Chapter 36: Afterglow

I never believed enemies could share laughter… until you made me forget we were ever at war.

GABRIELLA

I woke cradled in warmth, the kind that wrapped around my soul as much as my skin. As my eyes fluttered open, I found myself cocooned in Alejandro’s arms—his strong chest rising and falling in rhythm beneath my cheek. He was my safe haven… the one place where danger and desire intertwined, and for once, didn’t feel like a contradiction.

He slept so peacefully, a stark contrast to the chaos he carried in his name. I let my fingers trace the sharp cut of his jaw, the sweep of his dark lashes resting on his cheeks. He looked so human like this—less like the heir to a cartel empire, and more like a man I could lose myself in.

"You know this is kind of creepy," he murmured without opening his eyes, his voice rough and teasing. I jumped, gasping in surprise.

"I thought I was being cute," I whispered, giggling softly.

In a blink, I was flat against the mattress, caged beneath him, his smirk devilish as his weight settled over me.

"You’re more than cute, my love," he said, his lips brushing my forehead. The intimacy of that one touch made my pulse trip. How could a man so dangerous make me feel so delicate?

"Good morning," I breathed.

He looked down at me, eyes dark and knowing. "Indeed it is… especially with you like this."

His gaze undressed me more effectively than his hands ever could. I turned away, cheeks flushed—me, the daughter of the Medellín cartel, the same girl who could give orders with a gun in her hand. But Alejandro? He made me blush like a schoolgirl.

“I need to get ready,” I mumbled, attempting to slip out from beneath him.

As I stood, a jolt of soreness spread through my body, a reminder of last night’s wildness. I bit back a whimper.

“You should,” he said casually, stretching as he sat up. “I have plans for you.”

A soft smile touched my lips… until I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze.

A purpling mark bloomed on my neck like a dark flower.

"You did this!" I gasped, spinning to glare at him.

He didn't even try to hide his satisfaction. “Of course I did.”

"Why? How am I supposed to hide this?"

He rose from the bed like a shadow taking form, walking toward me with calm menace and heat in his eyes. “And why would you want to?”

“Because people will know what we did!”

He only smirked. “Is that so terrible?”

“You don’t own me,” I snapped. “I’m not some piece of property you get to mark.”

He paused, inches from me now. “No, Gabriella. You’re not a possession.” His voice dropped to a velvet murmur. “But you are mine.”

I hated how those words made my breath hitch.

“You’re an animal,” I muttered, cheeks still burning. “Wild. Out of control.”

He actually laughed, then turned around, revealing long, red scratch marks clawed down his back. My mouth fell open.

“Well, you weren’t exactly tame last night either,” he said over his shoulder, amused.

“I thought men like you wanted their women wild,” I threw back.

Without waiting for a reply, I rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it, heart pounding. From the other side, I heard his voice, low and teasing.

“You can’t hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” I called out, trying not to laugh. “I’m just getting ready for our… outing ”

I turned on the water, still blushing, unable to erase the grin from my lips. I glanced down at my nails, inspecting them in disbelief. Those marks on his back… they were mine.

He brought out a version of me I never knew existed—one that was reckless, raw, and utterly his.

The shower was long and cleansing—washing away more than just the traces of last night. As the steam curled around me, I took a deep breath and let the warmth soak into my sore limbs. By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I felt a little more composed… a little more like myself.

The bedroom was quiet. Alejandro was gone.

Relief bloomed in my chest, oddly mingled with a touch of disappointment. I shook it off and moved toward the wardrobe. I slipped into a soft white crop top and paired it with a flowing bohemian skirt that danced around my ankles. Nude heels added grace, and I kept my makeup simple—dewy skin, flushed cheeks, and a soft gloss on my lips. One last glance in the mirror, and I was satisfied.

Descending the staircase, sunlight filtered through the tall windows, draping the house in gold. But what truly caught my breath was the man waiting outside.

Alejandro leaned against a deep blue, open-roof vintage car, the paint gleaming under the morning sun. His black button-down shirt hugged his frame perfectly, the top two buttons left undone in a way that was sinfully careless. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing powerful forearms dusted with ink and veined with strength. He looked like a dream someone shouldn’t be allowed to touch. Or trust.

And yet, here I was—aching for both.

When he saw me, his lips curved into a slow, appreciative smirk. He opened the passenger door with a gentleman’s grace, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Looking like this should be illegal," he murmured.

