Chapter Text
The motorcade glided through the city like a thought unspoken—all dark steel and quiet power. The lead SUVs cut through New York's dusk with seamless precision, tinted windows swallowing the gold of dying daylight. To anyone watching, it was a silent procession of ghosts in motion—men who didn't stop for red lights, who didn't exist on paper, who served one man's empire without question.
Inside the center car, Endymion Vendetti sat in the backseat, his profile reflected in the glass. Black suit, immaculate tailoring, shirt open at the throat—the calculated rebellion of a man who ruled without needing to perform his power. The faint scent of gun oil and expensive cologne lingered around him, as familiar as the weight of the watch chain at his hip. His wrist rested on the armrest, thumb absently tracing the ridges of the antique pocket watch he never went anywhere without. The habit was ritual—his pulse slowed with its touch.
Remember you must die.
The interior was quiet save for the soft hum of the city beyond bulletproof glass. His phone buzzed, screens lighting up in cascading order—one with encrypted messages from Kunzite, another with surveillance feeds from his buildings downtown. Reports about a shipment in Palermo, a Triad partner under review, a silent bid for a construction firm through shell accounts in Dubai. Numbers, codes, power moves. This was his empire—clean in the daylight, bloody in its roots.
He could read betrayal like others read headlines. Could smell fear in a man's sweat before a single lie was spoken. Years of reigning through precision and consequence had honed him into something cold, deliberate—an elegant weapon wrapped in skin.
And yet—his fingers slid over the tablet beside him, screen coming alive in warm color. The soft glow illuminated his face, casting shadows across his sharp features.
Her. His.
Serenity's face filled the frame, and he felt a sudden, almost painful tightening in his chest. The feed was from her gallery event downtown—a charity showcase she'd organized for children's hospitals. He watched as she moved gracefully across the stage, her presence commanding yet effortless. The camera loved her, capturing every nuance of her expression, every subtle shift of her posture.
She stood beneath a soft halo of light, pearls at her throat and silver threads woven through her gown. The fabric shimmered, catching the light with every movement, highlighting the curve of her waist and the elegant line of her neck. The world leaned toward her as if by instinct, drawn to her radiance and the quiet power she exuded.
The camera caught her laugh, a sound that was both musical and infectious, and he found himself smiling in response. It was a laugh that could light up a room, that could make even the most jaded soul feel alive. He watched as she gestured toward the art behind her, her hand moving with an artist's grace, her fingers tracing the air as if painting an invisible canvas.
He could almost feel the echo of her perfume, a delicate blend of jasmine and sandalwood, a scent that was uniquely hers. It was a memory etched into his senses, one that he could recall with perfect clarity even now, miles away. Her voice, too, seemed to brush against his collar, a soft whisper that he could almost hear, a promise of intimacy and connection.
Everything in him—every piece sharpened by violence, calculation, and control—went still. In that moment, all the chaos and complexity of his world fell away, leaving only the simple, profound truth of his love for her. He was a man of action, of strategy and precision, but with Serenity, he was something else entirely—a man undone, a man made whole.
His fingers hovered over the screen, a silent vow to return to her, to reclaim the life they had built together. The distance between them was a chasm, a gulf of time and space, but it was a chasm he would cross, a gulf he would bridge, for her. For them.
She was speaking. Her words weren't for him, but he heard them as if they were. Her voice poured through the speakers like warmth through marble, low and smooth, filling the spaces between his heartbeats. The city listened to her, but he listened harder.
Her dress—sculpted silk, a whisper of pale against her skin—clung to her like the memory of his hands. It moved with her body, alive with every breath she drew, the fabric daring to trace the paths his fingers once knew by devotion. He hated it for that—hated the silk for fitting her better than he could now.
Her hair, gathered high with a few pearl-blonde tendrils fallen loose, gleamed like spun light. A single curl brushed her throat, taunting him. And there, catching the stage light, was the ring—their ring—glinting like a secret she refused to bury. It shone as if defying time itself, brilliant and defiant and mercilessly his.
He reached out, thumb brushing the glass, uselessly. She smiled at something off-camera, her eyes soft, her mouth curving in that quiet, knowing way that always undid him.
The man who had built an empire from shadow felt the slow, steady unraveling of restraint.
Her eyes, a stormy sea of blues, flicked to the camera, and for a heartbeat, he swore she saw him. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated connection, a silent exchange that transcended the miles between them. Her gaze was a lighthouse, guiding him through the fog of his own thoughts, a beacon that promised safety and solace in her arms.
It was his undoing. In that fleeting second, he was laid bare, his defenses crumbling like sand castles in a tide. The world he had so carefully constructed, one of steel and shadows, dissolved into nothingness. He was no longer the ruthless businessman, the man who commanded empires and whispered in the ears of powerful men. He was simply Endymion, a man in love, a man who would do anything to have the woman who held his heart.
Her eyes, those windows to her soul, held a depth of understanding that made him feel both seen and vulnerable. It was a look that spoke of shared histories, of promises made and kept, of a love that had weathered storms and emerged stronger. He felt the pull of her gaze, a magnetic force that drew him in, a silent invitation to cross the distance and return to where he belonged.
In that moment, he knew that he would do anything to be with her again, to hold her, to breathe in her scent, to feel her heartbeat against his. The world could burn around him, and he would not care, as long as she was by his side. She had discovered the man he was, recognized the man he wanted to be, and it was his ruin. But it was a ruin he embraced, a destruction that led to a new beginning, a chance to rebuild, to reclaim, to love.
"Arrival in five, signore," his driver's voice came over the intercom, formal and respectful.
Endymion didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, thumb hovering over the pause icon, unwilling to stop watching even for a breath. The edges of the world—steel, money, blood—blurred.
"Let them finish the speeches," he said finally, voice low, even. "I'll come in quiet."
The bodyguard's acknowledgment crackled back, and the line went dead.
Endymion leaned back, watching Serenity's face again. The glow from the tablet bathed his features in pale gold, softening the angles of a man too used to hardness. For a moment, the boss was just a man—her man—waiting at the edge of her world, content to orbit in silence until she called him home.
Chapter Text
Inside the gallery, light pooled like warm milk across marble and canvas. The air shimmered faintly with the scent of paint, orchids, and champagne. Serenity stood framed by her own creations—her world of moonlit seascapes and fractured dreams rendered in oil and light. Cameras captured her every angle, but none of them could hold what she truly was.
She was alive here, untouchably so. Her eyes glowed with that rare, steady fire that came when she was speaking about the children's hospital fund, about color therapy, about art as healing. She lived in a different orbit when she was among her art—an orbit he was terrified to enter, and only watched from the edges.
The pieces on display were born from the years she rarely spoke about. From the silence that followed her ordeal—their ordeal, and the long recovery, the nights she could not sleep, when she'd rise to paint instead, searching for color in the dark. When her children were born, she painted their dreams too: oceans made of laughter, skies that never burned, the fragile dawn of a world that could begin again.
Her work became her pulse. Brushstrokes steadied her hands, light replaced the torment she refused to name. What began as therapy turned into revelation. It wasn't just art—it was proof that she had survived, that they all had survived.
And tonight, standing beneath the soft glow of her own creations, she seemed more radiant than ever.
He had seen her in every form: broken, bleeding, burning, brave. But this—this quiet, untouchable grace—was the version that undid him most.
Because she was whole now. And he ached for her most in this world when she was too far away to touch.
Marcella, elegant in black, approached, hesitant yet reverent, the way people walked near altars. Stepping closer, her curator's clipboard tucked neatly under one arm, her soft voice interrupted Serenity's thoughts. "Mrs. Vendetti," she murmured, bowing slightly. "There's a private buyer—very high profile—requesting a moment with you in the west wing. One of the smaller rooms."
She turned slightly, the silk of her gown whispering against the marble, and tilted her head, the soft gleam of her earrings catching the light. "Alone?"
"They asked for discretion," she said quickly, "but you're monitored. As always."
A faint smile touched Serenity's mouth. "Always," she murmured, more to herself than to Marcella. Of course she was. There were eyes on her everywhere, always. Security. Cameras. The silent assurance that nothing could reach her uninvited.
Endymion's eyes. His reach. Even when he was half a world away, she felt the unseen constellation of his protection around her—agents, shadows, signals she had learned to read without words. It was his way of touching her from afar, his vow disguised as vigilance.
And she missed him for it—missed the man behind the guardrails. Missed the warmth that came before the watchfulness, the quiet between breaths when it was only them. Every time she looked toward a camera, she wondered if he was watching in real time or later, in silence, tracing her image the way she once traced his pulse beneath her fingers.
"Shall I tell them you'll come?" Marcella asked.
Serenity nodded. "Yes. Just a moment."
Marcella inclined her head and disappeared into the flow of guests.
Serenity's gaze lifted briefly toward one of the gallery's recessed cameras—the kind she pretended not to notice. The red light blinked once. Constant, quiet. Watching.
She took a slow breath, exhaled, and smoothed her hand down the front of her dress. The chatter of the crowd swelled and receded behind her like a tide.
The whole world watched her. But only one man ever truly saw her.
And somewhere, beyond the bright hum of the main hall, he was already here.
Chapter Text
The crowd at the entrance stirred. Heads turned. The air shifted, as if some invisible current had entered the space.
Endymion Vendetti had arrived.
He didn't need to announce himself. The gallery's private security knew better than to interfere; a nod from Kunzite was all it took. Men in dark suits flanked the corridors with quiet, practiced subtlety, blending into the background as if they were part of the architecture itself.
Endymion moved through the space like a shadow stitched to light—impeccable, unreadable. His suit was midnight black, tailored to perfection; the faint gleam of a gold watch chain glinted when he walked beneath the recessed lighting. No tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone—always undone.
He paused in the threshold of the west wing, his gaze cutting across the gallery floor until it found her.
Serenity.
Endymion's breath caught, the sound inaudible but felt in the space between them. He had seen her in armor, in moonlight, in the unguarded hours before dawn—but this was different. This was her as the world saw her: untouchable, divine, the city's heartbeat draped in couture. And yet all he could see was his.
The fabric moved when she did, subtle ripples of light and shadow tracing every remembered curve. It infuriated him, how easily the silk replaced him—how it dared to fit her so well. His hands flexed unconsciously at his sides, aching to relearn the topography of her body, to undo every fold and fastening until she was only moonlight again.
She was surrounded by patrons, laughter, applause—the language of admiration. But he saw what they didn't: the quiet pulse at her throat when she spoke, the soft exhaustion behind her smile, the unguarded moment when she reached to adjust a painting slightly off center. The tenderness that no camera could ever capture.
He stayed where he was, letting her brightness wash over him from afar.
She didn't know he was there. Not yet.
To the world, he was another collector—another man of wealth gliding through the gallery's golden light, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But his attention never once drifted to the canvases. It stayed fixed on the woman who painted them.
The distance between them carried a thousand unspoken things: the weight of nights spent apart, the ghost of his hand along her spine beneath the same moonlight that now gleamed through the glass and wove silver through her hair. Even from here, she was luminous—serene in her composure, fierce in her quiet purpose.
He could still hear her voice from earlier, replaying in his mind through the security feed. Soft. Unarmored. Hers. Speaking of light, of healing, of children who would see color again because she believed the world could still be beautiful.
Endymion exhaled slowly. The sound was barely audible, but Kunzite—standing several paces behind, ever watchful—heard it. And that was enough.
"Spegnete le telecamere," he said quietly. "Non ho bisogno che gli spettatori mi guardino con mia moglie."
Turn the cameras off. I don't need spectators watching me with my wife.
Kunzite gave a curt nod, no further words needed. Endymion could already hear his orders relayed through the discreet earpiece, his voice calm and efficient. Within moments, the subtle hum of surveillance monitors went dark one by one. A private corridor was cleared. The west wing emptied—one polite patron at a time—until the sound of footsteps faded into nothing.
Endymion remained still for a moment, listening to the silence settle around him. Power, after all, wasn't only in force—it was in control. In knowing when to move.
Then, finally, he began to walk.
Through the corridor lined with her art—her soul—each painting marked the passage of her pain and rebirth. He passed them slowly, reverently, until he reached the smaller room where she would join him.
And then, quietly, he stepped inside—toward her.
He stopped just inside, surrounded by her world. Paintings lined the walls: the slow bloom of dawn over water, horizons blurred by mist, the same soft palette that lived in her skin. Each stroke was a memory he could almost touch.
His hand rose to one of the canvases, fingers brushing the cool edge before tracing her faint signature at the corner. The motion steadied him, even as something inside him threatened to break.
He smiled—barely, quietly—an expression too private for the world outside these walls.
God, his woman.
The thought wasn't possessive. It was reverent. The way a prayer sounded when whispered by someone who'd stopped believing in redemption but said it anyway.
Serenity was still unaware. She lingered a moment longer with a guest, her smile gracious, her voice carrying that calm cadence she'd perfected for crowds. A thank you, a soft laugh, the effortless poise of a woman who had rebuilt herself in full view of the world. She passed off her half-finished champagne, fingertips brushing the rim like a farewell, and turned toward the smaller room.
Her heels struck the marble in measured rhythm—click, pause, click—each step echoing faintly through the corridor. The sound followed her like a heartbeat, a metronome to the quiet that gathered ahead.
For now, the distance between them was mercy—a fragile moment suspended before the inevitable pull of recognition. The space itself seemed to hold its breath, caught between light and silence.
Chapter Text
The smaller exhibit space was quiet — dark-lacquered wood floors and moody lighting. She stepped inside alone, heels muffled by the thick carpet, her silhouette stretching long against the polished glass. Stone figures were placed strategically throughout the room, all smooth hips and reaching hands, as if the sculptors had known the same ache that lived in her belly tonight.
She sensed him before she heard him.
Not the footsteps. Him.
The air itself seemed to change, drawing tighter around her, trembling with awareness. A scent reached her first—smoke from some foreign wood, faint citrus stirred with dusk rain, and beneath it all, the quiet heat of clean skin. It was the kind of scent that couldn't be replicated or replaced: his. A quiet luxury, chosen once and never changed.
It slipped through the stillness like silk, weaving into her breath, unfurling through her body in a tide of memory and longing. Her heart recognized it before her mind did. Every nerve sparked awake, the invisible thread between them tugging taut.
