Page 70 of Raffaele
Nikki appears in the doorway, phone in hand, still in the silk robe I bought her. Her hair's pulled back, no makeup. She looks nothing like the polished influencer persona and everything like mine.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she says.
She slides onto my lap like she’s claimed it. Like she’s claimed me. Which she has.
I don’t feel like I’m losing power. I feel like I’ve found something worth giving it up for.
"Plotting world domination before breakfast again?" she asks.
"Always," I murmur against her neck, breathing in her scent. "How's the empire?"
"Thriving. The honeymoon content is performing incredibly well. Apparently, watching you brood aesthetically by the Mediterranean is very good for engagement." She shows me her phone screen, a photo of me reading yesterday, unconscious of her camera, the sunset painting everything gold. "This one has three million likes already."
Enzo snorts. "Boss, you're officially more famous than most movie stars."
"Fame was never the goal," I say. I'm looking at Nikki, watching the way she scrolls through comments with practiced efficiency, hearting the ones that amuse her and ignoring the rest. “Protection was.”
"Mission accomplished," she says softly, meeting my eyes. "No more mysterious threats. No more shadow organizations.Just us and our very public, very documented, very boring domestic bliss."
As if anything with her could ever be boring.
"Speaking of boring," Enzo says, standing, "I have a conference call with legitimate businessmen about legitimate investments. Very tedious stuff."
He leaves us alone on the terrace. Nikki sets her phone aside and turns in my lap, straddling me properly, her hands coming up to frame my face.
"You know what I realized this morning?" she asks.
"Tell me."
"I was never really free before. I thought I was. Making my own money and building my own brand. But I was always performing, always calculating the angle, always worried about the next post, the next trend." Her thumbs brush across my cheekbones. "With you, I'm actually free. Free to be real. Free to choose what matters."
"And what matters?"
"This. Us. Building something that isn't just for show." She grins, that dangerous smile that still makes my pulse spike. "Though the show is pretty spectacular too."
I kiss her then, slow and deep, tasting coffee and contentment on her lips. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.
"No regrets?" I ask, though I know the answer.
"One," she says, and my stomach tightens until she continues. "I regret not jumping you sooner. We could have been doing this for months longer."
I laugh and she beams like she's won something precious.
Outside, the world continues spinning. Social media algorithms push our carefully curated happiness to millions of screens. Former enemies lick their wounds and remember why crossing me was a mistake.
But here, in this moment, with my queen in my lap and our empire secure, there's only one truth that matters.
We didn't just survive the storm.
We became it.
The End