I raised an eyebrow as I stepped inside. "Flattery this early? What do you want?"

He chuckled, rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. "Just your time. We have the whole day. I planned six stops, but we can ditch any of them. Tonight’s yours too—movies, a walk on the beach, or something more private."

I couldn’t hide the surprise in my smile.

“Six places? You really planned this?”

He revved the engine, and the car purred to life. “I wanted to see you smile today.”

And I did.

Our first stop:

The Maddalena Archipelago

—a cluster of islands floating between Corsica and the northeastern tip of Sardinia. We reached Alejandro’s private beach by 9 AM and boarded a ferry to the main island. From there, a sleek motorboat sliced through crystal waters, carrying us across all seven islands.

Lush emerald forests met the impossibly blue sea, where time seemed to slow down. We wandered through cobbled streets, tasted the salt in the air, and even bartered in the local markets. I caught myself smiling too easily… too often.

At a seaside joint with faded chairs and the scent of olive oil in the breeze, we shared breakfast—baked eggs and sausage, veggie strata, creamy tiramisu crepes, and rich lattes.

I was sipping quietly, admiring the horizon, when I heard it.

Click.

I turned, catching Alejandro mid-photo.

“For the memory,” he muttered, lowering the phone almost sheepishly.

My heart stuttered. Without thinking, I stood and slid onto his lap, taking the phone from his hands.

“Then let’s make the memory worth it,” I whispered.

I flipped the camera and snapped a selfie—my hair wild, his arms around me. Another photo, this time pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“For the memory,” I echoed.

He didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes said everything.

By 11 a.m., we were back on the ferry, the salty breeze tugging at my hair as we sailed toward our second destination—

Su Nuraxi

.

The ride was quieter this time, yet not in an awkward way. Alejandro sat close, our arms brushing occasionally. He didn't speak much, but his thumb found my hand, idly tracing circles on the back of it as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I let him. And for a girl trained to mistrust touch, that was saying something.

Su Nuraxi was unlike anything I had ever seen.

As our shoes met the ancient earth of Barumini, it felt like we had stepped through a portal into a world long forgotten. The massive basalt stones stood like silent sentinels, whispering stories in a language only time could understand.

“I can see your brain ticking,” Alejandro murmured beside me, as I walked ahead, practically glowing. “You look like a kid in a library.”

I glanced back and rolled my eyes, but couldn’t hide the smile. “Because this is history. Real, tangible, untamed history.”

The central tower loomed above us—nearly 19 meters of basalt brilliance, constructed sometime between the 17th and 13th centuries BCE. My fingers brushed against the weathered stone as we stepped inside the inner chambers. They were dark and cool, with echoes of the past clinging to every crevice.

“You know,” I said, stepping through one of the old meeting huts, “this was once a place where tribal leaders gathered. They discussed power. Strategy. Worship.”

Alejandro raised a brow, his eyes trailing the ceremonial marks etched into the stone walls. “Fitting, then, that you’re standing here.”

I turned to him. “Why?”

He leaned in closer. “Because you’re a queen, Gabriella. In any century.”

For a moment, everything around us fell away—ruins, tourists, the weight of our blood-stained legacies. It was just him and me, standing in the remnants of a world lost to time, finding something ancient and raw in each other.

We explored further—through workshops, kitchens, and even the remains of an early sewage system. I laughed as I pictured the rustic brilliance of it all, and Alejandro, amused by my fascination, kept watching me with that unreadable look in his eyes. The one that made my chest tighten in ways I wasn’t ready to admit.

By the time we stepped out into the sunlight again, it was well past noon. Hunger gnawed at us, so we grabbed a quick lunch—fresh focaccia, olives, and pecorino cheese packed in a small roadside stand.

We ate on a grassy hill overlooking the nuraghe, the wind teasing the hem of my skirt. Alejandro leaned back on his elbows, eyes on me instead of the view.

“What?” I asked, catching him.

“You make ruins look like art,” he said.

I scoffed. “Smooth.”

“Honest.”

We didn’t linger—there were more places to see, and time was slipping like sand through our fingers. The next stop was

Alghero.

Driving into the town felt like entering a painting. Terracotta rooftops stretched toward the sea, and the smell of salt, basil, and aged stone filled the air. The Catalan influence was impossible to miss—language, architecture, even the rhythm of life here felt different. Timeless.

We walked through the cobbled streets of the old town, passing by preserved towers and medieval ramparts. The echoes of conquest, rebellion, and resilience hung thick in the air.