Her pulse leapt, a soft tremor in her throat. For a heartbeat she thought it was her mind playing tricks on her, the kind that came from missing someone too long, too deeply. But then she felt it—his presence, steady and impossible, reshaping the room simply by existing within it.
He was near.
Her lips parted as warmth swept up her spine. She didn't mean to make a sound, yet a soft, breathless whimper escaped her—a sound caught between joy and disbelief. It carried all the ache of waiting, all the relief of finally sensing him again.
And he heard it. Of course he did.
That small sound—the soft, involuntary whimper she made—struck him deeper than any word could. He heard it not with his ears, but somewhere far more primal. It curled down his spine, igniting something dark and tender in equal measure. He had been many things—leader, protector, the man who kept his world in order—but that single sound reminded him of the one truth he could never escape: with her, he felt more than human. And he was completely hers.
A shiver traced her spine. She didn't turn. Couldn't. If she moved too soon, he might vanish like a dream she wasn't ready to wake from.
Then, behind her, a whisper — low, silken, reverent — curled against her ear. And when he finally exhaled her name, it came out low, reverent, like an oath made only for her ears.
"Tesoro mio…"
My treasure
Her name was a prayer, it lived in his blood, a rhythm older than thought. When she was near, the world changed its balance. Shadows seemed less certain of their purpose, the noise of his mind went still, and every sense sharpened to her alone.
Her breath caught.
The world narrowed to that voice.
His voice in Italian was always different—lower, quieter, edged with something that sounded almost like prayer. It slipped beneath her skin, unguarded and dangerous, making her body remember things her mind tried not to in public.
Her eyes fluttered closed. A smile ghosted at the corner of her lips — fragile, radiant, disbelieving. He was here. After all the weeks of silence, the missed calls, the endless distance measured in time zones and bodyguards and shadowed halls — he was here.
A warmth bloomed through her chest, soft and overwhelming. Every inch of her, every color she had ever painted, seemed to lift toward him like dawn toward the sun.
She turned slightly, not enough to face him, just enough that the light caught her pearlescent-blonde hair, the sparkling gleam of her wedding ring as her fingers hovered near her heart. Her voice came out a whisper, breath trembling with joy too deep to name.
"So you're my private buyer?" she teased, still facing the statues.
A low sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. "Private, yes," he murmured, voice sliding over her like smoke. "Though I'd hardly call it business."
"Oh?" Her tone softened, a trace of laughter curling through the word. "Then what would you call it?"
He stepped closer until the warmth of his breath ghosted her neck.
"Piacere…Pleasure."
His answer, it rippled through her like silk drawn across bare skin. Serenity's breath caught before she could hide it, her lashes fluttering. Heat coiled low in her belly, quiet and exquisite.
She sighed—heavily, helplessly—as if the air itself had turned too rich to breathe. For a heartbeat she couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or lean back into him, to dissolve into that voice and the promise it carried.
A pause followed, the air thick with it.
"And collecting," he said at last, voice low, deliberate. "I'd collect anything of yours—paintings, sketches…" His lips brushed the edge of her hair, the whisper barely there.
"Even your sighs."
"I tuoi sospiri, i tuoi gemiti, le tue urla..."
Your sighs, moans, screams...
Her laugh was quiet, shimmering. "You couldn't afford those."
He hummed low in his throat. "I already pay for them," he murmured, "with every hour I spend away from you."
The words struck something deep in her, and for a moment, the teasing faded. The distance between them dissolved, and all that remained was gravity.
She exhaled softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're home," she confirmed softly, still facing the statues.
"I will always come home to you." His hands were at her waist now—barely touching—but she felt them in her bones.
"Tu sei la mia casa, Seren…"
You are my home.
The words lingered in the air between them, soft as breath, weighted as promise.
She closed her eyes, lashes trembling. "I felt you before I knew."
"Lo so, amore mio." He pressed closer, his chest brushing her back, his lips just at her ear. "Your body told you."
I know, my love.
Her hand rose behind her, slow and instinctive, until her fingers found the onyx silk of his hair at the nape of his neck. The familiar texture—cool, impossibly soft—sent a shiver up her arm. She curled her fingers there, gentle but insistent, drawing him closer, pressing him slightly more into her.
He exhaled against her skin, the sound caught somewhere between surrender and worship.
His palms were hot from want at her hips and abdomen.
"I've been aching for you, Endy," she whispered. "Have you been aching for me?" she wondered.
A low whine escaped his throat, his nose tracing the curve of her neck, a kiss just shy of reverence brushing her pulse.
"Soffro… sempre… per te."
I ache—always—for you.
Each word broke against her skin like a vow, the spaces between them heavy with everything he couldn't say aloud.
His breath trembled, rough with hunger and restraint. "Every moment…" his lips grazed her shoulder, "…of every day I've been away from you."
His voice darkened, velvet with edge. "And every time you smile at them like that—" he paused, the words nearly a growl, "—like they matter."
Her laugh was quiet, wicked. "They pay millions to matter."
"I'd burn millions," he murmured, voice darkening, "to remind them that you're mine." A whispered "Sei mio." slipped his lips. You're mine.
Serenity turned then, slow and sure, chin tilted up. Her soft summer sky eyes searched his, sharp and clear as glacial ice.
The light touched her face in a way that made the air feel reverent. He saw the moment light bloomed in her eyes—the mix of joy and ache, disbelief and belonging—and his breath caught.
Every time, it undid him.
Her gaze found him and the distance between them dissolved, invisible but felt. The look they shared carried a thousand untold things: I missed you. I waited. You came back.
He stepped forward, drawn as if by gravity. Her scent reached him—faint jasmine, warm skin, the trace of something soft and sweet that had haunted him across years, wars, lifetimes.
She had called to him without words, and he had answered without thought.
He always looked like something half-wild in the dark: all control and violence wrapped in a bespoke suit that couldn't quite disguise the rawness beneath. The tension of him lived in small, devastating details—the loosened collar that refused a tie, the shadow of travel still beneath his eyes, the quiet pulse of danger that followed him like a scent.
Yet even after all these years, the sight of him still stole her breath.
Her husband was devastatingly handsome in that quiet, ruinous way that had never dulled with time—his dark hair just beginning to curl at the ends, his jaw shadowed, his eyes storm-blue, shifting with emotion—sometimes calm and inviting, sometimes dark and tumultuous. There was always something unearthly about the way he carried himself, like a god pretending to be a man, and she could never quite decide if it was beauty or danger that drew her more.
She drank him in as if he might vanish again—every plane of his face, every shadow that memory had softened but never erased. Weeks without him had hollowed her in quiet ways she hadn't dared name; the world had felt dimmer, sound dulled, color muted. Now, just standing before him, the air seemed to breathe again, and everything sharpened. Color bled back into the world. Her heart, dormant and patient, remembered its rhythm.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to touch him and to strike him all at once—for being gone so long, for making her ache the way he did.
He stood utterly still, watching her with that unwavering, storm-dark gaze that could command a room and yet came undone only for her. The faintest smile touched the corner of his mouth, dangerous and tender all at once, as though her very existence steadied something feral in him.
She thought, not for the first time, how impossibly lucky she was. How strange it still felt to be the one he came home to, when he could have chosen any world, any empire, any life. But he hadn't. He had chosen her—always her. Through the storms, the silences, the distance measured in oceans and blood and time, he had never strayed.
And when his eyes found hers now, the rest of the world simply fell away. In them, she saw that vow again—unspoken, unbreakable.
He only ever saw her.
He only ever chose her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Time held its breath, and the distance of weeks collapsed into the space of a heartbeat.
"Am I still yours, Endymion?" she asked. It was a tease, a test—but her hand found his lapel as if she already knew the answer.
He leaned in, his breath a promise across her lips. "You'll find that you were never not mine," he said quietly.
Endymion's gaze held hers, unblinking, as if he could see straight through to her soul. His eyes, a stormy mix of blues, were intense, almost predatory. Serenity felt a thrill of anticipation, her heart pounding in her chest. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in this moment of raw, unspoken truth.
"Prove it," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a challenge laced with desire. Her fingers tightened on his lapel, pulling him closer.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a tease of a kiss. It was a promise of more, a prelude to the passion that simmered just beneath the surface. "I will, tesoro mio," he murmured against her mouth, his voice a low rumble. "Again and again, until you have no doubt."
His hands finally found her hips, his grip firm yet gentle. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her skin, a soft, reverent kiss that sent shivers down her spine. His touch was a whisper of devotion, a silent pledge of love and adoration. He traced the curve of her waist, his fingers lingering at the small of her back, pulling her closer, their bodies pressing against each other in a dance as old as time.
Serenity's breath hitched as his hands moved from her hips, one sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, the other resting possessively at the small of her back. He pulled her flush against him, and she could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his desire. She leaned into him, her own need mirroring his.
Her eyes fluttered closed, her head tilting back as she surrendered to his touch. His lips found hers, a deep, hungry kiss that spoke of a passion barely contained. His tongue explored her mouth, a dance of desire and need, a promise of ecstasy. His hands roamed her body, tracing the lines of her curves, memorizing every inch of her, as if to imprint her forever in his mind.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You are my everything," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "My world, my life, my love."
Serenity's heart raced—too fast, too wild. Her body ached with need. She pulled him closer, fingers tangling in his hair, breath catching as his warmth met hers. Her lips found his again—slow at first, then certain.
And for a moment… there was nothing else. No crowd. No city. No time. Just the two of them—lost in each other.
Their love burned between heartbeats, a beacon in the dark—steady, defiant, guiding them back to where they always belonged. A promise. A future. Built one breath, one heartbeat, one impossible, beautiful moment at a time.
"I've missed you," she admitted softly.
His grip tightened. He nuzzled her neck, lips trailing slow, heated kisses down the curve of her throat.
"Anche tu… mi sei mancato."
I've missed you, too.
He moved back, hovering just above her lips, gaze locked on her lidded eyes.
A heartbeat passed.
Another.
Then his lips met hers—deep, urgent, hungry. The kiss was fierce, claiming, impossible to resist.
Serenity melted into him, fingers clutching at his shoulders as her body arched, aching with need. Each movement of his mouth, each brush of his tongue, was fire and gravity all at once. It drew her in, unrelenting, consuming, and she let herself go.
The world fell away. There was no gallery, no patrons, no distance between them—only the taste of him, the press of him, the overwhelming weight of his presence.
Every kiss branded her as his, fierce and tender all at once, leaving her breathless and undone.
Her words came as a whisper, fragile and unguarded, spilling between kisses. "Every night… I've ached for you."
A shiver ran through her at the weight of the confession, at the honesty in her own voice. She felt him shiver too, felt the tightening of his hold as if he were afraid she might vanish before he could claim her again.
His voice, low and rough with emotion, came against her lips, against her skin: "I'm here now. I'm never leaving you again."
The words wrapped around her like a vow, a shield, a tether back to everything she had feared lost. In his arms, the ache of weeks apart dissolved into warmth, into certainty. Every heartbeat of his pressed against her own, every breath of his matched hers, as if the universe had finally aligned in their favor.
Serenity closed her eyes fully, surrendering to the sensation of his touch, the heat of his breath, the gravity of his presence. She could feel the weight of his love in every movement, in every silent promise embedded in the press of his hands, the tilt of his head, the careful way he held her. In his arms, she was whole. Every fragment of fear, every shadow of longing, every lonely night spent waiting for him to return—they all fell away.
She fit into him as he fit into her, seamlessly, as if the world had always been building toward this moment, and all the pieces finally aligned. She could feel it in the depth of his gaze when it lifted to meet hers, in the quiet fire that radiated from him even as he held her gently, as if daring the world to touch her while he was near. And in that fire, she recognized what she had always known: she was his, utterly and without question, and he was hers in every way that mattered.
With a grace that belied the strength coiled beneath his tailored suit, Endymion lowered himself to his knees, taking care to close the space between them without breaking the spell. The movement was fluid, almost reverent, as if he were performing a sacred rite.
His eyes, a stormy mix of blues, never left hers, holding her gaze with an intensity that was both reverent and possessive. The thick carpet cushioned his fall, but it did little to soften the impact of the gesture. He was a man who commanded power, who wielded influence with a mere glance, and yet here he was, at her feet, surrendering to a force greater than any he had ever known.
Every curve of her was known to him, but cherished anew each time: the gentle swell of her hips, the enticing dip of her waist, the alluring roundness of her breasts that rose and fell with each breath. The way her body moved beneath the silk of her gown, a dance of shadows and light, was a sight he could never tire of. Her beauty was the life in her, the allure that drew him in, a siren's call he was helpless to resist.
The way her body pressed against his, the softness of her skin, the heat of her touch—all of it was a symphony of sensation that played just for him. He marveled at the way her curves fit perfectly into his hands, as if she had been made for him alone. The world could try to take her light, but he knew that in his arms, she was a star, burning bright and fierce.
He bowed his head, eyes closing briefly as if in prayer. To anyone else, it might have looked like devotion. To him, it was more than that—it was absolution. In her curves, he found his redemption, his reason for being. Each touch, each caress, was a testament to the love that bound them, a love that transcended the physical and touched the very soul.
When he looked up again, his voice was low, roughened with something holy. "I built kingdoms to stand taller than my sins," he murmured, "but I fall willingly before you."
Serenity's breath hitched, a soft gasp that escaped her lips, a sound of surprise and wonder. Her eyes widened, taking in the sight of this man, this god among mortals, kneeling before her. It was a vision of raw, unadulterated devotion, a testament to a love that transcended all else.
"The world bows to me because I command it," he began, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the quiet room, "but I—" his voice caught, then steadied—"and yet here I am, on my knees. For you, tesoro mio. For you, my goddess."
The words trembled between them like a vow. Her fingers drifted toward his jaw, her touch featherlight, as though she too were afraid the moment might vanish if she claimed it too quickly. He stayed still beneath her hand, allowing her to see what few ever did—the storm quieted, the man unmade, the lover who worshipped without needing forgiveness.
Serenity's eyes shimmered—moonlight in glass. "Endy..." she whispered.
Endymion's thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and sure. "Every time I see you, I remember that strength isn't about control. It's about surrendering to something worth it."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full. Thick with all they had been, all they'd lost, and the quiet, unspoken promise of what might still be.
