Chapter 6 - Blood and VelvetThe world descended into absolute, deafening chaos.
Men in tactical black gear poured through the shattered doorway like a waterfall of steel and gunfire. Before Roberto’s guards could even unholster their weapons, a hail of rubber bullets and flash-bang grenades turned the office into a blinding, disorienting nightmare.
Deafening explosions rocked the room. Smoke choked the air.
Through the haze, a single figure strode past the downed guards with terrifying, unstoppable momentum.
Nicholas.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His black shirt was dusted with plaster and soot, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. His dark hair was wild, and his eyes were fixed on one target and one target only: Roberto Ferraro.
Roberto scrambled backward, his face draining of all color, his hand frantically diving into his jacket for a concealed pistol.
He never made it.
Nicholas crossed the room in three massive strides, grabbed Roberto by the lapels of his white tuxedo jacket, and slammed him against the mahogany desk with enough force to shatter the wood.
The glass of wine went flying, spraying red liquid across the floor like blood.
“You touch her,” Nicholas growled, his voice vibrating with a primal fury that made my blood run cold, “and I didn't just promise to peel your skin—I promised to start with your hands.”
“Nicholas—wait—!” Roberto choked out, his hands clawing uselessly at Nicholas’s forearms as Nicholas pinned him by the throat. “The Red Hook deeds! We can negotiate!”
“Negotiate?” Nicholas slammed him against the desk again. “You threatened my world. You threatened her.”
“Nicholas, stop!”
The words tore out of my throat, breaking through the ringing in my ears.
Nicholas froze.
He didn't drop Roberto, but his head snapped toward me. His dark eyes scanned my face, searching every inch of my skin for injury, checking to see if I was breathing, if I was whole.
“Gabriella,” he breathed, the lethal rage in his posture melting instantly into desperate relief.
Marco stepped into the room behind him, grabbing Roberto by the collar and dragging the gasping Italian heir away from Nicholas like a ragdoll.
“He’s yours, boss,” Marco said flatly. “What do you want us to do with him?”
Nicholas didn't look at Roberto. He let go of his grip, wiped his hand on his pants as if touching Roberto had contaminated him, and walked straight toward me.
He dropped to one knee in front of my chair, his large, calloused hands gently cupping my face. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones, tracing my skin as if confirming I was real.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice trembling—the only sign of the sheer terror he had fought through to get to me.
“I’m okay,” I whispered, putting my hands over his, feeling the heat of his skin. “The sedative… it’s wearing off. You came.”
“I told you,” Nicholas murmured, leaning his forehead against mine, closing his eyes as a ragged breath shuddered out of his chest. “You’re mine. Nothing in this city—not Roberto, not my father’s ghost, not death itself—is ever going to take you away from me.”
Behind us, Marco cleared his throat loudly.
“Uh, boss? What about Roberto?”
Nicholas didn't open his eyes. He kept his forehead pressed against mine, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“Send him to the country,” Nicholas said coldly, without looking back. “Tell him if he ever steps foot in New York again, I won't just take his real estate. I’ll take his name off the registry of the living.”
Three months later.
The penthouse on the fifty-third floor of the Manhattan tower looked different.
The cold, sterile minimalism had softened. There were books on the coffee table, a vase of fresh yellow wildflowers (not lilies) on the kitchen counter, and a small, framed photograph sitting right beside Nicholas’s laptop in the study—a picture of me laughing on the balcony against the backdrop of the Hudson at sunset.
I was still working in the penthouse. But I wasn't wearing the black uniform anymore.
I sat at the end of the long dining table, going over the estate’s quarterly budget on my tablet, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater, when heavy footsteps approached from behind.
Two strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me backward against a solid, familiar chest. A warm chin rested gently on my shoulder.
“You’re working too hard, Miss Hart,” Nicholas murmured into my hair, his lips brushing the curve of my neck.
I tilted my head back against his shoulder, smiling as I turned off the tablet.
“Someone has to keep your empire from going bankrupt, Mr. DeLuca,” I teased softly.
Nicholas chuckled, turning me around in his arms so I was facing him. His brown eyes were warm, entirely stripped of the cold, untouchable armor he wore for the rest of the world.
“My empire is right here,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to hold my hips. He leaned in, capturing my lips in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that tasted of coffee, home, and absolute eternity.
When we finally broke apart, resting our foreheads together, I smiled against his skin.
“Remember what you said to Roberto that night?” I whispered. “When he called me hot?”
May you like
Nicholas smiled, a dark, dangerous curve of his lips. “I remember every word.”
“Good,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Because if you ever forget it… I might just have to remind you.”
