Chapter 17 17

Chapter 17 17
It’s our last night together before I leave for New York, and Sophia insisted we have dinner at our favorite little Italian restaurant tucked at the corner of Pine Street, the same one where we used to sit for hours after work, sipping wine and dreaming about life.
The air feels different tonight, like the city knows I’m about to leave it behind. I wear a soft beige dress and light makeup, trying not to look too emotional. Sophia greets me with a tight hug the moment I arrive, and Giovanni pulls out my chair like a gentleman. They’ve both been my constants, through grief, confusion, heartbreak, and laughter. Saying goodbye feels heavier than I thought it would.
The table is lit by a single flickering candle, and we share plates of pasta and wine, but mostly, we share memories. We laugh about the time we burnt the croissants at the café, the night Giovanni tried to impress a girl and spilled cappuccino on himself, and the endless debates Sophia and I had about which rom-com couple was the best.
But beneath all the laughter, I feel the weight of departure. At one point, Sophia takes my hand gently. “You’re going to be okay,” she says. “And we’ll always be here. You’re not leaving us behind—you’re just writing the next chapter.”
I smile through the lump in my throat. “I love you both.”
“We know,” Giovanni replies, raising his glass. “To Aurora—the only person brave enough to chase love and a new life in one go.”
We clink glasses. My heart is full, but aching.

The last night in my apartment feels heavier than I expected. The boxes are packed, the shelves are bare, but the air is full — full of memories, of laughter, of quiet dinners and whispered confessions. We’re leaving tomorrow, but part of me doesn’t want to let go of this chapter just yet.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, folding the last of my clothes, when Damiano walks in. He’s freshly showered, hair damp, wearing one of my oversized shirts — it fits him terribly, and yet somehow he looks perfect.
He walks over and crouches in front of me. “Are you okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. “This place… it became home. And now I’m leaving it.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine. “Home isn’t a place anymore, birdie. It’s you and me.”
My heart aches at his words — in the best way possible. And before I can think, before I can even respond, I reach for him.
Our lips meet in a slow, deep kiss. It’s not rushed or wild. It’s full of everything we’ve held back — grief, love, the longing of lost time and the hope of something new. His hand cups my cheek, thumb grazing my skin as I melt into him. His kiss tells me everything he doesn’t say aloud — that he’s here, that he’s staying, that we’re in this together.
I remove his shirt while kissing him. His hand travels inside my pajama, he pinches my nipple and I moan. He removes his pants and take off my panties. “You want this?” He demands. 
“Yes,” I whisper, breath trembling.
“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, brushing a soft kiss against my lips.
I nod, giving him all the trust in my heart.
He enters me slowly, and a soft gasp escapes my mouth. His movements are careful, tender — each motion deepening the connection between us. He stays close, his body pressing against mine, lips finding mine in a kiss that speaks more than words ever could. With every motion, he eases in deeper, holding me as if I might break — but also as if I mean everything.
“Faster,” I whisper against his ear.
He meets my request with a deep, urgent kiss, then begins to move with more intensity — his rhythm quickening, his hands firm and reassuring on my waist. The room is filled with the sound of our breaths, of my voice rising in pleasure. Every movement pulls us closer, every heartbeat syncing like a promise neither of us dares to speak aloud just yet.Waves of pleasure crash over me as he moves within me, his rhythm unrelenting, drawing me closer with every thrust. My body tenses, then trembles as release washes through me, and I gasp his name, overwhelmed by the intensity between us.
He cums inside of me with a soft groan, then slowly pulls away and leans in to kiss me — deeply, lovingly — before pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“I love you, Birdie,” he whispers, his voice husky with emotion.
He settles beside me, and I curl against him, resting my head on his chest where his heartbeat is steady and warm.
“I love you too,” I murmur, feeling safe in his arms.
We flew back in Damiano’s private jet.
The moment we boarded, I realized just how far from ordinary life I had drifted. Plush leather seats, a chilled bottle of champagne already waiting, and his hand always resting gently on mine. The city lights of New York disappeared beneath us, and the hum of the engines filled the silence between us—comfortable, familiar, and safe.
He barely spoke during the flight, his fingers tapping against the armrest, eyes scanning messages on his phone. I didn’t ask. I just leaned against his shoulder and let myself breathe. After everything we’d been through, I thought this was it. The beginning of something new. Something real.
We landed just before dusk.
A black car was waiting on the tarmac. We didn’t go back to a hotel, or to one of the properties he kept in the city. We went home—his true home. A sprawling estate hidden behind thick iron gates and tall hedges, where secrets lived in every shadow. The mansion was just as I remembered: grand, cold, yet somehow softer now that I was walking in beside him.
Inside, the warmth of polished wood and flickering chandeliers greeted us. The staff nodded respectfully, moving quietly. Damiano’s hand didn’t leave the small of my back as he guided me in. We unpacked slowly, his fingers brushing mine as we moved around the space. It almost felt like we were building something.
But the peace didn’t last long.
At first, New York had felt like a dream. Waking up next to Damiano every morning, hearing the muffled city traffic below, living a life that finally felt like ours. But dreams are fragile things when you’re in love with a man like him—a man born into blood and loyalty, into an empire that doesn’t let go.
It started with a phone call. He answered it in the kitchen, his back tense, voice low. The name “Alessio” slipped past his lips. His elder brother. Business. Trouble.
From there, the shift was slow but unmistakable.
He started leaving the house at odd hours. His tailored suits returned with blood on the cuffs. His expression hardened, like the weight of the underworld sat squarely on his shoulders. I would find him standing in his study, staring out into the courtyard, jaw clenched, drink in hand.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t have to.
Damiano was returning to the life he had never truly left.
One night, I woke up to the sound of voices in the hallway. Two men I didn’t recognize—clearly made men—discussing shipments, names, threats. The next morning, he kissed my forehead and told me, “I’m doing this to protect what’s mine.” I wanted to believe him.
But deep down, I knew what was coming.
The mafia never lets go of its kings.
And I, somehow, had become its queen.
Damiano comes to sit beside me on the couch, his presence calm but firm.
“You should go for wedding shopping tomorrow,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “I know you’d want a girl’s help, so I’ve asked Sophia to come. She’ll be here by morning.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a sleek black card.
“You already have this. Use it. Buy whatever you need—for the dress, the shoes, everything.”
I shake my head gently. “I don’t want to use your card.”
He sighs, a quiet smirk playing at his lips. “Birdie… I’m the only one here for you now. You’re going to marry me—so let me take care of you. Just this once, obey me and spend some of my money.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he raises a brow in warning, and I know better than to push him right now.
“I’ll make the announcement soon,” he adds softly, his thumb grazing my knuckles. “That you and I are getting married.”