"You are my everything," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed in the silence, a truth that demanded to be heard. "You are the air I breathe, the blood that flows through my veins. You are the light in my darkness, the hope in my despair. I worship you, Serenity. I worship you as my goddess, my queen, my all."
His words hung in the air, a declaration of a love so profound, so all-consuming, that it had brought him to this place, to this moment. His eyes, dark and intense, held hers captive, a silent plea for understanding, for acceptance.
As Endymion knelt before her, his hands began to explore the curves of her body, a touch that was both worshipful and possessive. Each touch was a whisper of devotion, a silent vow of adoration. He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh of her thigh. His fingers traced the curve of her thigh, a touch that was both reverent and possessive, a promise of a love that would never waver, never falter.
Serenity's heart raced, a drumbeat of desire and longing, of a love that was as fierce as it was tender. She reached out, her fingers threading through his hair, a soft, gentle touch that held a world of emotion. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, held his, a silent promise, a vow of a love that was eternal, unbreakable.
"Endymion," she whispered, her voice a soft caress, a prayer, a plea. "My love, my everything. You are my world, my heart, my soul. I am yours, forever and always."
In that moment, surrounded by the silent witnesses of stone, they were not just two people, but two souls entwined, bound by a love that was as ancient as the figures that watched over them, and as timeless as the stars above. They were a testament to a love that could move mountains, that could conquer the world, a love that was, and always would be, their greatest strength.
His palms slid up her legs, the touch both gentle and commanding, a worshipful exploration that left her breathless. He nuzzled against her, his stubble rough against her softness, a contrast that sent shivers down her spine. It was a sensation that heightened every nerve ending, every sense. His hands found the hem of her dress, his fingers curling beneath the fabric, a silent plea for permission, a promise of pleasure.
She complied, her body responding to his touch, her heart racing with anticipation. He slid the dress up, his eyes following the path of bare skin, his gaze a physical caress. His lips followed, a trail of kisses that left her trembling, her body aching with need. He worshipped her, his hands and mouth moving with a reverence that spoke of a love that transcended time and space, a devotion that was as much a part of him as the air he breathed.
Pulling the fabric up higher, inch by agonizing inch, a slow, deliberate movement that sent shivers of anticipation down her spine, revealed more of her silky skin, until her garters were exposed, a delicate lace that hugged her thighs.
A low growl escaped his throat.
"Signore, abbi pietà..."
Lord, have mercy...
"Ah, Tesoro mio," he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "You're wearing my favorite."
His eyes, dark and intense, held a world of promise, a silent vow of what was to come. Serenity's smile was slow, a curve of her lips that held a hint of mischief, a whisper of the secrets she kept.
Endymion's gaze flicked up to meet hers, a challenge, a question. "This better be for me," he teased, his voice a low, playful growl.
Her laughter was soft, a melodic sound that filled the room, a testament to the joy that existed between them. "Oh, Endy," she replied, her voice a soft, teasing caress. "Did you think I'd wear these for anyone else?"
Under his breath, he vowed, "Ucciderò chiunque tenti di toccarti."
I'll kill anyone who tries to touch you.
He hummed low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, of a hunger that was about to be sated. "Did you know I was coming?" he asked, his fingers tracing the lace.
Serenity's smile was a secret, a whisper of a truth she was only now sharing. "I might have overheard your men mentioning a certain boss coming home soon," she admitted, her voice a soft, playful purr.
Endymion's eyes darkened, a flash of something primal, something wild. "And you prepared for me," he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "My goddess, always so thoughtful...così premuroso."
His hands cupped her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh, a possessive grip that made her gasp. He nuzzled against her, his breath hot against her core, his lips brushing against the lace of her panties, a tease that left her wet and wanting. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire, a silent question that needed no answer.
She nodded, her breath hitching as he hooked his fingers into the lace, slowly sliding them down her legs, his touch a gentle caress.
Serenity's fingers threaded through his hair, a soft, gentle touch that held a world of emotion. Her eyes, shimmering with desire, held his, a silent invitation, a plea for more.
"My king...mio re," she whispered, her voice a soft, breathless caress. "Show me how much you've missed me."
And he did, with a fervor and a passion that left them both breathless, lost in a world of their own making, a world where only they existed, where only their love mattered.
He leaned her against the Apollo statue, the cool marble contrasting with the heat of their bodies. With a slow, deliberate movement, he dipped in, placing a worshipful kiss that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her. He explored her with his tongue, his touch a gentle tease, a promise of ecstasy, a testament to his love.
"Adoro dannatamente i tuoi gusti."
I fucking love your taste.
"Oh, my love..." she gasped, her voice a breathless plea, a whisper of a need that was growing with each touch, each kiss. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, urging him on, a silent demand for more.
His stubble, rough and unyielding, brushed against her inner thighs, a sensation that was both excruciating and exquisite. It heightened the pleasure, a friction that sent shivers of anticipation down her spine, a promise of a release that was just within reach.
Serenity's body arched against his, a silent invitation, a plea for him to take what was rightfully his. Her hands roamed over his shoulders, his head, a touch that was both exploratory and possessive, a claim that matched his own.
Endymion's hands gripped her ass, pulling her closer, until she was grinding against his mouth.
Serenity's moan was a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a testament to the passion that raged between them. Her body was alive, a symphony of sensation, a testament to a love that was as wild as it was tender.
As Endymion's touch brought her to the precipice of ecstasy, Serenity's body tensed, her breath catching in her throat. A silent scream on her lips.
With a final, shuddering gasp, she surrendered to the wave of pleasure that crashed over her, her body convulsing with the force of her release. Endymion, relentless in his pursuit of her satisfaction, drank deeply of her, savoring every drop of her sweetness until there was nothing left to claim.
His body still pulsating with desire, Endymion slowly rose, his movements barely restrained by the intensity of his longing. He drew her into a tight, possessive embrace, his arms encircling her with a fervor that spoke volumes of his love. Serenity's head nestled against his chest, her breath gradually steadying, yet her heart raced with the lingering echoes of her pleasure.
In his arms, she found a sanctuary, a place where gratitude and contentment intertwined. His embrace was a balm to her soul, soothing and comforting, a haven where she could simply exist in the warmth of his love.
"My Seren, tesoro mio, how I have missed you..." he whispered, his voice a gentle caress against her skin. The words were a testament to the depth of his feelings, a declaration of the profound love that bound them.
Endymion exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his chest ease at the sight of her. Just being near her again—after so many nights apart—felt like breathing for the first time in weeks.
The weight of his responsibilities had pulled him away. His father's men had been tangled in conflict with the Irish syndicate, and he'd had no choice but to go, to lead, to fix what others broke. The days blurred together—meetings, threats, long drives between hostile territories.
He hadn't brought his family with him. He couldn't. The life he led outside this home was no place for Serenity or their children. The twins had school and friends, a rhythm he didn't want to disrupt. Serenity had her gallery, her art, her cause—her light. And their two youngest still needed her constantly, nestled against her warmth, feeding, dreaming.
So he'd gone away without them, making sure from the shadows that they were safe, protected, untouchable. But Gods, he had missed her—the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand against his neck, the way her laughter could disarm even the worst parts of him.
He hadn't told her when he'd be home—he wanted to surprise her.
After weeks away, the thought of returning to his family had been the one thing keeping him grounded through endless meetings and sleepless nights. Yet tonight, knowing Serenity was hosting her gallery event, the pull became impossible to ignore. He could have waited until morning, could have returned when the children were awake and the house already alive with laughter—but that wasn't what he wanted.
He wanted her.
The quiet before the chaos, the soft hour that belonged only to them. He craved the sound of her voice unguarded by company, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the air, the way her eyes softened when she realized he was finally home.
So he said nothing.
He simply came—following that quiet ache that had lived in his chest since the moment he left her side.
Tonight, before the noise and the joy of their family reunion, he wanted the stillness of finding her first.
Just Serenity. Just them.
By the time they would reach home, the children would be fast asleep, but meeting Serenity at her art gallery stirred memories of their past, a time of shared dreams and passions. It was a moment that mirrored the intimacy they shared now.
"I'm just happy to have you back safe," Serenity murmured, her eyes reflecting the depth of her love and relief. "The children missed their papa..." she added, pulling back slightly to offer him a seductive grin. "And I missed my lover." With a gentle, teasing motion, her fingers slipped, unzipping the seam of his pants, her touch igniting a new wave of desire.
"I want you, Endy," she whispered, her voice a promise of the passion that awaited them. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, leaving only the heat between them and the echo of their shared longing.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze a simmering blend of possessiveness and longing, searching her eyes. "Tesoro mio," he murmured, his voice dark and low, "are you finished charming the room, or should I worry about ruining your carefully crafted image?"
A sly grin curled at the corners of her mouth, mischief glinting in her gaze. "Mio re," she replied, her voice a sultry, playful purr, "I welcome the look you will give me. Everyone will know exactly what happened between us when I walk out on your arm."
His eyes narrowed, a raw emboldening of primal possession and desire flickering in their depths. "You want them to know," he stated, his voice a low, possessive growl. "To know how thoroughly I fucked you." He began nipping at her neck, his teeth grazing her delicate flesh, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. His lust was rising, a fierce, untamed hunger that demanded to be sated.
"Good, because I want them to see the marks of my passion on your skin. The signs of my claim." Each nip was a promise, a reminder of the intensity that awaited them, a testament to the wild, untamed love that bound them. His breath was hot against her skin, his touch electric, igniting a fire within her that matched his own. "I want them to see you, flushed and sated, and know that you are mine," he whispered, his voice a low, possessive rumble, as his hands roamed over her body, claiming every inch of her as his own.
Endymion lowered his mouth to the curve of Serenity's neck, nipping her gently before murmuring in a husky whisper, "Possono solo pregare i loro dei, augurare a tutte le stelle, implorare il destino, donare loro ciò che abbiamo, ciò che tu ed io condividiamo."
They can only pray to their gods, wish on all the stars, beg the fates, to gift them what we have, what you and I share.
He lingered there, letting the words settle—soft, reverent, and full of promise—before meeting her gaze again.
A low, primal growl escaped his throat as he ground against her, the hard length of him pressing against her most sensitive spot. Serenity moaned, her head falling back against the statue, her body arching into his touch. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, his teeth nipping at her collarbone, marking her as his.
"Mine," he growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "You are mine, tesoro mio. Forever and always."
His hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, every line, as if memorizing her all over again. Serenity's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. She wanted to drown in him, to lose herself in the depths of his passion.
Endymion's lips found hers again, his kiss fierce and demanding. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting, claiming, devouring. Serenity met his kiss with equal fervor, her body responding to his touch, her mind lost in the whirlwind of passion and love.
After a moment, she pulled slightly away and looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a mix of satisfaction and a newfound determination. "Endy," she began, her voice soft yet steady, "I want to try for another baby."
He paused, his gaze searching hers, a flicker of surprise and a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "Tesoro mio," he said, his voice a low rumble, "are you sure? We've talked about this before, and I want to make sure you're ready."
She nodded, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, a tender, reassuring touch. "I am," she replied, her voice filled with conviction. "We can have the whole block looking like you. I want our children to have your strength, your passion, your unyielding love."
Endymion's eyes softened, a rare glimpse of the tender, vulnerable side of him that he reserved only for her. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, a silent moment of connection, of understanding. "Serenity," he whispered, "you know I would move heaven and earth for you. For us. For our family."
She smiled, a curve of her lips that held a world of promise, of hope, of love. "I know," she said, her voice a soft, breathless caress. "And that's why I want to do this with you. Because I know, with you by my side, we can create something beautiful, something lasting. A legacy."
Endymion's arms tightened around her, a silent vow, a promise of a future filled with love, with laughter, with life. "Then we'll make it happen, together." he said, his voice a low, determined growl. "And I must say, I enjoy the process of making a baby with you. Every moment, every touch, every whisper of our love—it's a journey I want to take with you again and again."
His lips brushed hers in a feather‑light kiss, the contact gentle at first and then deepening as if they were searching for a hidden rhythm. Serenity molded to him, her body responding to his touch, her mind lost in the whirlwind of passion and love, melting the tension that had coiled in his chest for weeks. Endymion's hands roamed over her curves, exploring, claiming, worshipping every inch of her.
Endymion's gaze lingered on the curve of her neck, the delicate dip of her collarbone, the way her shoulders rose and fell with each shallow inhale. He whispered a promise in Italian, "Ti sento in ogni respiro," his voice low and velvety. His words slid over her like silk, and she answered with a soft humming that vibrated through the marble bodies surrounding them.
"I feel you in every breath."
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs slipping around his waist with a familiar ease, as though the two of them had rehearsed this dance a thousand times. He carried her to press against the nearest statue—an ancient marble figure of a goddess. When her back met the cool marble, she gasped softly—the chill grounding the fire that sparked where he touched her. The statue stood sentinel, their passion reflected in stone and shadow.
Serenity's fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer until his mouth claimed hers again, this time with a urgency that left her pulse racing. She wanted to dissolve into him, to let his heartbeat become the metronome of her own. He responded by lowering his chin to brush her jawline, his breath warm against her skin, and murmured, "Sei la mia luce."
You are my light.
He traced a path of soft kisses down her throat, pausing at each pulse point—the hollow at the base of her throat—before his teeth grazed the tender flesh of her collarbone. The sensation was a delicate bite, a claim that sparked a shiver of anticipation. With a deft movement, he shifted his hips, positioning himself with the heat radiating from her core, finding her already wet and ready for him. Serenity moaned, her hips arching into his touch, her body aching with need.
Their eyes locked, his dark irises reflecting a promise that was both fierce and tender. "Ready, tesoro mio?" he asked, the words vibrating in the space between them. The question hung in the air, and Serenity could only reply with a trembling nod, her throat too tight with need to form words, her voice lost to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her body.
He entered her with a slow, deliberate motion, feeling the depth of the connection as he filled her completely. The world narrowed to the sound of their breathing, the creak of the marble underfoot, and the rhythmic thrum of two hearts in perfect sync. Serenity's first cry rose like a song, reverberating off the stone walls, her body arching around him in a wave of pure, unfiltered pleasure.
Endymion began to move, each thrust a measured cadence that matched the rise and fall of her own hips. He varied the tempo—soft, lingering presses that lingered at the edge of climax, then sudden, sharper drives that sent jolts of electricity through her nerves. With every motion, he whispered fragments of Italian poetry:
"I nostri corpi in armonia, è la melodia che preferisco di più."
