The penthouse still hummed with the echoes of celebration as Aria stood on the expansive balcony, the cool New York night breeze carrying the distant sounds of traffic far below. The East River war was finally over. Antonio Moretti, Dante’s treacherous uncle, had been defeated. The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds across the skyline, indifferent to the blood that had been spilled to secure their hard-won peace.
Dante stepped behind her, his powerful arms wrapping around her waist with familiar possessiveness. His warm breath brushed against her ear as he pulled her back against his solid chest. “It’s over for now,” he murmured, his deep voice laced with satisfaction and relief. “Antonio is gone. And we owe much of that victory to you, my queen.”
Aria leaned into his strength
