Chapter 11
POV: Amanda
By the time he drove us into the city, my pulse hadn’t slowed once.
The restaurant was everything I expected from the De Luca king: marble floors, velvet booths, waiters who bowed low when he entered.
But Adrian leaned down and whispered against my temple, “This is one of our friend’s places. Mancini family. So you don’t need to use your bodyguard eyes tonight.”
The problem was, I couldn’t turn it off. My gaze swept the room automatically, cataloguing details the way I’d been trained to. The men by the door—suits, earpieces, shoulders too square, too alert. Armed. Too armed for what was supposed to be a friendly, safe place.
But then again, I’d never set foot in a mafia-owned restaurant before. Maybe this was normal. Maybe this was what safety looked like in their world.
And still, every time I tried to focus on the shadows, my attention slipped back to the man walking beside me.
Gorgeous, dangerous, magnetic. Adrian De Lucca.
The way he pulled out my chair as if I were made of glass nearly undid me.
For once, I wanted to silence my instincts, just long enough to enjoy him.
We had barely settled when a booming voice rolled across the dining room.
“Adrian, my boy!”
Vittorio Mancini. I recognized him instantly from the files I’d read—his broad frame, his too-wide smile. He came forward with open arms, clasping Adrian’s shoulders like a proud uncle.
And then that word. My boy.
Not King. Not the title everyone else seemed to worship in whispers.
Just my boy.
It caught somewhere deep in my chest, an itch I couldn’t quite scratch, but forced myself to ignore.
Vittorio brushed kisses near Adrian’s cheeks before turning his attention to me. His eyes glinted as though he already knew me.
“And this must be the girl everyone’s been talking about. La Volpe, isn’t it?”
My lips parted before I caught them, masking surprise with a smile even as my pulse skipped. La Volpe. My nickname. But the Mancinis hadn’t been at the Espositos’ dinner when it was first used.
How the hell did he know it?
“You figured out that Esposito’s problem,” he added casually, swirling the words like fine wine. “So clever, they say.”
I held my smile steady, though my stomach coiled tight.
I kept my smile fixed even as my stomach tightened. I hadn’t spoken to the Mancinis. And the Esposito’’ problem wasn’t exactly common knowledge. Which meant… that information came from somewhere it shouldn’t have.
But Adrian’s hand found mine under the table, his thumb stroking lazy circles against my skin, and I forced myself to lean back, to breathe, to let the suspicion slide for tonight.
“Ah, you must try the Rosa Bianca,” Vittorio was saying.
“The White Rose. It’s a family recipe, brought over from Italy itself. Light, delicate, unforgettable.”
He kissed his fingers as if the air itself tasted of it.
“And I’ll have the sommelier bring a Barolo from Piemonte. 2004. Very rare, very special.”
Adrian inclined his head, but his attention stayed on me. And when Vittorio left with another clap on Adrian’s shoulder, I felt Adrian’s gaze slide back over my face, searching.
“See?” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Nothing to worry about. Relax. Tonight’s not about them. It’s about you.”
His hand tightened on mine. His smile curved slow, dangerous, making my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to name.
And for a while, I let myself forget the armed guards. Forget the slip of a nickname, the too-knowing comment, the missing title.
Because Adrian De Lucca was looking at me like I was the only queen in the room.
Adrian ordered in fluent Italian, his voice smooth as velvet, his hand resting casually on the menu as if this place belonged to him. Maybe it did.
The wine came first. Deep red, expensive, smooth as silk. Adrian poured for me, his gaze lingering as I lifted the glass.
“To us,” he said simply, his eyes burning into mine.
I swallowed the sip too fast. It bloomed warm in my chest, but nothing compared to the heat that came next. His hand slipped beneath the table, warm against my thigh.
I stiffened. “Adrian—”
He leaned closer, his mouth almost brushing my ear. “Relax, volpe. You’re blushing already.”
“I’m not,” I lied, though my cheeks burned hot enough to set the tablecloth on fire.
His thumb drew idle circles, just high enough to make my pulse skip. I tried to focus on the delicate plate placed before us—the Rosa Bianca. Hand-rolled pasta layered with ricotta and white truffle cream, topped with a single edible white rose petal. Elegant. Beautiful.
I picked up my fork with shaky fingers. “You know, you’re supposed to let me enjoy the food.”
“Oh, I fully intend to let you enjoy yourself tonight,” he murmured, the double meaning wrapping around me like smoke.
My fork clinked against the plate. I glared at him, but it only made his smile sharpen. He cut into his portion with unbothered grace, as if he wasn’t currently setting my body on fire beneath the table.