Our bodies in harmony, is the melody I favor most.
And:
"Il mio desiderio è un fuoco che non si spegne,"
My desire is a fire that never extinguishes.
And as they moved together, lost in a world of their own making, she knew, without a doubt, that this was where she belonged, in his arms, forever and always.
Serenity responded in kind, her voice a mingled breath of moans and sighs. "Endy, mio re," she murmured, her hands gripping the cool marble as if it could anchor her amid the rising tide. "I'm on the brink, don't let me fall alone."
A low, primal growl escaped his throat, and he quickened his pace, his thrusts now a storm that washed over her. The intensity built, her nails digging into his back, the marble scratching a faint line on her skin—a reminder of the moment's rawness. As the first wave of climax surged through her, she clutched at his shoulders, her body trembling.
"Come for me, tesoro mio," he commanded, his voice thick with possessive love, "Let them see how beautiful you are when you fall apart for me." The words were a spell, and she felt herself surrender, a shuddering gasp carrying her over the edge. Pleasure crashed through her like a tidal wave, every muscle convulsing, every breath a gasp of ecstasy.
With a final, shuddering gasp, Endymion's own release followed, a fierce burst that flooded her, their bodies moving as one, a single rhythm echoing in the marble-filled room. They lingered in the afterglow, their limbs wrapped around each other, breaths mingling in shallow puffs, hearts beating a synchronized drum.
Endymion's lips found hers in a soft, tender kiss, a promise of the love and passion that would forever bind them together.
"Per sempre e sempre, amore mio," he whispered, his voice still a low, husky rumble. "Forever and always, my love," he repeated in English.
Serenity smiled, her heart swelling with emotion. "Forever and always, Endymion. You are my everything." Her cheeks flushed with love and lingering heat. "Per sempre," she replied, her fingers tracing the faint scar his bite had left on her collarbone, "In you I have found my endless night and my brightest day."
As Serenity and Endymion stood entwined in the quiet exhibit space, the world slowly began to filter back in, the reality of their surroundings gently reclaiming their attention. Endymion's arms remained tightly wrapped around her, his presence a comforting, protective cocoon.
Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, a tender, teasing touch. "Take me home, my love," she said, her voice a soft plea.
With a final, lingering kiss, they stepped apart, their hands still entwined, a silent promise of the journey that lay ahead. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers, and then he nodded, a silent vow.
Using a gentle but firm hand at her back, he guided her away from the statues, away from the world, and into the future they would build together, one passionate moment at a time. Their steps were in sync, their hearts beating as one, ready to face the world together, ready to create a future filled with love, with laughter, with life.
Chapter Text
The gallery doors swept open, spilling light and elegance into the evening beyond—but Serenity saw none of it. Her world existed only in the space beside her. She turned toward him, a bright, warm smile blooming across her lips as her gaze found his.
Every detail of her arrested him—the curve of her smile, the flush still warming her cheeks, the way she moved as if the night itself bent toward her. She was the masterpiece tonight, not the canvases that lined the walls behind her.
Her perfume lingered faintly in the cool night air—white flowers, moonlight, something only Serenity could wear without effort—and it wrapped around him, pulling him into a quiet trance.
She shivered slightly as the evening breeze found them, cool and damp after the earlier rain. Without hesitation, Endymion shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric dwarfed her, the sleeves falling past her wrists, but she pulled it close with a soft, grateful smile.
"Better?" he asked, voice low, the timbre roughened by affection.
She looked up at him, eyes glinting beneath the lamplight. "Yes, thank you, my love," she said, her tone half teasing, half tender.
He couldn't help the smile that curved his lips. The sight of her wearing his jacket—his world wrapped in something that carried his scent—stirred a primal satisfaction in him. Not ownership, not exactly, but a sense of belonging that ran both ways. She was his heart, his peace, his home.
Her hair was soft waves tumbling down her back, loose tendrils catching the soft light. It was a stark contrast to the prim and proper updo she had worn earlier. He remembered how those pins had given way under his fingers, how each strand had slid free as if grateful to be touched again.
Her usual smudge-proof lipstick—selected precisely because Endymion could never resist her taste—was no longer flawless. The once-perfect curve of color now blurred, a sensual testament to the passionate kisses they had shared. A reminder of the hunger he hadn't been able to restrain.
Her elegant dress, a delicate fabric that had once hung perfectly, was now wrinkled and disheveled, the marks of Endymion's eager hands evident on every fold.
And yet she glowed—radiant and unapologetically alive.
His.
Endymion's chest tightened as he watched her. He'd seen her in diamonds and silk, seen her command rooms of the powerful and the vain—but it was moments like this, when she was undone by love and utterly herself, that undid him. There was a warmth to her smile that no painting could capture, no gallery could contain. It was joy in its purest form—a light that made everything else look pale and distant by comparison.
Despite her disheveled appearance, Serenity's smile was radiant and warm, a beacon of happiness and contentment. That smile — bright, unshaken, utterly hers — made even the opulent gallery seem like a backdrop to her light.
"Ciao, loves," she said, her voice a lilting melody that turned the ordinary air electric. She waved goodbye to the lingering guests, her expression gracious, her charm effortless. The last of the lingering guests murmuring their farewells behind them. They saw a radiant artist at the height of her success. Endymion saw the woman who had anchored his soul.
He caught their reflection in the tall glass of the gallery's doors before they shut. She looked ethereal—hair cascading freely, lipstick smudged, gown wrinkled from his touch—and his heart swelled with something fierce and wordless. She was perfection wrapped in imperfection, and he loved her most in these unguarded moments.
Her eyes caught his for a fleeting second, full of that secret joy—the kind that belonged only to them, carried in shared glances and whispered promises.
And in that moment, he thought that if the rest of the world disappeared—every painting, every star, every sound—he would not miss it. Not while she stood there, looking at him like that.
She tilted her head slightly, her smile playful. "You're staring again," she murmured, her voice soft but teasing.
"Can you blame me?" His reply came low, reverent. "The entire gallery fades beside you. La tua bellezza supera ogni arte immaginata."
Your beauty exceeds any art imagined.
Her laughter—a quiet, musical sound—filled the space between them. He'd missed that sound, the way it could pull him out of his thoughts, make him believe that peace wasn't something far away but right here, holding his arm.
Endymion's security detail kept a polite, distant perimeter, shadows against the lamplight, alert but unobtrusive. They didn't need orders to understand the silent message in their boss's posture—the way his hand remained at the small of her back, protective, reverent, possessive. They'd all seen the disheveled hair, the faint smudge of lipstick, the gentle tilt of her smile that spoke of a love no guard could ever defend against.
He scanned the perimeter out of habit—eyes quick, assessing. Two of his men lingered at the edge of the street, pretending to check their phones. Another shadow moved by the gate. All in place. Still, his instincts didn't ease. Serenity had teased him before about his need to watch everything, to control what the world might throw their way. She called it love disguised as vigilance. And she was right.
"Endy," she said softly, noticing his gaze. "They're professionals. You don't have to worry every second."
He glanced down at her, lips curving faintly. "I know."
But he did worry. All the time. Because no matter how many men stood guard, no matter how safe the world seemed in that moment, his mind would never rest until he knew she was beyond danger. His peace was only ever found in her presence—and even then, it was fragile, conditional, tied to her breath and heartbeat.
Endymion stayed close—close enough to feel the faint brush of her hair against his sleeve, close enough to sense her warmth even through the crisp night breeze. His hand finding the small of her back, fingers resting there with a quiet, possessive tenderness that made her pulse quicken, and a silent testament to anyone who saw, that she was his. His fingers flexed instinctively, a silent reminder to himself that she was real, that she was here.
The car waited beneath a lone streetlamp, its sleek silhouette reflected in the puddles from an earlier rain. Endymion pressed a button, and the rear door swung open with a soft mechanical sigh. He guided Serenity inside, a gentlemanly gesture, his touch steady but intimate. For a brief moment, his hand lingered at the base of her neck—a silent claim, a caress—before settling on the door latch, closing it with a gentle click.
Serenity glided into the plush leather seats across from him, a whisper of elegance in motion. Endymion took his place opposite, his presence filling the space. His gaze never wavered, never leaving hers—every line of his body attuned to her, drawn as if by gravity.
At the front, Dante caught his boss's gaze in the rearview mirror, gave a polite nod, and started the car. The hum of the engine broke the silence as they slipped into the quiet rhythm of the city. Streetlights streaked past in ribbons of gold and shadow, reflecting off the rain-slick pavement.
Inside the car, Endymion reached for the button that would close the thin panel that divided the front and rear seats. With a slow, deliberate motion the divider slid down, creating a private cocoon that sealed off the driver's view. The soft thud of the partition settling echoed like a promise.
For a while, neither spoke. Serenity leaned back, the soft fatigue of the evening evident in her posture. Her gaze met his across the dimly lit space, steady and full of unspoken words.
Endymion studied her in the hush that followed. The way her chest rose with each calm breath. The way moonlight found her through the tinted window, laying silver over the warm tone of her skin. The woman across from him was more than beauty—she was home.
He leaned forward, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering just a second too long against her skin. "You still take my breath away," he murmured, the words carrying more reverence than flirtation, as though he were confessing something sacred.
Her smile was tired but genuine, the kind that spoke of shared years and sleepless nights, of late feedings and whispered promises in the dark. "You always say that," she teased softly, though her eyes betrayed the flicker of warmth his words always summoned.
"Because it's always true," he said simply.
There was no embellishment in his tone, no practiced charm—just quiet certainty. His gaze held hers, steady and unguarded. All that remained was her—his Serenity—radiant even in weariness, unshaken even when the world demanded too much.
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as though sealing a vow. She let out a soft laugh, the kind that filled the small space between them like a light.
And for a fleeting moment, Endymion thought that if the gods themselves stood before him demanding his devotion, he would still choose her—every time.
The hum of the car settled into a low rhythm, matching the quiet between them. Serenity reached into the small leather bag at her side, retrieving the familiar set of bottles and tubing. Endymion said nothing, only watched, his eyes softening with something deeper than admiration. There was nothing mundane about the sight—not to him. It was an act of devotion, of continuity. The woman who had once been his equal in every battlefield of passion was now the quiet center of their family's world.
Slowly, she began to slide the straps of her dress down, revealing her creamy, flawless skin inch by inch. Endymion's breath hitched, his gaze intense and full of admiration. Her breasts were tender and full, a beautiful sight that spoke of the life and love they had created together. Though the car's interior was dim, Endymion could see the subtle rise and fall, the way her skin glowed with a natural, quiet radiance.
She lifted the breast pump from the small bag she'd tucked beside her, the clear tubes and soft silicone cups glinting faintly in the dim light. With practiced ease, she positioned the cups over her leaking nipples, which released a slow, bluish-white stream. The faint scent of milk filled the confined space, a reminder of the life they had already begun to nurture together. He watched, mesmerized, a scene of pure, unadulterated beauty.
There was a peace to her, something sacred in the way she exhaled and let her shoulders relax. Motherhood had changed her — not diminished her, but deepened her presence, as if every heartbeat carried meaning.
Endymion's heart swelled with a reverent awe. The act was simple, intimate, and profoundly beautiful—a tangible expression of the love that had blossomed between them. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her thigh, grounding her to the present moment. Their eyes met, and in that shared glance lay a thousand unspoken promises: to protect, to provide, to cherish the tiny futures growing around them and hopefully soon, inside of her.
"Tesoro mio," he whispered, his voice a low, reverent rumble. "You are a vision. The way you nurture our bambini, the way your body provides for them—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Serenity's smile deepened, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. "It feels like the most honest thing I can do," she replied, her eyes shining with a quiet pride. "To be the source of their nourishment… it feels like love made visible."
His fingers gently traced the curve of her jaw, a tender, loving touch. "It is, amore mio. You give them more than they could ever ask for. And I am forever in awe of you, of the strength and beauty you possess."
Serenity leaned into his touch, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of happiness. "And you, Endymion, you are my rock, my lover, my best friend. With you by my side, I know we can face anything, create anything. Our love is our legacy, and I wouldn't trade it for the world."
She reached for his hand, their fingers threading together.
He leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft, tender kiss. It was a promise of the love and passion that would forever bind them together. When he drew back, the leather welcomed him. His gaze lingered on her through half-lidded eyes, desire smoldering subtly.
The partition was still drawn, shutting out Dante and the world, leaving them in a hushed, intimate cocoon. Silence was thick between them, charged with the unspoken language. A possessive hunger still simmered just beneath the surface of his tender admiration. Serenity could feel it. Reveled in it.
She took a deep, centering breath, her eyes finding Endymion's across the plush expanse of the leather seat. "Endy, my love. I need you to do something for me." Her voice was a sultry purr, laced with a hint of command. "Free yourself. Pleasure yourself while I finish. I want to watch you prepare yourself for me."
As her words hung in the air, Endymion's hand instinctively moved to the prominent bulge in his pants, her command evoking the phantom sensation of her expert touch. The tension was palpable, and she could see the struggle in his clenched jaw as he fought to suppress a groan, his eyes darkening with a mix of restraint and desire.
Serenity's eyes locked onto his, ensuring he understood the depth of her desire. "I want you ready and eager for me. Let your imagination run wild, thinking of all the ways we can explore each other. Picture my touch, my lips, and the way our bodies will entwine. Let that thought guide your hand."
Her words were a gentle, yet firm instruction, a promise of the pleasure that awaited them. She wanted him to indulge in his own desires, to heighten his anticipation, so that when she was done, he would be fully prepared, ready to lose himself in the depths of their shared passion.
This time, a low, ragged groan escaped his lips, a sound that was both a surrender and an invitation. His fingers deftly worked at the fastenings of his trousers, his movements quick and purposeful. He pushed down the fine wool and the soft silk of his boxer briefs, revealing himself to her gaze. His length stood proud, swollen and flushed, a clear testament to his desire and the exquisite anticipation of the pleasure she was about to bestow.
"There, yes," she whispered emboldened, her eyes dark with promise. "Now, hold yourself for me."
A flicker of surprise at her, then raw understanding, passed through his eyes. He looked at the bottles of milk sitting innocently in front of her, and then back at her, a silent question hanging in the air. She answered it with a slow nod, a glint of playful dominance in her gaze.
