The days that followed were unlike anything Lorenzo Moretti had ever known.
For the first time in years, his mornings didn't begin with orders, blood, or vengeance. They began with her.
Elena.
She was everywhere — in his thoughts, in the way he smiled without realizing, in the way his heart seemed to calm whenever she was near. The woman he once saw as a complication had now become the reason he wanted peace.
The mansion that once echoed with fear was now filled with laughter — hers. The maids whispered about how powerful she was, how she had tamed the devil himself. Some were jealous, others admired her, but none could deny that Elena had changed everything.
One morning, as the sun spilled golden light through the large windows, she appeared at the top of the stairs wearing one of his shirts, her hair a mess of curls, her smile lazy and sweet. Lorenzo looked up from the couch, his tie undone, his eyes dark with something dangerous — desire mixed with devotion.
"Are you going to just stare, or say good morning, Mr. Moretti?" she teased.
He smirked, rising to his feet and walking toward her like a predator closing in on his prey. "Good morning, my love," he said, his voice low. "But you're making it very hard to think straight."
She laughed softly, the sound making his chest ache. "Maybe I like it that way."
And before he could answer, she stood on her toes and kissed him — slow, playful, then deep enough to make him forget every rule he had ever lived by.
The maids passing by quickly looked away, whispering to each other. Elena noticed and giggled. "You're making your entire house jealous," she said.
"They should be," Lorenzo replied, tracing her jawline with his thumb. "Because I have something no one else will ever have."
That afternoon, she convinced him to do something he hadn't done in years — go outside without his guards crowding him. They went shopping, blending in among normal people, just a man and a woman in love.
Elena picked out clothes for him, insisting he try on shirts that made him look "less scary."
"You look like a man who actually sleeps at night," she teased.
"I don't sleep," he said, watching her reflection in the mirror, "not when you're not beside me."
Her cheeks warmed, and she threw a scarf at him. "You're impossible."
"And you're mine," he murmured.
They ended the evening at the beach. The sky was painted with fading pinks and golds, the waves soft and rhythmic. Lorenzo walked beside her, his hand tangled with hers, the ocean breeze tugging at their clothes.
For once, he looked… calm. Human.
Until a drunk man stumbled their way and shouted something rude in Elena's direction.
Before she could react, Lorenzo's body shifted — his entire demeanor turning sharp, dangerous. He grabbed the man by the collar, his fist already rising to strike.
"Lorenzo!" Elena gasped, running to him. She placed her hand on his chest, her touch trembling but firm. "No. Please. Not here. Not again."
His jaw tightened. He could hear his men approaching, ready to drag the man away, but Elena's eyes — those soft, pleading eyes — stopped him.
"I don't want you to lose yourself again," she whispered. "Not for something so small. Please."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he released the man, who ran off without looking back.
Lorenzo exhaled sharply, turning to her. "You make it hard to be who I used to be."
"That's the point," she said, smiling up at him. "I'm not trying to change you. I'm just… trying to remind you you're still human."
He looked at her for a long moment before cupping her face in his hands. "You're the only thing that ever made me feel that way."
As the night deepened, they sat on the sand, her head resting against his shoulder. The world felt simple again — just the sound of waves and their hearts beating in quiet rhythm.
"Lorenzo," she murmured softly.
"Hmm?"
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Let Clara go."
He stiffened. "She drugged me. She ruined us."
"I know," she said gently. "But what's done is done. You already punished her. Don't destroy yourself with more hate. Let's end it here. For us."
He looked down at her, his heart twisting at how pure she still was — after everything.
"You're too kind," he said.
"And you love me for it."
A small, rare laugh escaped his lips. He leaned forward, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "You win, my love. Clara will be released tomorrow."
She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks — not from sadness, but from the weight of love that felt too big for her chest.
That night, as they drove home, she sat on his lap in the back seat, her fingers tracing his jawline, her eyes shining. "You're different now," she whispered.
"No," he said, pressing a kiss to her wrist. "I'm just yours now."
And in that moment, even the moon seemed to bow to the love that burned between them — a love that turned a ruthless mafia boss into a man who would choose peace, again and again, for the woman who stole his soul.