39. Victoria
VICTORIA
Lorenzo came back.
Even now, sitting across the room from him, the thought feels slightly unreal, as though I haven’t fully caught up to the reality of it yet. For so long, his name carried fear with it. Uncertainty. The constant expectation that something terrible would happen next.
But looking at him now, that fear is gone.
Mrs. Abena has recovered far better than any of us expected. The healthy colour has returned to her face, and so has her stubbornness. Especially whenever Elsie tries to bargain her way out of vegetables or to negotiate for a later bedtime.
Olivia is healing too.
The tension that seemed permanently lodged in her shoulders has started to disappear, little by little, with each passing day.
And Elsie...
My heart softens every time I look at her.
I never imagined things would be this way between her and Lorenzo. Not after the violence. Not after the blood. Not after everything that surrounds the life he leads.
Yet somehow, every day, their bond grows stronger.
It happens in the smallest moments.
The way he stops whatever he’s doing when she speaks.
The way she instinctively drifts toward him whenever he enters a room.
The way his entire focus shifts the second she appears.
Earlier, she spent most of the morning working on a drawing before proudly presenting it to him.
A crooked little house.
An oversized garden.
And a rabbit that looked suspiciously like a potato with ears.
Lorenzo examined the drawing with complete seriousness, studying every detail as though she had handed him architectural plans worth millions or blueprints for a new empire.
When Elsie finally burst into laughter, the sound lingered in the room long after it had faded.
That makes everyone around it feel lighter.
But there is still one thing neither of us knows how to handle.
What she should call him.
Whenever she wants his attention, she hesitates first. Thinking. Searching for a title that doesn’t quite exist yet.
Then she settles for Lorenzo.
Or simply tugs on his sleeve.
Because neither of us has told her the whole truth.
And every time she calls me Aunty Vicky, guilt twists somewhere deep inside my chest.
Across the room, Lorenzo stands beside the fireplace, speaking quietly while his phone is to his ear.
As though sensing my attention, he looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Something shifts instantly in his expression.
A decision already made.
He says something to end the call before walking directly toward me.
“Victoria.”
My pulse immediately betrays me.
“Yes?”
“I need a word.”
His voice remains calm.
Mine doesn’t.
“Now?”
A slight nod.
“Briefly.”
I rise from my seat.
Olivia notices immediately.
Her narrowed gaze follows us across the room before she mouths a warning.
Behave yourself.
I nearly laugh.
Nearly.
Lorenzo leads me from the lounge and toward the private elevator hidden behind a panel in the west corridor.
The doors slide shut behind us.
Silence settles between us.
The ride lasts less than a minute.
Long enough for me to become painfully aware of him.
The faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
The scar beneath his jaw never completely faded.
Long enough for my heartbeat to forget how to behave.
When the doors open, realisation strikes instantly.
His floor.
His private wing.
My stomach tightens with sudden nervous anticipation.
Lorenzo pushes open the bedroom door and steps inside.
I follow.
Then stop.
For a man who controls an empire, the room is unexpectedly restrained.
No gold.
No excess.
No desperate attempt to impress.
Dark wood. Steel. Glass.
Everything purposeful.
Like him.
A collection of framed photographs sits along a mahogany dresser.
My attention settles on one immediately.
A younger Lorenzo.
Before responsibility permanently hardened the edges of him.
Before power settled into his bones.
Beside it sits another photograph.
This version of Lorenzo is older.
Stronger.
Far more dangerous.
He stands beside his father, surrounded by men in dark suits whose expressions make one thing painfully clear.
They answer to him.
The resemblance strikes me instantly.
“It looks like that scene from The Godfather,” I murmur. “When Michael Corleone takes over.”
A faint trace of amusement touches Lorenzo’s mouth.
“Does it?”
“Exactly like it,” I say, “except that was a scene, but this is real life.”
For a brief second, his expression softens.
Then it disappears.
The seriousness returns.
“There’s something you need to know.”
The change in his voice straightens my spine.
“What is it?”
“Francesco has been dealt with.”
The name lands differently now and sounds distant.
Like a storm that finally moved beyond the horizon.
I fold my arms.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he won’t contact you again.”
I remain silent.
“He agreed to terms.”
Lorenzo takes another step closer.
“He won’t approach you. He won’t interfere with your life. Ever.”
The memories surface anyway.
The lies.
The manipulation.
The betrayal.
The fear.
Not only for me.
For Elsie.
For everyone caught in the wreckage he left behind.
I turn toward the windows overlooking the estate below.
And suddenly realise I feel nothing at all.
“Fair enough.”
The words leave me quietly.
“I never want to see him again.”
Lorenzo says nothing.
“I don’t want explanations.”
My gaze finds his.
“And I don’t want apologies.”
A slow nod.
As though he understands perfectly.
“I also met with his underbosses, goons and business partners.”
I wait.
“They’ve simply accepted the arrangement.”
“There won’t be any more problems.”
Relief arrives gradually.
Not as an emotion.
As an absence.
The absence of fear.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel the need to look over my shoulder.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The silence changes, becomes intimate.
The air suddenly feels thinner.
Lorenzo takes a single step forward.
Then another.
Until barely any space remains between us.
His hand rises slowly.
His fingers slide into my hair before settling firmly against the back of my neck.
And every coherent thought leaves my mind.
My heartbeat stumbles.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then returns to my eyes.
The look alone nearly undoes me.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I close the distance myself.
His mouth meets mine instantly.
The kiss lands with every unanswered question between us.
Every argument and fear.
Every moment spent wondering if we’d ever find our way back here.
His grip tightens.
My fingers twist into his shirt.
The world outside this room ceases to exist—there are no enemies, no past, no obligations. Only the certainty of his mouth against mine.
Lorenzo guides me backwards, his movements urgent and deliberate, until the back of my knees hit the edge of the high mattress. The kiss deepens, becoming uncompromising and consuming as his hands slide down to grip my hips.
Clothes are discarded in a blur of heated haste, scattering across the dark carpet until there is nothing left between us but skin against skin.
He lifts me effortlessly onto the high bed, stripping away my ability to think, demanding absolute surrender.
When he moves inside me, the physical connection is total and overwhelming.
A ragged breath escapes my lips, caught by his mouth as he pins my hands down against the dark linens, his fit body grounding me completely.
Every remnant of the outside world washes away, replaced entirely by the friction of our bodies, the slide of sweat, and the driving force of his steady thrust through my wetness, which pushes me deeper into the mattress.
We move together in a fierce, consuming rhythm, matching each other’s desperate pace until the tension finally breaks, leaving us breathless, trembling, and tangled deep within the dark sheets.
I rest my palm flat against his chest, feeling the calm, rhythmic beat underneath his skin.
For so long, my life has been defined by what I was running from, by the lies, the vigilance, and the constant fear of the unknown.
But lying here, enveloped by his scent and his heat, that heavy armour finally slips off my shoulders.