"I need a moment more," she explained, her voice soft but firm. "And I want you ready. I want you aching for me, already thinking of how it will feel when I finally take you. Touch yourself, Endymion. Let me watch you prepare yourself for me."
Her command was not cruel, but an invitation to a shared vulnerability, a dance of mutual surrender. It was an act of trust, an offering of his pleasure from his hands to her viewing pleasure.
"Adoro quando sei così. Esigente. Potente. Prepotente. E' così dannatamente sexy."
I love it when you're like this. Demanding. Powerful. Domineering. It's so fucking sexy.
He didn't hesitate. His fingers wrapped around himself, a slow, deliberate stroke that made his breath catch. He watched her with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs, his gaze locked on her face as pleasured shivers coursed through his body. The slick, intimate sounds were amplified in the silence of the car, a score for their private performance.
Serenity watched, mesmerized. She saw the control etched on his features, the way he held back, waiting for her signal. She saw the devotion in his eyes, the surrender to her will. The beauty of him vulnerable, exposed, and completely at her mercy was overwhelming. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before landing on his lips.
"Like that," she murmured, her voice thick with awe. "Don't stop. Show me how much you want me, how much you need this. I'll be ready for you soon. And when I am, I want you to be so close, so desperate, that this moment will feel like a memory compared to what happens next."
His pace quickened, each stroke of his hand more urgent than the last, as a low, guttural groan slipped past his lips. His body tensed, muscles coiling and releasing with each wave of pleasure. It was a sight of raw, primal beauty—the powerful man, her king, surrendering to her command, utterly consumed by the pleasure she had orchestrated. With each movement, he gave himself to her, piece by piece, and in that act, she found her own fulfillment. Her dress grew damp as her own arousal intensified, her nectar releasing in a silent, secret ecstasy.
The last drops of milk collected in the bottles, a shimmering promise of life. Serenity carefully detached the pump with a soft hiss of air, and capped the bottles with practiced efficiency. The scent of her motherhood, warm and sweet, filled the enclosed space. The gentle pressure of the cups against her skin lingered—a soft reminder of the incredible gift she was giving. Love, in its purest form, was expressed through something as simple and essential as nourishment. In this moment, there was beauty in the essential act of life itself.
With deliberate care, she gathered the last of the pump pieces and equipment, tucking them neatly into the bag. She sealed the milk container and set it inside as though placing a treasure in a reliquary—precious, irreplaceable, offered from the deepest place in her heart.
Her eyes never left his, a quiet intimacy passing between them—a silent conversation that needed no words. The air was thick with the scent of her milk, an earthy, life-giving perfume that mingled with the clean, masculine aroma of his skin. The city beyond the tinted windows was a blur of anonymous light, their own world contained within this leather and steel sanctuary.
Endymion's hand moved slowly, deliberately, his grip firm but not punishing. He watched her face, his breath coming in controlled, steady exhales. At last, his voice was a low, rough murmur, cutting through the soft sounds of his own movement.
"Tesoro mio," he rasped. "Vieni qui. Sit on my lap. Let me feel you."
Come here.
The raw plea sent a jolt of need straight through her. He still held himself, his hand a steady presence that she looked at with open appreciation. Her dress pooled at her waist still, its weight a small anchor in the tide of their desire.
Her breath hitched. "Not yet. I want to watch you. I want to see you like this," she said, the words softer than she intended.
Endymion gave a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes dark with understanding. He quickened his pace slightly, the rhythm becoming more insistent. The slick sounds of his arousal filled the car, a counterpoint to the low hum of the engine. His eyes locked with hers, unblinking, as his muscles began to tense, the tell tale sign of his approaching release.
"Serenity," he growled again, his voice tight with the effort of holding back. "Please. I need to feel you around me. Now."
He was pleading with her, his control hanging by a thread. It was intoxicating. She let the moment stretch, savoring the power she held, the sight of the king of her world brought to his knees by a simple request.
A small, wicked smile touched her lips. He saw the change in her gaze and mistook it for permission. His strokes became harder, faster, his body coiling like a spring. "I'm going to come," he warned, his voice a ragged gasp.
She shook her head, a soft "No" on her lips.
In the thick, charged silence, his strokes slowed to a deliberate torment. He was holding back, just for her, a silent promise of the control he willingly ceded. He met her gaze, his own filled with a fierce, possessive longing.
"Come sit on me, tesoro mio," he requested again, his voice gravelly with need, his strokes now a slow, agonizing rhythm that made his muscles strain.
She rose from the seat, a liquid motion across the space separating them. Each step was a measured sway of her hips, a whisper of a promise to come. He angled his body, opening to her in an invitation that was not surrender but a profound offering of trust. His gaze held hers, unwavering, a silent conversation passing between them.
Moving between his parted legs, she gathered the fabric of her dress at her sides, baring the skin of her thighs and creating a soft, inviting contrast against the dark leather. She paused, hovering just above him, the challenge in her eyes a soft glint.
With a deliberate slowness that was its own form of torment, she lowered herself, her body settling onto his lap with a perfect weight. The thin silk of her dress was the only flimsy barrier between his heated skin and the warmth of her own. He watched her, his gaze a voracious feast as it traced the creamy expanse of her thighs, up the gentle curve of her waist, to the swell of her bare breasts where her nipples puckered hard, a milk residue shining, begging for his touch.
He felt the steady, powerful throb of his own desire against her core, a drumbeat of their shared need. She leaned in, her hands coming to rest on the solid width of his shoulders before drifting lower, down his half-exposed chest. Their bodies aligned with a precision born of countless nights of discovery, a seamless fit that spoke of a soul-deep recognition.
Endymion groaned, the sound a low, guttural rumble from deep in his chest, a vibration that seemed to resonate in her bones. The feeling of her settling against him, warm and welcoming, was enough to unravel him. His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into the plush flesh with a desperate strength, as if he feared she might vanish if he didn't hold her fast, anchoring himself to this exquisite, perfect moment.
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "How many women have you asked that of?" she murmured, her tone light, yet laced with a sharp undercurrent.
He froze. He looked at her, the question in his eyes a raw, vulnerable wound. Endymion had never strayed from her, his loyalty unbreakable. At first, he feared she suspected infidelity, perhaps during his absences. But he would never betray her trust. Then, he recognized the playful glint in her eyes, the subtle shift into their familiar roleplay. It was a dance they often engaged in, a prelude to their passion. "Only you," he replied, his voice low and unwavering. "The others... I put on their knees in different ways and various positions."
She pulled back slightly, her gaze searching his face for any hint of deceit. Finding none, she understood he knew she was only toying with him, her trust in his devotion unwavering. A smirk played on her lips before it blossomed into a low, husky laugh that resonated through his chest.
"Good," she purred. "Let me catch one of them near you, Endymion. I swear I will end her, and then I'll cut off your beautiful cock and mount it on the wall next to my vibrator collection."
He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that reverberated through them both. "My feisty, jealous queen," His hands found her thighs, gripping them firmly as he rocked himself against her folds, teasing her with a merciless, deliberate rhythm. "And what would you do without my beautiful cock, tesoro mio?" he teased, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on the soft skin just beneath her dress, sending shivers of anticipation through her.
Her breath hitched, and a soft moan escaped her lips. "I already have a perfect, silicone mold of it," she gasped, her voice breathy and laced with desire. "A very accurate, very expensive vibrator. It's what I use when you're away, on those 'business trips,' trying to be a responsible king." Her hips began to move in sync with his, meeting each of his teasing rocks with a hungry lift of her own, her body aching for more.
His answer was not in words, but in action—a low, possessive growl that rumbled from his chest and vibrated through her, a sound both animal and adoring. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was both a fierce punishment for her teasing and a sacred promise of the passion to come. His hands slid up her back, pulling her impossibly close until there was not a breath of air left between them, only the heat of their skin and the undeniable promise of what would happen next.
Her playful admission about the silicone mold still lingered between them, a weapon of her own making that he had just disarmed.
"The only cock you will need is mine," he murmured against her lips, a possessive claim that settled over her like a benediction. Then, his voice dropped to a husky whisper that was both a command and a plea. "Let me taste you."
He exhaled, a shaky release of breath that spoke of his consuming need. With deliberate reverence, he guided her upward, shifting her position until the heavy, full weight of her breasts was perfectly level with his waiting mouth. It was an act of command, executed with such tenderness that she felt cherished, not conquered—held as the greatest treasure he had ever known.
Serenity watched, her breath catching, as Endymion bent his head. The first touch was a soft, almost reverent press of his lips, a kiss that barely grazed the tip of her breast. It sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her center, a spark that ignited a low, familiar fire in her belly. He followed it with another, and then another, each kiss a delicate worship of the delicate skin.
Then, he began to explore. His tongue traced slow, wet circles around the darkened areola, the sensation a torment of pleasure and need. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him to her. He responded with a soft hum of approval, the vibration rippling through her nerve endings.
He took her nipple into his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with a deeper, more insistent pressure. It was a claiming, a possession that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with a desperate hunger for her, for what she represented. As he continued, his movements grew more urgent, his lips and tongue working together to draw from her the sweetness that was uniquely hers.
A sudden, sharp gasp escaped her as his suction increased, a wave of pressure and pleasure coursing through her. And then, the rich, sweet taste of her milk touched his tongue.
He released her nipple with a soft, wet pop, his lips glistening with a bead of her milk. He looked up at her, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated awe. The raw possessiveness in his eyes had softened, replaced by a look of such profound tenderness it stole her breath.
"Mio Dio," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned in and pressed another soft kiss to her sensitized peak before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze fully. "Seren… it's so sweet. It's no wonder il piccolo coniglietto is so chunky."
My God ... Little bunny
He traced a single, glistening drop of milk from his own lip to hers. "That's what you taste like," he murmured. "That's what we made together. Our love, given physical form."
He closed the small distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss so tender it was almost painful. This wasn't just the taste of her milk he shared with her; it was the taste of their lives intertwined, a promise of a future being nourished by the very essence of their love. In that single, perfect moment, they were not a king and his queen, not lovers, but simply two halves of a single, beating heart, tasting forever on each other's lips.
Only Endymion could claim her breasts with such reverence, his touch and hunger uniquely hers. Her babies, though cherished, could not draw from her in the same way, their needs met through the meticulous ritual of pumping. Serenity's heightened sensitivity to nipple stimulation made breastfeeding a challenge, as the pleasure it evoked often overshadowed its purpose. This clash between the sexual allure of her breasts and their nurturing role created a delicate tension, a confusion about balancing the roles of a mother and a lover. To ensure her babies received the nourishment they needed, she relied on the breast pump, a tool that bridged the gap between her dual identities, allowing her to fulfill both her maternal and intimate duties with grace and care.
Her breath, warm and quiet, hovered between them like a promise. As she shifted his lap, time seemed to slow. The car became its own universe, defined by the circle of his arm around her, the measured cadence of his breathing, and the distant song of city lights sweeping past the windows. When their eyes met, his gaze shimmered with a heat that was both familiar and thrilling—desire and devotion entwined.
Endymion watched her, his gaze intense and full of desire. He reached out, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing away the remnants of her smeared lipstick. "You are exquisite, tesoro mio," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble. "Every inch of you is a work of art, a masterpiece of nature and passion."
She reached for him with playful tenderness—a light brush of her her hips gently brushing against his in a soft, inviting rhythm. Her hand came to rest lightly on his chest, a gesture that spoke volumes of the comfort and familiarity they shared. Each touch was an invitation, a dance of affection woven from years of shared laughter, whispered dreams, and the memory of their children's sleep-soft voices.
In his embrace, she found a deep solace; in their closeness, art itself seemed to bloom—a living, breathing poem unfolding in the secret language of their lives together. Each movement carried the memory of their beginnings—their first stolen touch in a crowded room, the nervous laughter that gave way to certainty, the shared rhythm of two lives learning the shape of one another.
Endymion responded with patient reverence, his fingertips drawing a slow, reverent line along her sternum. His breath caught between them, charged with unspoken vows and the promise of belonging. Lifting her slightly, Serenity felt the heat of his touch rise to meet the warmth blossoming in her chest. The car, cocooned by the night and the muted glow of passing streetlamps, became a haven—a world apart, safe and luminous.
In that suspended moment, the city faded to a distant murmur. The night wrapped around them like a gentle shroud, while within the car, love—quiet and unbreakable—flourished in the soft folds of their embrace. They sat entwined, the wheels humming softly on the asphalt, carried forward not just by the road, but by the life and future they were creating, one shared breath at a time.
Serenity smiled, a soft, seductive curve of her lips. Her movements were graceful and alluring as she slowly rolled herself in his lap. Endymion's breath hitched as she writhed against him, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her dress, stirring his desire. He could feel the heat of her, the wetness that promised pleasure beyond imagination.
"Endy, my king, mio re," she whispered, her voice a breathless caress. "Take me. Have me. Consume me."
A low, primal growl escaped his throat as he gripped her hips, pulling her closer, deeper. Serenity moaned, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her back in a wild, untamed waterfall. She began to move, her hips rolling against him, a rhythm that was both teasing and torturous.
Endymion's hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, every line, as if memorizing her all over again. He captured her lips in a fierce, demanding kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth, tasting, claiming, devouring. Serenity met his kiss with equal fervor, her body responding to his touch, her mind lost in the whirlwind of passion and love.
She ground against him, the friction sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. Endymion's hands slid under her dress, his fingers finding her already wet and ready for him. He teased her, his touch gentle yet firm, building her desire to a fever pitch.
"Endy, please," she gasped, her voice breathless with need. "Let's try for another baby. Make our legacy larger, our home fuller, filled with our love."
With a deft movement, he shifted, positioning himself at her entrance. Serenity's breath hitched, her body tensing in anticipation. He looked into her eyes, his gaze intense and full of promise.
In a slow, deliberate push that breached her, he filled her inch by careful inch. There was a moment of exquisite pressure, a burn so sweet it stole her breath, before the yielding welcomed him in, a perfect, silken clasp around his hardness.
He held himself there, buried deep inside her, letting the connection settle, letting the throb of his own pulse merge with the frantic beat of hers. He watched her face, saw the way her eyes fluttered closed, how her lips parted on a silent gasp of pleasure, and how a single tear traced a path down her cheek.