Alejandro took my hand again, this time without asking. I let him again, without pulling away.

At the Cattedrale di Santa Maria, we stood silently beneath the soaring arches, the candlelight dancing across the stone. I watched him more than the art—how his profile looked carved by shadows, how his fingers twitched, almost like he was praying for something. Or someone.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I don’t believe in God. But if I did, I’d pray you don’t walk away from me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t. Instead, I stepped closer, slipping my arm around his, resting my head on his shoulder. He stiffened for a second. Then softened.

Outside the cathedral, we stopped at a gelateria. I ordered pistachio, he got dark chocolate. He held his cone up and offered me a bite without a word.

I leaned in and tasted it—bitter, intense, unexpected. Like him.

He wiped a stray bit of cream from the corner of my lips with his thumb. “Wildcat with a sweet tooth,” he said.

“Don’t get used to it,” I warned.

“Oh, I plan to,” he replied, eyes smoldering.

As the sun began to sink, bathing Alghero in gold, I realized that today wasn’t just a tour of ruins and cathedrals. It was something more dangerous.

It was the day I stopped hating him completely.

And that terrified me more than any war could.

By the time the golden hues of dusk began to paint the horizon, we found ourselves steering toward the final destination for the day—the rugged, untamed mountains of Gennargentu. Time was no longer on our side, but something about the fading sun made the entire sky look like it was holding its breath just for us.

The drive curled through winding roads, thick forests, and ancient rock formations that seemed to rise like silent titans from the earth. Alejandro’s hand rested casually on the gearshift, his other arm slung across the back of my seat. There was a comfortable silence between us, filled only by the rhythmic hum of tires on gravel and the occasional chirp of twilight birds.

When we finally reached one of the higher points near Punta La Marmora, the tallest peak in Sardinia, we parked and stepped out. The wind was crisp, alive, threading through my hair and tugging at the hem of my skirt as if urging me to run—run into the open wild.

“It’s breathtaking,” I whispered, my voice nearly lost to the whispering gusts.

Alejandro didn’t respond immediately. He stood beside me, his eyes locked on the vast sweep of emerald valleys, soft grey ridges, and sun-kissed granite boulders. The peaks rose like crowned sentinels, ancient and quiet, their presence a hum beneath the skin.

“I thought I’d seen every kind of beauty,” he said eventually, “but this—” he looked at me instead of the view—“this is different.”

My breath caught. Not because of the altitude. But because of him. The way he looked at me like I was something sacred, something untouchable even after all that had passed between us.

We hiked a little further, up toward a ridge dusted with wild thyme and low shrubs. The wind howled like a ghost telling secrets, and with each step, the world grew quieter, more still—as if even time wanted to pause and watch us.

We stopped near a rocky outcrop that overlooked the valleys of Nuoro and Ogliastra. From here, the world looked untouched. Eternal.

Alejandro dusted the rock with his hand  “Sit,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

I did.

He sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine, the warmth of him cutting through the cool mountain air. For a while, we didn’t speak. We just watched. The sun slowly dipped behind the mountain peaks, casting shadows that crawled across the ridges like sleeping dragons. The sky bled into colors—rose gold, indigo, deep violet.

Then he reached for my hand.

“I used to think peace was a lie,” he murmured. “But this… you… it makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong all this time.”

I turned to look at him. “You think a mountain and a broken girl can make you believe in peace?”

“No,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But a wild woman who dares to look at a killer like he’s human—that might.”

I didn’t know whether to kiss him or push him off the mountain. So I did neither. I leaned my head on his shoulder instead, closing my eyes to the wind, the height, the aching pull inside me that I didn’t want to name.

“You know what

Gennargentu

might mean?” I whispered. “Silver Door. Or Door of the Winds. Some even say Door of Absinthium.”

Alejandro tilted his head toward me. “Which one do you prefer?”

I thought about it. The openness. The wilderness. The way the sky seemed to melt into the land like they were lovers reuniting.

“Door of the Winds,” I said softly. “It suits us. Wild. Restless. Always searching for something we can’t name.”

He kissed my temple. Just once. A whisper of lips against skin, like a promise neither of us dared to say aloud.

And in that moment—surrounded by the oldest stones in Europe, with only the sky to witness it—I wasn’t Gabriella, heiress of a cartel, bearer of blood and war.

I was just a woman.

And he was just a man.

And the wind… was finally still.