The penthouse was a sanctuary of cold glass and dark, polished marble, perched so high above the city that the neon lights of the harbor looked like fallen stars scattered across a black velvet cloth. The air inside was deathly silent, a heavy, oppressive stillness that smelled of expensive leather, ozone, and now, the sharp, unmistakable metallic tang of Luciano’s blood. He stumbled as we crossed the threshold, his heavy shoulder slamming into the mahogany doorframe with a thud that echoed through the empty hall.
I flinched at the sound, my heart leaping into my throat. He didn't make a sound—no groan, no complaint—but I saw the way his jaw clenched until the muscles in his face turned to stone. He was a ruined king, a warrior who had fought his way out of hell just to stand in this room