"This is how I'll always find you," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion as he began to move, withdrawing almost completely before pushing back in, a deep, rolling thrust that forced a moan from her throat. "Ready for me. Waiting for me. Always mine. Sempre mio."
Serenity met his gaze, her own eyes shining with unshed tears of overwhelming sensation. "Yes," she breathed. "Yours. Endymion, yours completely."
"Gli angeli creano, i mortali adorano, il diavolo brama," he growled against her skin, the guttural Italian a raw vibration against her throat. "You, tesoro mio... angels created you, mortals worship you… but I, I am the devil who lusts after you."
His words were a brand, a searing promise against her soul. The sound, a symphony of their primal coupling, filled the car—a slick, wet percussion layered with the desperate harmony of their ragged breaths and moans. His hands moved from her hips to the firm curve of her ass, gripping her with a possessive strength that pulled her harder against each powerful, upward surge of his hips. The force of it sent her breasts bouncing in a hypnotic rhythm that was both maddening and beautiful.
Then, he shifted, changing the angle of his hips. The world exploded into a shower of white light as the thick head of him brushed against a secret place deep inside her, a spot that held the key to her entire world. A white-hot pleasure, coiled tight in the pit of her belly, began to unwind with terrifying speed. It tightened, then released, only to coil even tighter, winding toward a devastating peak she could no longer deny.
She cried out, a sound torn from the very depths of her being, her nails raking down the back of his neck. She clung to him, her anchor in a maelstrom of sensation, as the world tipped and spun on its axis, leaving nothing but the overwhelming, exhilarating feeling of him claiming her, body and soul.
"That's it, tesoro mio," he grunted, his voice a low, possessive growl against her ear. "Let go for me. Show me how much you missed my cock."
Her body obeyed, the tension snapping as a wave of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her voice raw and primal, her body convulsing around him. He held her tight, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release, his body tensing as he found his peak. "Serenity," he groaned, his voice a mix of ecstasy and devotion. "My love, my everything."
The knot inside her finally snapped. A wave of pleasure, so powerful it was almost painful, crashed over her. She convulsed around him, her inner walls clenching and spasming in a relentless rhythm that pulled him over the edge with her.
Endymion thrust into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural groan tore from his chest. He emptied himself inside her, a flood of warmth and promise that felt like a benediction. They clung to each other, trembling, hearts hammering against each other as they rode the aftershocks of their shared ecstasy in the quiet, private world of their car.
He peppered her face with soft, tender kisses as they both began to come down, his touch a stark contrast to the fierce passion just moments before. "Forever," he whispered against her lips, the word a promise sealed in shared breath and love. "I will love you forever, Serenity, Queen of my heart and the mother of my bambini."
She smiled, a tired, blissful expression that lit up her entire face. "Forever and always, my love," she murmured back, nestling her head against his chest, already feeling the gentle lull of the car's movement and the profound peace of being exactly where she was meant to be.
The city's rhythm faded into the hum of the tires, and in that small, private space, the world seemed to still — just the two of them, suspended between past and future, the quiet pulse of love and life flowing in between.
As the car sped through the night, taking them home to their children, they knew that their journey was far from over. It was a journey of love, of nurturing, of creating a legacy that would last for generations to come. And they were ready to embrace every moment of it, together.
Chapter Text
The night air was crisp as they pulled into the long, winding driveway, tires whispering over the expensive stone. Their villa emerged through the trees like warmth, elegance, and wholly theirs. Soft garden lights traced the curve of manicured hedges and the arch of climbing roses that framed the front facade, casting a gentle gold glow that made the home seem to exhale: welcome.
Endymion stepped out of the car first. Beneath his feet, the ground was paved with smooth stones—each one laid with care, ensuring Serenity's heels never snagged and the children's bikes and skates glided effortlessly over the surface. Before Serenity could even make it to the car door, his gaze swept the grounds with practiced precision. Years of danger had made vigilance his second nature; love had made it a duty.
The lights caught just enough motion to reveal what a stranger would never notice—the subtle shift of a shoulder, a barely-there silhouette repositioning. His men. Always there. Always watching. Threaded into the shadows like loyal ghosts, blending into hedges and the perimeter walls, but never truly gone. He felt them the way most men felt weather—an awareness under his skin.
Home. Protected. Secure.
And yet it wasn't the security that settled something deep in his chest.
It was the knowledge that inside those walls were the lives he had built, the laughter that grounded him, the little feet that raced down hallways in the morning. It was the woman stepping out now beside him, her presence a quiet warmth beside him. Her curls whispering against her shoulders as she inhaled the cool air with a soft, content sound that tugged at his heart.
Serenity reached for his hand without looking—no hesitation, no thought—just instinct. Trust. Claim. Welcome.
Endymion's shoulders eased. For the first time in weeks, he felt the tension begin to bleed out of him.
Home wasn't walls and gates.
Home was her.
He turned to her, a familiar spark of mischief and tenderness in his eyes. Without a word, Endymion swept her up into his arms, cradling her bridal-style as he always did when they were alone, coming home—a cherished ritual that never failed to make them both smile. Serenity let out a soft laugh, her arms winding around his neck as he carried her to the door.
With practiced fingers, Endymion entered the security code—those same variation of digits that had never changed since the day she chose him, since the day he chose her right back. The keypad's soft beep and the click of the unlocking door a signal that they were, at last, truly home. A small sound, yet it settled in his chest like peace.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying Serenity effortlessly over the threshold, her heels dangling from her fingers as she laughed quietly.
Once inside, Serenity pressed her lips to Endymion's in a deep, lingering kiss—a rush of longing and reunion blooming between them. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of all the missed moments and whispered promises during their time apart, a silent affirmation that they were truly home again, together.
When she finally slipped from his arms, her feet touched the hardwood floor, and she exhaled a long, contented sigh, the relief in her body palpable. She flexed her toes against the smooth, warm wood, savoring the comforting familiarity beneath her. The hush of the house surrounded them in a soft embrace, every corner echoing with memories and the gentle certainty of belonging.
For a moment, they stood together in the entryway, their forms silhouetted by the soft glow streaming in through the windows. The quiet was not emptiness, but a presence—an enveloping peace that welcomed them home, wrapping them in the warmth of love and the sanctuary they had built together after so many weeks apart.
Serenity leaned into him, her body soft with tired joy, her cheek brushing his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her hair.
"Home," he murmured.
"Us," she whispered.
The foyer greeted them in low light, quiet and warm—like a held breath. She stepped forward first, fingers gently trailing the wall, the silk skirt of her dress whispering around her legs as she padded barefoot across the polished wood.
He followed, locking the door behind him, inhaling the scent he'd missed for too long—apricot and sweet almond from her bath oils, traces of baby shampoo lingering in the air, fresh linen, the faint warmth of jasmine and vanilla she always swore she didn't wear and yet always carried with her. It smelled like safety. It smelled like her. It smelled like home.
Weeks without this. Weeks without them.
No deal, no victory, no empire ever compared to this—the simple miracle of walking into his house at night and knowing his world slept under this roof.
She moved silently toward the stairs, and he followed, slower, letting his gaze fall to the framed memories climbing the wall.
There they were—
their second wedding day in Italy, sunlight caught in her veil, his hand around her like a vow;
their twins as babies in her arms, his own expression something fierce and terrified and proud;
their third baby at his first day on the beach;
their fourth baby smiling in the snow for her first time;
then all of them, painted in morning chaos and gummy smiles, Serenity exhausted and radiant;
holidays, summers, sleepy newborn cheeks, tiny fingers gripping theirs.
A life built one heartbeat at a time.
Years on these walls. Love on these walls.
Proof that he had chosen right. That she had chosen him right back.
At the top of the stairs Serenity paused, looking back at him with soft eyes, expression molten with something private, something sacred. Then she turned and padded toward the hallway lined with bedroom doors.
The quiet of sleeping children filled the space—little breaths and muffled dreams.
She eased open the first door and slipped inside, careful with the hinge as though the house itself needed to stay dreaming. The soft glow of a night-light painted her in gold and shadow, turning her into something holy in the stillness.
Endymion leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, drinking in the sight of her silhouette bending over one of their oldest children. She tucked a blanket higher, brushed hair from a peaceful brow, and pressed a kiss to a warm forehead.
"Sweet dreams, my heart," she whispered, voice a hush made of starlight and devotion. "Love you past the multiverse."
His throat tightened.
God, he had missed this.
Her voice in their children's room.
Her fingertips on tiny cheeks.
Her as their mother, as sanctuary, as the pulse that made a house breathe and live.
Not just his wife — the center of their universe.
He closed his eyes, letting the moment seep into bones that had been too tired for too long. When he opened them, she was already moving to the next room, bare feet soft on the carpet, and he quickly moved to copy her actions with their child before following her to the next room.
She kissed the second child just the same, adoration steady, inexhaustible — a ritual as ancient as love itself. Endymion leaned in after her, matching her tenderness with his own quiet murmur, low and earnest:
"Sogni d'oro, stelle mie. Il mio amore per voi cresce ad ogni battito del cuore."
Sweet dreams, my stars. My love for you grows with every heartbeat.
Each time he said it, the words were more than comfort. More than habit. They were oath and prayer, breathed into the tiny, sleeping worlds he would raze entire kingdoms to protect.
Room to room they moved, a silent procession of devotion, their footsteps a vow threaded through carpet and moonlight. Until at last, they reached the nursery.
Serenity paused longest at the threshold — mother before queen, before goddess, before anything else she had ever been or ever would be. The baby slept like a rosebud nestled in heaven's own cradle, fists curled near rosy cheeks, small breaths warm and innocent in the quiet room.
Serenity leaned down, brushing a curl from the tiny forehead with reverent grace, fingers trembling just slightly — love always made her hands gentle, even when the world demanded she be steel.
Endymion rested a hand on the crib rail, grounding himself in the sight — in them — as though if he didn't touch, the moment might dissolve into dream. He felt the weight of his heart. The weight of gratitude. And the sting of fear, too — because loving this deeply meant there was everything to lose.
He didn't know whether to thank the gods or curse them. He only knew one truth, sharp and immovable as the night around them:
He would protect this.
Protect them.
With bullet, with power, with blood, with every breath the world allowed him.
I protect the family.
His little bunny slept on, utterly safe, utterly adored. Not the youngest for long, perhaps — but forever his.
Then Serenity turned, and he followed her to their own room, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Serenity sighed — not tired, not fragile, but bone-deep, soul-loosened relief. The kind that only comes when something sacred finally returns to its rightful place.
She set her heels on the bench, fingers brushing her temple as if easing out the weight of weeks. Her hair spilled forward, pearlescent-soft and luminous, that familiar cascade he'd dreamed about in anonymous hotel rooms and armored cars. Moonlight made human.
Twenty-two days. Not a lifetime, but enough to hollow a heart.
They hadn't touched — not really — until tonight at the gallery. A crowded room had seen a man return from war and a woman nearly weep at the feeling of her home walking through the doors in a perfectly tailored black suit. He could have waited here for her. He didn't. He wouldn't. Distance had already taken enough from them.
There had been phone calls — too short, always ending before either was finished. Silences heavy with everything neither could say with children nearby or guards listening.
Late-night video chats where she sat in soft cotton with sleepy babies in her arms, and he watched from dim safehouses, voice low, danger humming just beyond the edge of the frame.
She smiled in tiredness to keep him steady.
He smiled through the ache to keep from unraveling.
But no screen carried the warmth of his hand on her lower back, the one touch that quieted storms. No digital flicker matched the way her breath hitched when he brushed hair behind her ear. And in all those days — twenty-two long, aching days — no one else had laid a hand on her.
No one would ever dare. No one could.
Now, in their dim bedroom — shadows familiar, sheets waiting, air thick with home — she leaned into him. Not careful. Not hesitant. She simply fell.
And he caught her without moving an inch, arms closing around her like the world finally exhaled.
Her head found that place between his shoulder and heart, the one made for her alone. He drew her in, fingers pressing against her spine like he could anchor her there forever, and maybe he intended to.
He breathed her in, voice rough with devotion and restraint and longing burned low but still molten:
"Troppo tempo."
Too long.
She nodded against him, lashes lowering, breath soft against his neck. "Much too long."
Her hands came up — slow, reverent — smoothing over the chest she'd ached for, the heartbeat she'd fallen asleep imagining, steady and strong and wholly hers. She curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer in a small, instinctive plea, lips brushing just beneath his jaw.
It wasn't desire, not yet. It was reunion. Claim. Homecoming.
Her whisper feathered against his skin, breath warm and sure, fingers in his shirt like she could stitch him back into her life with touch alone. And in that quiet moment, nothing else existed. No syndicate. No threats. No distance. Just them. The gravity of them. Finally pressed back into the same breath, the same heartbeat, the same space where they always belonged.
It was not desperation — not quite — but a starvation wrapped in silk and memory.
She stood before him, a figure of breathtaking simplicity in the glow. Her fingers hovered near the intricate zipper of her gown. Before she could touch it, he was there, his gaze holding hers, a silent question in the dark depths.
"Allow me," he whispered, his voice a silk rasp against the quiet.
He reached behind her, his knuckles trailing a line of fire down her spine as he found the zipper. The slow, deliberate descent was a ritual of reverence, the unveiling of something sacred. The silken whisper of fabric sliding away was the only sound as the gown pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, her movements graceful and unashamed, standing before him in all her naked glory. He sucked in a sharp, quiet breath. Weeks. They had been apart for weeks, and every fiber of his being, every cell that made up his being, remembered the delicious ache of that absence.
It wasn't a hunger for flesh alone, though that was a potent flame. It was a hunger for her. The cadence of her laugh, the weight of her head on his chest, the heat of her skin against his.
He wrapped his arms around her, his chest a solid wall of warm strength against her front. He nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear, his chin resting on her shoulder.
"I still can't believe you're real," he murmured, his lips brushing against her pulse point. "And that you are so completely, devastatingly mine."
Her smile was small, fragile with a joy so profound it was almost overwhelming. She pulled back some from his embrace to look up at him, gazing up into the fierce tenderness of his eyes. Her hands rose to rest at his waist, her fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to the solid reality of him.
"I will always be yours, Endy. Only yours," she whispered, the words a benediction. "And as long as you come back to me, that's all I will ever need."
