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ARIA

I step inside my new penthouse, a gift from Ettore. He promised no Bianchi would ever find us here. As usual, the house is empty. Chiara doesn’t like all this change and prefers to spend her time in her old hideouts, no matter how many times I beg her to be home.

My feet ache from hours in heels, and my mind is still reeling from the bombshell I dropped in Marco’s lap.

The darkness of the entryway welcomes me, but something feels off. I walk in and smell it—cedarwood.

The cologne I used to breathe in from the hollow of his throat.

My body stiffens just as my heart begins to race. How could it be? I’m not alone.

I reach for the light switch. The soft glow floods the open living area, and then I see him sitting in the leather armchair by the window.

His bow tie hangs undone around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt open to reveal the tanned skin beneath. He holds a glass of scotch, and when our eyes meet, he raises it to his lips.

“Welcome home,” Marco whispers into the night, like this is our house. Like he’s been expecting me.

I stand frozen at the threshold, my hand still on the switch, pulse thudding erratically against my wrist. “How the fuck did you find me here?”

His lips curl into that infuriating half-smile that once made my stomach flutter. Now it just makes me want to throw something at his perfect face.

“You underestimate me, Aria.” He sets down the glass and rises to approach. “I have just as many eyes and ears in this city as you do. More, actually. Did you really think Ettore Greco could hide you from me?”

I drop my clutch on the side table, fighting the urge to retreat as he advances. I will not show weakness. Not again. Not after what happened at the gala.

“Get out,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos inside me. “Or I’ll call security.”

He laughs. “The security that’s currently enjoying an unexpected night off? I wouldn’t bother.”

Of course. Marco never leaves anything to chance. He’s planned this confrontation down to the last detail, just like he plans everything else in his meticulously controlled life.

“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

His green eyes harden, all traces of amusement vanishing. “You can’t possibly be foolish enough to think you can keep my child from me.”

The words land like physical blows. There it is—the reason for this midnight intrusion. Not me. Not us. The baby.

“Watch me,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “I meant what I said, Marco. I won’t raise our child in the shadow of your father’s crimes.”

He takes another step closer, and I find myself backing up until I hit the wall.

“Our child,” he says, emphasizing the word with quiet intensity. “It’s mine and yours. Bianchi and DeLuca blood. You can hate me all you want, you can wage whatever war you think you’re fighting, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have a right to my own child.”

“Right?” I scorn. “What right did your father think my parents had when he ordered their execution? What right did I have to know the truth about my own family while you kept me in the dark?”

A vein flickers on his forehead. “I’ve told you a thousand times—I didn’t know who you were when I proposed the marriage.

And when I found out, I was trying to protect you.

Both of you.” He gestures around like Chiara might be somewhere.

“My father would kill you without hesitation if he knew who you really were. Is that what you want for our child? To be caught in the crossfire of your vendetta?”

“Don’t you dare turn this around on me,” I spit, my fists clenching at my sides. “You lied to me, Marco.”

“And you’ve been planning to destroy me for weeks,” he counters, closing the final distance between us.

His hands plant on the wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his body.

“Tell me, Aria. Did you know about the baby when you ordered the attack on my warehouse? When you stole my weapons? When you declared war? If I’d been there, were you willing to leave your child fatherless? If I died?”

I swallow hard, refusing to look away from his burning gaze. “No. I only found out three days ago.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, perhaps, or vindication. “Would it have stopped you if you had known?”

The question lingers between us, unanswered because I honestly don’t know. Would knowing I carried his child have stayed my hand? Would maternal instinct have outweighed my thirst for justice?

“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally. “What’s done is done. You can’t erase what your family did to mine.”

“And you can’t erase this,” he says, one hand moving from the wall to hover over my abdomen, not quite touching. “You can’t erase me from our child’s life, Aria. I won’t let you.”

He stands too close, and suddenly my thoughts scatter like ash on the wind. The air shifts with the weight of him—warm, charged, saturated with a scent I’ve tried to forget but never could.

