Page 33 of Shadows of Steel

She scrambles to grab something, anything, to cover herself, but I don’t move, don’t react. I force myself to appear unaffected. I catch the way her gaze flickers down. The moment she sees the obvious evidence of what she’s doing to me, her throat bobs with a swallowed breath.

I watch as a blush slowly spreads across her cheeks, soft and pink, unmistakable in its intensity. A smirk tugs at my lips. “You’re drooling.”

Her hands clench at her sides before she shoves past me, her shoulder knocking into mine. I chuckle as I hear the bathroom door click shut behind her.

Shaking my head, I get dressed, dark slacks, an open-collar shirt. By the time I return to my seat, our drinks are already on the table. I take my phone out, scanning through emails and messages from Mario, catching up on business.

Soon, Harlow steps out of the bedroom. She’s freshly showered, her face free of makeup, or maybe just the barest hint of it. She’s dressed in casual lounge clothes, something soft and fitted, and yet she still manages to look fucking incredible. Her hair is up in a bun, and for a moment, something in my chest tightens.

She looks younger like this. It’s a shift, different. Not in a dress, not in heels, not wielding sharp words or that rebellious edge. Just... effortlessly at ease. Comfortable. As though she belongs here, in this space.

My space.

I clench my jaw. No fucking feelings.

She lowers herself into the seat across from me, her gaze drifting over what’s before her. I gesture toward it. “See to it that you eat something with your drink.”

She smirks. “What, scared I’ll get drunk?”

I meet her gaze with a look that speaks volumes. “Eat. Now.”

That smile she’s throwing my way, I don’t fucking like it. It’s not real. She’s still fucking angry at me for forcing her to Naples tonight, and I’d rather face her rage than these fake, hollow smiles.

The flight is only an hour.

Before long, the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Naples.

My city.

My empire.

As we touch down, the reality settles in.

Harlow is officially on my land now.

And she has no idea what that truly means.

Chapter 12

Harlow

The night air is the first thing that hits me as I step out of the plane. It’s warm, thick with the scent of salt and citrus, carrying the unmistakable weight of summer even though it’s not quite June yet. A week from now, it will be. The last stretch of May clings to the heat, the transition between spring and the full intensity of an Italian summer.

Naples smells different from Palermo. Less aged, less steeped in the slow, sun-worn history of Sicily. Here, the air is sharper, laced with the brine of the sea and the faintest trace of gasoline from the runway. It’s lively in a way that reminds me this city doesn’t sleep easily.

I move down the stairs of the private jet, stepping onto the tarmac. Behind me, I know Dante is following, his presence felt even before I see him.

A line of black SUVs is waiting, stationed outside the aircraft. Men stand at attention, their postures rigid, their eyes trained on us.

Salvatore’s Camorra.

The sight of them is a reminder of the world I’ve walked into, the one I am bound to now.

As I step toward the car, I feel the warmth of a palm at the small of my back. A single touch, subtle but firm.

I tense instinctively but don’t pull away.

His men shift, parting slightly as one of them steps forward, one I haven’t met before. He’s Dante’s age, built solid, his sharp features cast in the soft glow of the overhead lights, accentuated by the dim, evening ambiance. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he carries himself, an ease that suggests he’s been at Dante’s side long enough to know he has nothing to prove. Theman’s hair is cut short, a clean buzz cut, and he sports a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes, blue, almost startling in their intensity, command attention the moment they land on you. They’re the kind of eyes that don’t just look, they hold. “This is Mario,” Dante states, his voice steady yet carrying an unmistakable weight of finality. “My right hand.”