He began his worship with her forehead, as he always did. A soft, lingering kiss that honored the mind behind the soul. Then the high curve of each cheekbone, the tip of her nose. Each kiss was a soft, slow punctuation mark in the grammar of their love. When his lips finally brushed hers, she didn't melt with dramatic desperation. She simply… yielded. Like a flower turning to the sun, or a soul finding its last, peaceful exhalation. It was a coming home.
He cradled her face in his large hands, his thumbs stroking the fragile skin beneath her eyes, his own voice rough with a raw, honest vulnerability.
"Do you know what it does to me?" he asked, his words a heavy confession against her lips. "What it feels like to be away from you? It's like a limb has been severed. I can't feel anything properly until I'm whole again."
She cupped the strong line of his jaw, her thumb stroking the faint shadow of stubble that had grown during his journey, a tangible reminder of his absence. Her eyes held his, a mirror of his own truth.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Because I feel it too. Every second. Every mile."
He stepped forward, guiding her gently, until her back met the cool, curved surface of the archway to their ensuite bathroom. She gasped, more from surprise than chill. But the contrast made her shiver — stone at her spine, heat in front of her.
His hand slid along her waist, reverent. She could feel how tightly he held himself in check.
Endymion, who commanded cities and bled men dry for betrayal, was here now, trembling just to be close to her.
He lowered his forehead to hers. "You don't know what it did to me. Leaving you. Knowing I couldn't come home."
"I know," she whispered. "But you did come home. You always do."
His hands drifted to her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. His eyes searched hers, voice low, almost hoarse. "Tell me you still need me like this."
She didn't answer with words. She simply pressed up into him, slow, fluid — a silent invitation. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, around to the place where his heart beat too hard beneath muscle and skin.
The kiss that followed wasn't rushed. It lingered — the kind of kiss that held grief and gratitude and the fragile sweetness of stolen time. The kind of kiss that whispered, I missed you. I dreamed of you. I'm still yours.
And then… that gentle unraveling.
This was not the frantic, unchecked fire of their earliest years, a passion that exploded into brilliant, consuming flames. This was something else entirely: slower, deeper, and more dangerous for the knowing. It was the heat of a slow-burning ember, the steady, deliberate gathering of heat that promised to last a lifetime.
His hands moved with a reverent deliberation, tracing intricate, imaginary patterns over her skin as if he were mapping the constellations of her body. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her touch both gentle and insistent, an anchor holding them both in this perfect moment. A soft, low hum vibrated in her throat when his lips grazed the delicate curve of her shoulder, a column of skin she had laid bare for him, an offering of trust. She clung to him, her fingers pressing into the solid muscle of his back, when his own breath hitched against her skin hot and heavy.
With a voice that was a breath against his collarbone, she whispered, "I could never tire of this… of you…" and she meant every single word.
They stayed pressed together, lost in touches that meant more than they said, skin humming in the stillness that follows reunion. Movements quiet and desperate. Mouths rediscovering. Bodies swaying like they remembered music neither of them had heard in too long.
Her cheek rested against his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat. He didn't speak. He only held her tighter, like he hadn't quite convinced himself this wasn't a dream.
Eventually, he exhaled — the kind of breath that sounded like a prayer answered. His hand smoothed down her spine, fingers brushing the ridges there. He leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath her ear.
"I'll never let it be that long again," he murmured.
Serenity smiled faintly, already gathering herself, but she didn't move from his arms. "That long apart, or that long without touching me?"
A low sound came from his throat, half laugh, half warning. "Both."
She responded with a slow, tender smile that bloomed on her face, a private expression curated only for his eyes. It was a look that held all the unspoken conversations of their years together, a silent conversation about trust, devotion, and the profound comfort of being truly seen.
"I missed you," she whispered, the words a fragile admission.
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closing as he breathed her in, drawing the familiar, intoxicating scent of her into his very lungs. It was the scent of home.
"I missed you more," he rasped, the words heavy with understanding. "But I'm home now."
Outside the four walls of their room, the house slept in tranquil silence. But inside, their world, which had been spinning out of alignment on its axis for too long, finally stilled and found its true north again.
"Shower," she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion. Or was it that? Or was it the deep, weary call of their bed. "I just need to be… clean. Or just… held."
He didn't answer with words, but with the press of his palm against hers. He took her hand, his thumb sweeping over the delicate knobs of her knuckles, a touch both grounding and electrifying.
"You don't have to choose," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "The shower can wait. You can have me. Or you can have both. I'll take care of you either way."
Her smile was slow, tender, private—the kind she only ever gave him.
"Both then," she murmured, half-asleep already. "Come shower with me."
The steam from the shower billowed around them, thick and warm, smelling of the citrus and sandalwood soap he favored. The water pounded down in a soothing rhythm, drumming a private beat against the tiled enclosure. Serenity stood under the spray with her eyes closed, letting the heated water sluice the tension from her shoulders. She felt Endymion behind her, a solid warmth at her back before his arms came around her, his large hands spanning her waist, his thumbs tracing circles on her damp skin.
He reached up to pour a measure of fragrant shower gel into his palm, then began to lather her skin. His touch was methodical, reverent—washing her shoulders, her arms, the smooth expanse of her back. He lingered at the small of her back, the sensitive dip just above her hips, his thumbs pressing into the muscle there, working out the last vestiges of her stress. When his hands slid around to the front of her body, she tilted her head back against his shoulder, a silent offering.
He took his time, his palms gliding over her stomach, the slick soap bubbles mingling with the warm water. He washed her belly with a gentleness that spoke of reverence, his touch avoiding the places that burned for him, teasing her with what was to come. Her breasts were heavy and tender, and when his palms finally cupped them, she moaned, the sound lost in the rush of the water. He massaged them slowly, his thumbs circling her already stiffening nipples until they peaked into tight, aching points. The pleasure was a slow, insidious thing, coiling low in her belly, a familiar and insistent heat blooming between her thighs.
When he finally washed between her legs, it was with a single, firm stroke of his knuckles, a deliberate friction that made her cry out and her knees buckle. His arm immediately tightened around her, holding her steady against his chest.
"It's okay, tesoro mio," he murmured, his lips brushing the wet shell of her ear. "I've got you."
He turned her in his arms, tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his gaze. The water streamed over his face, but his eyes were clear, dark with an intensity that stole her breath. Without a word, he sank to his knees before her. The water cascaded over his dark hair, running in rivers down his powerful shoulders and chest. He looked like a god, kneeling on the damp tiles in the heart of her personal temple.
He hooked his hands behind her knees, guiding her to step closer, until she was pressed against the cool tile wall and he was nestled between her thighs. His gaze was a physical caress as he looked up at her, his eyes feasting on the apex of her body.
"I want to worship you here," he said, his voice a rough rasp that vibrated through the steam. "Just like this. On my knees, with you as my only devotion."
His hands slid up the backs of her legs, gripping the plush curve of her ass. He lifted her slightly, angling her hips, then brought his mouth to that most sensitive of spots. His first touch was a slow, deliberate lick that started at her entrance and ended with a flick against her clit.
The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that her vision went white for a moment. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his sopping wet hair, holding him to her as his tongue began a rhythm of exquisite torment. He lapped at her, his movements expert and unhurried, learning her body as if discovering it for the first time. He would swirl around her clit until her legs were trembling, then venture lower, his tongue delving into her core, tasting her essence mixed with the water and soap.
Serenity's world had shrunk to this single, wet enclosure. There was only the heat of the spray, the solid wall at her back, and the incredible, driving pressure of his mouth on her. Her breaths became ragged gasps, her body coiling tight like a spring. She felt the pressure building, a tidal wave of pleasure that was about to crest.
"Endyyyy," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "I'm so clo-se… please."
He seemed to understand her plea, though she hadn't spoken the command. He increased the pressure, his thumb coming up to circle her clit while his tongue worked her with renewed focus. That was all it took. The wave crashed over her, a relentless, shuddering tide of pleasure that tore a cry from her throat. Her body convulsed in his hold, her inner muscles clenching around nothing as she rode out her climax on his devoted tongue. He didn't stop, not until she was trembling so violently she feared she might collapse, then he slowly, gently, drew back, placing a final, soft kiss on her quivering flesh before rising to his feet.
He pulled her into his embrace, her spent body limp against his. He held her, one hand cradling the back of her head as he kissed her brow, his own breathing as ragged as hers. They stood there, wrapped in steam and shared bliss, the unspoken promise of the night still hanging between them, as potent as the scent of their desire.
Endymion held her close as the tremors of her release finally subsided, her body pliant and trusting against his own. The relentless pulse of the water softened to a steady, comforting murmur as he carefully reached out and turned the shower off, the sudden silence broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the drip of water from the tiled walls. He reached for a large, fluffy towel, its plush texture a welcome contrast to the clinging heat of the steam. He wrapped it around her shoulders first, the rough terrycloth a gentle exfoliation on her sensitized skin. Then, he took another and began to dry her with slow, thorough strokes—her back, the damp ends of her hair, the smooth plains of her stomach and legs. It was an act of tenderness, a continuation of the devotion he had just shown on his knees.
When he was finished, Serenity, her legs still weak, leaned heavily against him as they stepped out onto the bathmat. He kept a firm arm around her, his presence an anchor. Without a word, he led her to the master bedroom. The moonlight filtering through the window cast long, silvered shadows across the floor, painting a serene backdrop for their intimate world.
From the nearby drawer, he withdrew one of his shirts, its soft cotton fabric still holding the faint, familiar scent of him. With a tenderness that spoke volumes, he lifted the garment over her head, guiding her arms through the sleeves. The loose fabric settled over her, a gentle cocoon of warmth and his presence. As much as he adored the sight of her skin bared to him, this act was one of protective care, ensuring she was clothed should one of their little ones wander in, seeking the solace of their parents' bed in the dead of night.
He then turned back the heavy duvet, the cool whisper of the high-thread-count sheets rustling in the profound silence. Guiding her toward the inviting nest of pillows, he watched as she sank into the mattress with a contented sigh, her body entirely, beautifully spent.
They slipped beneath the covers, bodies curling instinctively into the shape they always made. His hand at her hip, hers over his heart. Her leg hooked gently over his. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in.
"I missed this," he said against her skin. "This quiet. This peace. Holding you, like this."
"This is your peace," she murmured, eyes drifting closed. "We are."
He kissed her hair—slow, lingering. "And I never forget it."
Her thumb brushed his wedding band; his fingers curved around hers. No fireworks. No wild rush. Just two hearts finding each other after the long ache of distance.
Finally, Endymion pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering for a moment. He stroked her arm from shoulder to wrist in a slow, rhythmic caress, a gesture of profound peace.
"You can sleep in tomorrow," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "No obligations until at least ten."
He felt the subtle relaxation in her body against his, the release of a tiny knot of responsibility she hadn't even realized she was carrying. A soft smile touched his lips. "I'll handle the morning. I'll wake with the children, get them breakfast, play their favorite games with them."
He tilted her chin up with a gentle finger, his gaze soft in the dim light. "You've earned this day, tesoro mio, mia regina. Rest. Reclaim it."
Serenity looked up at him, her heart so full it felt it might spill over. There were no words grand enough to thank him, to express the depth of her love for this man who saw her not just as a queen or a mother, but as a woman in desperate need of peace. Instead, she simply stretched up and pressed her lips to his, a kiss of pure, unadulterated gratitude and tenderness. It was a silent vow of everything she was—and everything they would continue to be.
The vow finally found its voice, soft but steady in the quiet room. "Thank you, my love."
"Sleep," he whispered, voice thick. "I'm not going anywhere."
She smiled against his chest, already fading into dreams. "Good," she breathed. "Promise?"
"I swear it," he murmured. "Till breath leaves me."
He wrapped himself around her more tightly, a promise of protection and devotion, and together, they drifted into the quiet, healing embrace of sleep.
Their breathing synced. The house rested around them—warm, safe, whole. And in the quiet hush of night, they slept in the certainty of belonging.
Chapter Text
Sunlight crept through the sheer curtains, tender as a kiss, dappling Serenity's bare shoulder where it peeked from beneath the Millesimo sheets. Morning light always treated her kindly — like it knew she belonged to the moon, and offered itself softly so she wouldn't startle awake.
Endymion's oversized shirt she wore had slipped down her arm in the night, revealing the smooth curve and the dip of her collarbone, yet its fabric still clung to the ghost of his scent, and provided a phantom sensation that was as comforting as the weight of his arms had been when they'd held her.
She stretched slowly, limbs unfurling like silk slipping off a spool, muscles loosening one by one. No rush. No alarm. Just breath and warmth and the delicate hum of a house finally whole again.
Serenity's hand drifted to the pillow where his head had rested hours before. Her fingertips brushed the faint warmth left behind, and her lips curved into a small, secret smile only a woman wholly loved could wear.
She whispered into the morning light, voice soft as a promise, "He's home."
The bed was vast, but it didn't feel empty. The space beside her carried the shape of him still: the faint indent in the mattress, the lingering heat of him and of his scent. Her body, half-asleep and boneless with contentment, almost betrayed her. A wave of pure, instinctual longing washed over her, and for a fleeting moment, she was tempted to curl into the hollow he had left behind. She imagined wrapping her arms around his pillow, pulling it close to bury her face in its fragrant folds, drawing comfort from the illusion of his presence. It was a primal, almost feline need to surround herself with his scent, to hold onto the last tangible piece of him before he had descended into the chaos of their children.
But the thought was a mere wisp, easily dismissed. Why clutch at a phantom when the real man waited for her in physical form downstairs? Why seek comfort in a memory of his warmth when she could have the source of it itself, wrapped in the simple, messy reality of their family? The pull of the pillow was nothing compared to the gravitational force of him, the living, breathing man just beyond her closed door. The thought of his voice downstairs, the low rumble of his laughter mingling with the children's squeals, was a siren's call far more potent than any ghost on a pillow.
A soft exhale left her. Relief, not ache.
He wasn't gone again. He'd simply let her sleep in. A rare gift and the sweetest proof of his presence.
If he were gone again, the house would feel wrong. The walls would hold their breath. The air would thicken with the absence he never meant to leave behind.
But this morning, the world itself seemed to exhale with her.
