Chapter 55 SOPHIA
A few days later…
I feel him before I see him. That unmistakable pull, that simmering heat that lives in my bloodstream now.
The kids at the shelter are loud—there’s a soccer ball bouncing off a wall, a fight over crayons, two little girls giggling under a table—but all the noise dims the second I sense him.
Raffael.
He doesn’t belong here, not with his ink and leather and the way he carries danger like a second skin.
And yet, somehow, he does. I glance up and there he is, leaning casually against the wall in the doorway, arms crossed, that leather jacket molding to his frame like it was sewn there.
I have no idea how long he has been watching me, but his heated eyes make liquid pool between my legs.
God, he’s beautiful.
A suit turns him into sin.
But leather and denim?
That’s when he turns into war.
Dark jeans hug those thighs, the ones I still can’t stop tracing with my fingers when we’re tangled in bed.
His boots are worn, his stance relaxed, but there’s a sharpness in the way he scans the room that is filled with protectiveness, focused only on me.
Heat flares in his eyes like a private flame, like he’s about to devour me right here in front of a dozen sugar-high kindergartners.
I blush.
Still.
Even now.
With trembling fingers, I grab my bag and say my goodbyes to Lexy and the kids, who have become like a second family to me. Twice a week, I help out, and it fills so many empty spots inside me that it's actually helping me more than them.
"Hey," I murmur as I reach him.
"Hey, yourself, " he pulls me in by the waist, tilting his head down until his forehead touches mine. "You ready to get out of here?"
I nod, too breathless to speak.
His mouth brushes mine. Not demanding. Not impatient. Just… certain. Like he owns this kiss. Me.
"You rode the bike?" I manage to ask, already knowing the answer.
He smirks. "What gave it away?"
I slide a hand over his leather jacket, grip the zipper. "You only wear this when you want me clinging to your back."
"That’s the idea." He steps back, holds out a helmet, eyes glittering. "Thought we’d take the long way home."
I let him help me with the helmet, my fingers are already itching to be wrapped around his waist, to bury myself in the scent of leather and speed and him.
But I linger a moment longer, watching him. This man. This king. This savage, who once ruled the shadows and now holds every fragile piece of my heart like it’s a priceless treasure.
I still can’t believe he’s mine.
Not because he claimed me.
But because he lets me claim him right back.
"Hey," I say as he swings a leg over the bike.
"Yeah?"
"You’re not allowed to fall more in love with me today than I am with you."
He grins, crooked and dangerous and all mine. "Too late."
I hold on to him like I always do, like he’s my anchor and my wings all at once.
The Ducati growls beneath us, low and primal, as he shoots us through the city like a bullet carved from black steel and sin.
I feel it all. The wind rushing over my skin.
The pulse of the engine between my legs.
The heat of his body where mine presses tight against his back.
He rides like he owns the world. Like he fears nothing and dares everything. And me?
I ride like I trust him with every breath.
Because I do. The buildings blur past in a streak of light and shadow until we break free from concrete and roll into trees, the smell of leaves and earth sweeps around us in waves.
The road winds. Twists. Tilts. And with every curve, I move with him, like we’re one being. One heart.
The forest breaks open to sky, and the wind turns colder, sharper. I bury my face against his shoulder, smiling so wide it hurts.
I love this.
The wildness.
The speed.
Him.
I love the way his hand drops to my thigh at a red light. The way his thumb strokes a soft circle, like a promise. The way he waits half a second longer before roaring forward again, because he knows I need a breath.
And I love me.
I didn’t think I’d ever say that again.
But I do.
I love the woman I’ve become.
I love how strong I am.
How unbreakable.
How free.
Our road isn’t smooth. Not even close.
But we’re laying the bricks one by one. Together.
I help him with La Famiglia, and he not only lets me, but he leans on me. He listens when I speak. I know the names now, capos, fronts, offshore accounts. I sit next to him in front of the computer, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, legs tucked under me, and I help him plot a legacy no one saw coming.
I know who he is.
What he’s been.
What he’s capable of.
And I know there's nothing, nothing, he wouldn't do, to keep me safe.
There’s no throne that matters more to him than the couch we curl up on together. No crown he wants more than my hands in his hair when I whisper I love you into his mouth between kisses.
We shower together most mornings.
Or nights.
Or whenever one of us can’t keep their hands to themselves. Those moments are ours. Not stolen or forced. They're freely given.
Reclaimed.
I’ve reclaimed my body.
My voice.
My name.
My life.
Because of him.
And maybe he doesn’t realize it…
But I’ve done the same for him.