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This woman was never meant to be a possession.

She was meant to be my fucking queen.

Chapter Thirteen

Francesca

Morning light spills across the antique sheets, warming my skin as I stretch with a groan.

Dante's side of the bed is empty, the sheets already cool. The ache between my thighs reminds me of everything that transpired last night.

My surrender. His possession.

And oddly, the startling tenderness that followed.

I trace fingers over marks he's left on my body. Possessive bruises blooming like dark flowers on my pale skin that I didn't even realize he was making.

I rise, wrapping myself in a silk robe I find hanging in the massive wardrobe. Through the terrace doors, I spot Dante in the distance, phone pressed to his ear as he paces along the stone wall that marks the property's boundary.

Business never stops, even in paradise.

"Ah, signora! You are awake." Maria's cheerful voice greets me as I enter the villa's kitchen. The elderly woman stands at a marble counter, flour dusting her hands as she works dough. "I was preparing to bring breakfast to your room."

"I'd rather join you here, if that's all right."

Maria's weathered face brightens as she notices how I'm drawn to the domestic scene before my eyes.

"Of course! It gets lonely with just Romano and myself. It's nice for different company."

I watch her knead. "What are you making?"

"Focaccia. An old family recipe." She gestures toward a stool. "Sit, sit. Would you like coffee?"

I nod, settling at the counter as she pours rich espresso into a delicate cup. The kitchen is a perfect blend of ancient and modern—stone walls and exposed beams complementing state-of-the-art appliances.

"So, I assume you've known Dante a long time?" I ask casually, sipping the perfectly brewed coffee as I try to forget the feeling of him between my thighs last night.

Maria's hands pause momentarily, something like sadness crossing her face. "Since he was a small boy. He would come with his mother during summers. Such a curious child, always asking questions, always wanting to help Romano in the garden."

The image she paints seems impossible to reconcile with the dangerous man who claimed me under this very roof last night.

"Hard to imagine."

"Oh yes." Maria shapes the dough into a circle. "Before his mother's death, he was different. Quieter than his brother, but so bright, so eager to learn." Her eyes meet mine across the counter. "This is the first time he has returned since Elena died. And the first time he has ever brought a woman here."

"I'm not exactly here by choice," I remind her gently.

Maria's smile turns knowing. "Perhaps not initially. But choices change, no?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "It's... complicated."

"Love always is,cara mia." She dusts the dough with herbs and olive oil. "Especially for men like him. Men raised to believe emotion is weakness."

"Oh, Maria. Slow down. I wouldn't call it love," I counter quickly.

Maria shrugs, the gesture eloquently Italian. "You young people like different words now. But I am old. I see what I see."

Before I can form a response, Romano appears at the doorway, his weathered face creased with concern.