That dangerous heat between us flares to life, reckless and immediate, drawing me in before I can resist.

My body reacts first, always. It remembers him without permission—the way he touched, the way he took, the way he made surrender feel like power.

I despise how easy it is for him to undo me.

“You don’t get to dictate terms to me,” I say, but the words lack the venom I intended.

“Don’t I?” His voice drops lower, eyes darkening as they flick to my lips. “Your body responds to me even when your mind rebels. I felt it at the gala. I feel it now. You still want me, Aria. You may hate me,” he murmurs, “but I know you want me.”

The words land with a heat that crawls up my spine.

But I don’t melt.

I burn.

My palm connects with his face before I even realize I’ve moved. His head jerks to the side.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, chest heaving. “Yes, I wanted you once. I wanted your voice in my ear, your hands on my skin, your fucking lies to be true.”

His breath shallows as he meets my gaze.

“You betrayed me!” I shriek with rage, swallowing the tremor in my voice.

His hand shoots up, catching my wrist midair as I rear back again. This time, he’s faster.

I gasp, but I don’t retreat.

His fingers tighten around mine, making it clear I’ve crossed a line. I know it, too, but my pride won’t let me apologize quite yet.

“Careful,” he growls. His grip slides down from my wrist to thread our fingers together. “You’re not the only one who bleeds.”

His body presses against mine. His breath is hot on my cheek. The coil of want winds between us, taut and undeniable.

I rip my hand from his—not to escape.

To grab the collar of his shirt.

To drag him to me and kiss him like I mean to wound him with it.

My lips brush his, soft at first, then I pull back, searching his eyes, those eyes that call to me like a siren.

I should push him away.

I should remember why I ran.

I should hold onto my rage, my vengeance—my identity as a DeLuca.

Instead, I melt into him, my resistance crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide of want.

“You destroyed everything,” I breathe. The words tremble, but my grip on him only tightens.

“And I’d do it again,” he says, low and certain—then his mouth crashes into mine, and this time, I let it.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling tight. Mine shove beneath his shirt, nails scraping into his skin. He bites my bottom lip—hard. I gasp and kiss him harder.

His lips move against mine with desperate hunger, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue slides against mine, and I wither against his. One hand tangles in my hair, and the other presses against my lower back, pulling me closer to him.

My arms wind around his neck, fingers clutching at his short hair, pulling him like I could absorb him through my skin. A whimper escapes me as his teeth catch my bottom lip again, tugging gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest as he pushes me back against the wall again, devouring me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can save him.

But no.

Not this time.

This time, I take control.

I spin us around mid-kiss, the momentum catching him off guard, and walk him backward across the room. My hands are fists in his shirt, dragging him with me, step by step. His legs bump into the edge of the leather armchair by the window—the one where he waited for me like a predator in the dark.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I press a finger to his lips and with my free hand, push him down against the chest. He falls back, his breath catching, and looks at me like he’s truly seeing me for the first time.

I swing one leg over his thighs and lower myself into his lap, straddling him.

His hands move instinctively to my hips, but I grab his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair.

“Not yet,” I whisper against his mouth. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with heat, but he doesn’t fight me. His restraint is a challenge, a dare to see how far I’ll take this.

I roll my hips against him, slow and deliberate, and feel him harden beneath me. The friction sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.

“You said I want you,” I whisper, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “But maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away. Maybe you’re the one whose body gives away everything you try to hide.”

His breath catches.

Good.

I kiss him again, slower this time. Deep, consuming. I nip at his lip, slide my tongue against his, claiming, not surrendering.

He groans into my mouth, wrists flexing under my grip.

“Aria,” he rasps.

I lean back just far enough to meet his eyes, hips still rolling. “Say please.”

His jaw clenches. His pride wars with his desire, with his throbbing hardness pressing between my thighs.

But I wait.

And finally—finally—he mutters it.

“Please.”

My smile is razor-sharp.

“Good.”