The dish melted on my tongue—soft, rich, decadent. I let out the smallest sound before I could stop myself. Adrian’s hand tightened.
“Careful, amore. If you keep making noises like that, we’ll have to skip straight to dessert.”
I nearly choked on the pasta. He laughed, low and dangerous, then sipped his wine like the devil in a tailored suit.
Dessert came—a layered creation of mascarpone, candied rose petals, and white chocolate shavings. Vittorio insisted it was the “sweetest tradition of the Mancinis.” Adrian fed me the first bite himself, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to see me unravel in front of an entire dining room.
And damn him—I did.
The fork hovered between my fingers, my pulse unsteady. Adrian leaned back in his chair, looking every inch the untouchable king, except his hand was still on me—higher now, pressing warmth into the skin above my stockings.
I tried to breathe. Tried to pretend my cheeks weren’t on fire.
“Adrian,” I hissed, low enough no one else could hear.
He smirked lazily. “Say my name again like that.”
God, he was impossible. My eyes flicked around the restaurant—Mancini’s men posted by the door, couples sipping wine at polished tables. Nobody watching us. Or maybe they were. The idea made my stomach twist with something reckless.
I forced a bite of dessert into my mouth, mascarpone and rose sugar melting on my tongue. Adrian’s gaze followed the movement like a predator.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “But not as sweet as you.”
I swallowed too fast, the spoon clinking against the plate. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing so hard I could swear the whole room sees it.”
His thumb pressed higher, almost indecent now, and I caught his wrist under the table, nails digging into his skin. He only chuckled, low and sinful. “Careful, volpe. If you scratch me here, you’ll have to kiss it better later.”
Heat shot straight through me. I hated how much he could undo me with a single line. I shoved his hand away, glaring, but my voice betrayed me. “Maybe I will.”
His eyes darkened, promise sparking there. Dangerous. Certain.
“Then we’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for dessert to finish, didn’t care about etiquette. He paid, sharp nod to Mancini, and then he had me on my feet, hand firm on my back as we walked through the restaurant. My heart thundered, every step dragging me closer to what I both wanted and feared.
The air outside was cooler, but it did nothing to calm me. Adrian opened the car door with old-world charm, but the second it shut, that hand was back—sliding onto my thigh, deliberate and slow.
“Adrian,” I warned, though it came out breathless.
“Tell me to stop,” he said simply.
I couldn’t. My body betrayed me, leaning into his touch, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me. He leaned closer, mouth brushing my ear.
“You’ve been teasing me all night, volpe. Now I’m done waiting.”
The city blurred outside the windows, but I barely saw it. All I could think about was his heat, his control, the inevitability building between us.
By the time the car pulled into his estate, my pulse was wild. He stepped out, circled to open my door, and offered his hand like a gentleman. But the look in his eyes wasn’t gentle.
Not anymore.
The heavy door clicked shut behind us, and before I even had the chance to breathe, Adrian’s mouth was on mine.
Hot. Fierce. Consuming.
I gasped against his lips, my back pressing into the wood as he caged me in with his body.
His kiss tasted like the expensive wine, dark and intoxicating, but it was more than that—it was hunger, possession.
His hand slid to my jaw, tilting my face just where he wanted it, and I melted against him, helpless to resist.
“Adrian—” I tried to catch my breath, but he swallowed the word, his lips brushing mine as he whispered, rough and low,
“I want you in my bed, volpe. I’ve wanted it all night.”
My stomach tightened, heat rushing through me. He didn’t give me time to answer—he caught my wrist and pulled me with him, long strides eating the polished floor. I stumbled to keep up, heart hammering, his grip firm but careful, like he’d drag me through hell itself if it meant I stayed with him.
We passed gilded mirrors and marble statues until he pushed open a pair of double doors.
And I froze.
The bedroom was… breathtaking. Classic lines and modern luxury colliding in a space that screamed wealth and power. High ceilings, chandeliers dripping light, a vast bed draped in dark silk sheets. It was the kind of room that made you feel small, like you’d stepped into a king’s private palace.
Which, I realized, I had.
Adrian didn’t give me time to admire it. He tugged me closer, his hands finding my waist, my back, my hair. His mouth crashed onto mine again, hungrier, his body pressing me toward the bed. My knees hit the edge, and his hands slid lower, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
The silk sheets whispered against my skin as he laid me down, his gaze burning into mine. For the first time all night, the king looked almost undone, like desire stripped him raw.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, lowering himself over me, “how hard it’s been not to touch you the way I want?”
His lips traced my jaw, down my throat, his words setting fire to every inch of me.