.
Tongue sliding against hers, tasting rosewater and salt.
His hand tangled in her wet hair, tilting her head back so he could devour her mouth like a starving man.
When he pulled away, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged.
“Tomorrow,” he said against her mouth, “we start. University. Library. Whatever you want. I’ll burn the world down to get you there.”
She buried her face in his neck, tears mixing with bathwater, rose petals sticking to her cheeks.
“Thank you…”
He held her until the water cooled.
Until the candles burned low, wax pooling like blood.
Until her future once a cage of safehouses and shadows became a sky wide enough to fly.
To be continued…