Chapter 31 31

Chapter 31 31
Aurora
Tomorrow is my birthday, and Lorenzo’s too. We’re twins after all. The celebration will be on my father’s yacht… no, it’s mine now. Everything he left behind, his empire, his legacy, it’s all mine to carry. I’ve planned something big but intimate: only young blood, no old guards. I’ve invited Sophia, Giovanni, Damiano and his brothers, Ricco—my right hand—and Lorenzo’s circle of cousins and close friends.
The message I sent was simple: Tuesday, 12th August. My birthday. On the yacht. It will be an honor to see you.Damiano replied with a short Okay. Typical.
Now, I’m in my luxurious apartment, one leg curled beneath me on the velvet couch, the other stretched out. A glass of red wine in my hand, an oversized pink shirt draped over me, bare underneath. The city lights shimmer outside the tall glass doors, and the pool on the terrace reflects neon hues. It’s 11:30 PM.
But something’s missing.
The warmth. The arms that once wrapped around me like armor.
Damiano.
The silence of his absence is screaming in my chest.
Then fifteen minutes before midnight the doorbell rings.
I freeze. My heart skips. Cautiously, I grab a kitchen knife and pad toward the door barefoot. I open it.
And there he is.
Damiano stands at my doorstep in a dark pink polo shirt, white pants, and matching shoes. His tattoos crawl down his sleeves, bold and beautiful. In one hand, a bento cake and pink balloons. In the other, a small bag. He looks devastatingly good, and worse, he smells like cigar smoke and Dior Sauvage.
Our eyes meet. And suddenly, words aren’t needed.
“We might be at war,” he says, voice low, “but I know no one else would stay up with you at midnight to make you cut your cake.”
He steps in, casually walks to the kitchen, and swipes the knife from my hand. Like he’s done this a thousand times. Like he belongs here.
Then softly, he plants a kiss on my cheek.
“One of us had to make a move instead of just hating each other,” he murmurs, with a wink that sends shivers down my spine.
He lights the 22 candle on the pink flamingo cake, sets it on the coffee table, and kneels beside it like it’s an altar. My altar.
“Birdie,” he says, “I’ve already turned twenty-two a while ago. Now it’s your turn. Don’t expect me to cut your damn cake. Get your ass here it’s almost midnight.”
A laugh escapes my lips, the kind I haven’t heard from myself in weeks.
I kneel beside him.
From the bag, he pulls out a birthday crown and gently places it on my head. I feel like his little princess, even now, even after everything.
Midnight strikes.
I blow the candle.
He feeds me a piece of cake, and I do the same. But instead of taking it from my hand, he leans forward and captures my lips. His mouth claims mine, soft, slow, intense.
For a moment… everything else vanishes.
No mafia.
No betrayal.
Just us.
Damiano’s lips press against mine with a hunger I haven’t felt in so long. His hands are steady, warm, confident, yet trembling with something deeper. Longing. Regret. Love.
He pulls away slightly, eyes searching mine. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, voice hoarse.
But I don’t. I can’t. I lean into him, pressing our foreheads together, my breath shaky against his skin. "I don’t want you to stop."
His arms are wrapped around me, our bodies warm and close on the soft fur rug. The city lights glow beyond the glass doors, but in here, in this quiet cocoon of us, nothing else exists. Just his breath against my skin. Just the weight of everything we lost, and everything we still feel.
I look up at him, my fingertips brushing along his jawline, tracing the bruise under his eye, the pain he still carries. “Damiano…” I whisper, my voice trembling, “I want to feel you. I want you to be inside me… not just in a way that’s physical. I want to feel all of you. The man I loved. The one who used to make me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.”
He pauses, eyes dark and unreadable, searching mine like he’s trying to decide if this is real or another beautiful illusion. “Birdie…” he breathes out, almost like a warning, or maybe a plea. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean every word,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “I know we’re standing on a cliff, and maybe we’ll fall again. But for tonight… just love me like you used to. Like I’m yours. No war, no lies, no pain. Just you and me.”
His hand cups my face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “I don’t know how to be gentle anymore,” he murmurs.
“Then relearn with me,” I whisper, leaning into him. “Show me you still remember how.”
He kisses me softly then, not with the fire of anger or lust, but with something far more devastating. Love. His lips linger over mine, slow and aching, like he’s memorizing the taste of me all over again. His hands roam my body with reverence, not urgency. Each touch is a confession. Each breath is a promise.
His eyes search mine one last time, as if asking for permission, one he doesn’t need, but still silently seeks. I nod, breathless, my fingers tightening against his back. He leans in, kissing me with tenderness that melts through every guarded part of me, and slowly, he becomes one with me.
Our breaths tangle, bodies moving in a rhythm that feels as ancient as time, as natural as the tides. There’s no rush, no chaos—just us, reconnecting in the quiet ache of something deeper than desire. My hands grip the fur beneath us while his name escapes my lips in a trembling sigh.
Every movement feels like a vow, every kiss like an apology we never said out loud.
Minutes stretch, slow and golden, and when the wave builds between us—hot, overwhelming, sacred—it takes everything with it. My release finds me in a gasp that leaves me shaking in his arms, and seconds later, he follows, his face buried in the crook of my neck, holding me like he never wants to let go.
The world stills.
All that remains is the rise and fall of our breath, the warmth of his skin against mine, and the silence between heartbeats that feels like home.
He brushes a damp strand of hair away from my forehead and whispers, "No matter what happens tomorrow… you’ll always be the part of me I never stopped loving."
And though I don’t answer right away, I know he feels it in the way I hold him tighter.

Damiano stands by the edge of the bed, slipping his white shoes back on with quiet precision. The room is hushed except for the slow hum of the city outside. It’s 4 a.m., but the sky is still dark—just like the secrets between us.
I stir beneath the sheets, my body still warm from his touch. I blink slowly, adjusting to the dim light. He’s fully dressed now, the pink polo shirt softening his usual dangerous edge. It's the first time I’ve seen him wear anything but black. He looks like a different man—less like the mafia heir, more like the boy who once made my heart race with a single glance.
He notices I’m awake. His expression tightens with conflict, and he moves closer.
“I should go before someone sees me,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere. “We should keep our relationship private… Rizzoto is always watching.”
I sit up a little, clutching the sheet to my chest, heart aching.
He leans in, cups my jaw with a tenderness I haven’t felt in so long, and presses a lingering kiss on my lips.
“I love you, Birdie,” he whispers against my skin. “I always will. Happy birthday… see you on the yacht.”
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the early morning shadows, leaving behind only the scent of his cologne and the memory of everything we’re forced to hide.