Peace pooled through the rooms like warm honey. She could feel it even from here: the hush of music faintly downstairs, the soft padding footsteps of a bodyguard changing position on the porch, the scent of espresso drifting up faint and sure from the kitchen — he made it exactly how she liked it, always first thing, even if she wasn't awake yet.
The universe was calm.
And somewhere in that stillness, in this quiet sanctuary built on love and loyalty and stubborn devotion, Endymion was awake and moving through their home — making sure it was safe, steady, ready for them to live in together forever.
The sheets gathered around her as she sat up slowly, hair falling like pearlescent silk down her back, catching the sunlight the way dew catches dawn. For a moment she simply breathed, grounding herself in the truth: They were here. Together. Safe.
And nothing — not business, not danger, not weeks apart — would steal this morning from them.
Not today.
She slipped from the bed, gathering the robe from its place at the foot, the silk whispering against her skin as she wrapped it around her. Bare feet met warm floorboards, and she padded softly down the hallway, instinct guiding her first to the nursery.
She eased the door open.
Empty.
The crib blankets were neatly rumpled, a plush bunny tipped over on its side like it had been hugged and left still warm. The mobile above the crib swayed faintly, as if tiny fingers had recently batted at the moon and stars.
A slow smile lifted her lips.
He'd taken them — all four — letting her wake to a quiet, untouched morning.
A gift carved out of chaos. A husband's silent worship. A man who knew her bones needed rest more than she knew it herself.
Her body responded to the quiet with its own truth — a gentle, aching heaviness. Morning fullness. The kind that came with being needed, nourished, adored in another way.
She settled into the rocking chair, the cushion dipping to cradle her, familiar and sacred. The chair creaked softly — a lullaby of years, of nights spent here humming in the dark, of tiny fingers curled around hers.
She arranged the robe and began to pump, breath slowing, eyes half-closing as relief and warmth spread through her chest. The sound — soft, rhythmic, steady — filled the room with a maternal heartbeat.
Through the cracked door drifted distant life:
Child laughter — bright and bubbling, unmistakable.
The deep timbre of his voice — softened, indulgent, the tone only their children ever received.
A little squeal.
A "Babbo, watch!" followed by his patient, warm murmur.
Dad
The sounds made her melt against the chair, head tipping back.
This was her cathedral.
Her sanctuary.
Her husband and children alive and laughing in the morning sun.
And her, alone with the softness of dawn, her body nourishing life even as she rested.
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, she allowed herself to simply exist — warm, loved, full, safe. The shadows of nights spent missing him dissolved in the hush of this room, replaced by sunlight and contentment and the quiet thrum of motherhood.
Her heart whispered it where no one could hear:
Thank you.
For bringing him back to us.
For this life.
For us.
And she rocked, slow and peaceful, the nursery holding her like an embrace.
When she was finished, Serenity set the pump aside, a quiet satisfaction in her movements. She rose from the rocker, stretching languidly, the elegant hotel-like robe shifting with her motion. For a fleeting moment, the soft silk slid just below her shoulder, a pale expanse of skin bared to the quiet morning light. The memory of his touch, the weight of his praise, the heat of his mouth against that very spot, flashed through her mind with crystal clarity. It was a ghost of a touch, a phantom echo of his worship from the night before, yet it was enough to make her skin prickle with remembered heat. A delicate blush, the color of a rose petal at dawn, bloomed across her porcelain cheeks, a beautiful, innocent secret shared only between herself and the morning sun.
The house breathed morning.
Soft classical piano floated from downstairs, punctuated by the occasional squeal of laughter. And threaded through it all was a scent that tugged at her heart as surely as touch — rich espresso, warm milk, vanilla sugar, and the unmistakable sweetness of cinnamon.
Home.
She followed it into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.
The room glowed in golden light, sunlight spilling across granite counters and glinting off copper pans. And the sight that greeted her made her throat tighten in that soft, helpless way love sometimes did — the way it had since the first morning she ever woke beside him.
The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a joyful storm.
Bowls dusted with flour.
A whisk resting askew.
Butter melting in a dish.
A faint splatter of batter on the stovetop — sacrilege, considering who stood there.
But the table—oh, the table.
A spread worthy of feasts and fairy tales:
Fruit sliced into stars and crescent moons, tiny apples carved into swans and bunnies.
Fluffy scrambled eggs folded with cheese, still steaming.
Stacks of tiny pancakes arranged into smiling faces, berries for eyes, whipped cream like little mouths.
A glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, dew droplets catching light.
Her husband's handiwork was unmistakable. Endymion, who built empires with cold precision, had always been absurdly meticulous in the kitchen — especially for the tiny mouths he loved.
And there he stood now: a portrait of domestic peace etched in the morning light. His tanned, tatted arms were bare beneath the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt, the powerful muscles of his forearms relaxed. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, slightly damp, and a fine sheen of warmth seemed to glow on his skin from the heat of the stove.
Their youngest daughter, Amoruna, was perched astride his hip, a tiny princess in her father's domain, drooling contentedly onto the cotton of his shoulder, babbling contently. One of their eldest twins, Artcenzo, stood beside him on a little wooden stool, his brow furrowed in a mask of grave concentration. He was stirring a bowl of batter with a wooden spoon held with the serious precision of a master craftsman, while Endymion's free hand came down to steady the bowl, its presence a silent, grounding reassurance against his son's earnest effort. Together, they were a study in contrasts and harmony—the fierce king and the little king in training, moving in a rhythm that spoke of countless mornings shared.
The sight nearly undid her.
This man—feared, respected, whispered about in circles she had no desire to ever know—was here, in their kitchen, wearing soft, worn pajama pants and a faded shirt one of the children must have chosen for him. The cartoon lion on the front wore a triumphant, slightly smug expression, and the man wearing it seemed utterly at peace with it. He moved with the calm confidence of a sovereign who had found his true kingdom, his large frame gentled by the small hands tugging at his sleeve, the soft, breathless voices asking for "more berries, Babbo," or "my turn, Papino."
He looked up then, as though an invisible string between them of a harp had an upward glissando — a low, perfect note vibrating through the air. It was instinct, that quiet awareness that had long bound them, a sixth sense sharpened not by duty but by devotion. His gaze — so often keen, alert, always calculating the world's dangers — softened into something only love could shape.
It wasn't merely affection that filled his eyes, but recognition. The kind that reached beneath surface and silence alike. He didn't just see her — not the wife the world revered, not the queen who ruled their home with grace, not even the mother whose touch calmed storms. He knew her.
He saw the trace of a burden she hadn't named, the faint shimmer of a worry she thought she'd hidden, and the quiet, secret joy that bloomed within her just from seeing him there — real, whole, and home again.
Her breath caught, a sudden, involuntary hitch in her throat. It was the feeling of being completely seen in a way no one else in the world could ever see her, a secret laid bare not by her own hand, but by the simple, unwavering focus of his love.
He smiled —
not the public one,
not the guarded one,
not the dangerous one.
But the one meant only for her.
Slow. Warm. Like sunlight on skin.
"Buongiorno, dormiglione," he murmured, voice low, thick with affection and awe, as if she were still a miracle he was learning how to believe in.
Good morning, sleepyhead
The spell of their private moment shattered beneath a chorus of delighted squeals from across the room. Their third child, little Venazio—three years old and already a force of nature—had spotted her. A whirlwind of blue-eyed energy, he barreled across the marble floor with the fearless determination only the very young possess, arms flung wide in pure, unfiltered joy.
"Mammaaaaa!"
His voice, a triumphant crescendo, echoed through the room.
Endymion chuckled, releasing Amoruna as soon as she began wiggling impatiently in his arms, eager to reach her mother.
Two quick, thunderous footsteps echoed before another, smaller patter followed—Amoruna's softer, unsteady rhythm. She stumbled once, landing on her palms with a muffled thud before pushing herself upright, curls tumbling into her bright blue eyes.
The timing was perfect. Serenity barely had time to brace herself before both children collided into her, their laughter wrapping around her like sunlight. Just as her youngest son launched himself into her waiting arms, she gathered him up, her hands strong and sure around his small, squirmy body. But before he could truly settle, another pair of feet, smaller and slower, came barreling into her periphery. Her one-year-old baby, a little girl with her father's dark curls but her own mischievous grin, followed her brother's lead, crying out her own version of "Mamma!" with desperate passion.
She laughed delightedly, a sound that bubbled up from her very core—a deep, resonant brightness that only a loving mother could own. The blush on her cheeks hadn't quite faded, and it returned now, a soft pink against her pale skin, as she crouched, her movements fluid and welcoming.
Serenity's free arm opened like the dawn sky, a wide, welcoming invitation. Her little girl, all curls and giggles, tumbled into it, her chubby hands grabbing fistfuls of her mother's robe with a desperate, joyful grip. Serenity gathered both her children against her, holding them tight, their combined warmth and slight weight a perfect anchor in her heart. She drew in their sweet, milky scent—a beautiful combination of baby powder, the lingering sleep of morning, and the bright scent of sunshine—and she placed soft, lingering kisses on the tops of their tousled heads.
"Good morning, my little stars," she whispered against their hair, her voice thick with a love so vast and all-encompassing it felt like it could hold both of them and still have infinite room for more. Her silk robe, the color of a soft dawn, pooled around her like clouds as they clung, their tiny hands clutching at her neck, her hair, her robe sash, creating their own small, personal constellation of love and tangled limbs.
Endymion stood still for a moment, his coffee forgotten in his hand. He watched, his chest rising and falling slowly as he took a breath that seemed to hold all the quiet awe of the world. It was the look he only ever wore in the privacy of their home and this time of morning:
A man humbled by the sheer, staggering, impossible blessings she now held in her arms, blessings for whom he would tear down the very heavens itself to protect.
A king who, in that single moment, had found his truest and most sacred vocation: kneeling not to a throne or a scepter, but to the quiet, chaotic, and perfect kingdom of breakfast, small arms reaching for him, and the woman he loved more than life.
Serenity pressed kisses to tiny cheeks, her heart swelling until she felt her very bones were too small to hold it all. It was a physical ache of devotion, a warmth that spread from her core to the very tips of her fingers.
Home.
Family.
Him.
And in that moment, with her children's weight in her arms and her husband's gaze upon her, everything in the world slotted into perfect alignment. Every piece was in its place, and the universe, for once, made sense.
"Buon lavoro, il mio piccolo e coraggioso re," Endymion murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble that filled the space between them. He gave Artcenzo's shoulder a gentle, proud squeeze before leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of his son's dark head. "Now go. Tell your madre what a fine job you've done. Then sit down for breakfast. Capisci?"
Good job, my brave little king...mother...do you understand?
"Sì, padre," the little boy answered, his voice serious and solemn, mimicking the formality of his father's station yet retaining the soft lilt of childhood. He carefully placed the wooden spoon on the counter with the exaggerated importance of a master chef sealing his work. Then, with a gentle nudge to his small back, Endymion sent the little king forward, after he turned his small body from the counter and began his deliberately regal march across the few feet separating him from his mother.
Yes, father
Serenity, who had been adjusting the straps of Amoruna's high chair at the table, looked up just as he reached her. She abandoned the chair with a soft smile and crouched, opening her arms. Artcenzo all but launched himself into them, his small body radiating a mixture of pride and the desperate, familiar need for morning cuddles that only she could seem to fill. He was a boy trying so hard to be the miniature king his father was, but in her presence, the walls came down. He was simply her son, putty in her hands, the truest of momma's boys.
"Good morning, madre," he murmured into the crook of her neck, his voice muffled but clear.
"Good morning, my proud little chef," she whispered back, her voice thick with affection as she wrapped him in a tight hug, pressing a line of adoring kisses across his forehead and each rosy cheek. "Did you help make pancakes all by yourself with Papa?"
She pulled back just enough to search his face, her eyes dancing with a secret amusement he couldn't yet understand. "Were you the head chef today?"
He nodded, puffing out his small chest, the picture of self-importance. "I helped Padre make all the breakfast today," he announced, as if he'd personally commanded the sun to rise.
"I can see that," she smiled, kissing the tip of his nose. "And you did a wonderfully delicious job, my little king. Now, go on. Your homemade feast awaits his Highness."
As Serenity released her son, another figure emerged from under Endymion's other arm. Her eldest daughter, twin to Artcenzo, Celestoria, stood by his legs, her own little hands tucked primly into the pockets of her tiny dressing gown. She was a softer reflection of herself, with light blonde hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. She had watched the entire exchange with a quiet intensity, her gaze fixed on her mother with an awe that made her heart ache.
"Mammina," she said, her voice a clear, piping whisper that cut through the morning chatter. She stepped forward, her little chin held high, mimicking the composure Serenity herself often wore. "Can I tell you a secret?"
Serenity crouched down again, her smile softening as she opened her arms for her daughter. "Of course, my love. Come here, little dove."
Celestoria rushed forward, her small frame all but collapsing into her mother's embrace. Serenity held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair that still faintly smelled of children's lavender. "What is it, my star?"
Pulling back slightly, her big eyes wide with earnest seriousness, Celestoria confessed, "I want to be like you when I grow up."
"Oh, my sweet girl," Serenity breathed, a lump forming in her throat. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Celestoria's small hand rose, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out. They came to rest, feather-light, on the curve of Serenity's cheek. The touch was so imbued with a child's awe, so profoundly gentle and reverent, that it was as if she were not touching her mother's skin, but something holy given form. "Because you are the kindest, strongest queen in the whole world," the little girl said, her voice a clear, unwavering truth. "And you love us more than anything. You have Papino as your king. I want to marry someone like him." She paused, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right words, the memory of the evening before replaying in her mind. "I saw yesterday how everyone looked at you. You are…" she whispered, the word a fragile discovery, "you are light, Mammina."
Her daughter's gaze was earnest, filled with a love and devotion that mirrored her own. "I want to be your light when you can't be it yourself."
Serenity's composure shattered. She gathered her daughter close again, burying her face in the crook of Celestoria's neck, a wave of pure, unadulterated love washing over her. "Oh, my darling," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "You already are. You don't have to grow up to be my light. You already are. You make me brighter every single day."
She pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her cheek, her heart so full it felt it might burst. "Now, why don't you go sit with your brother like a good little queen? We'll have breakfast together, what do you say?"
Endymion had been watching the exchange from his post by the stove, his hands moving with automatic care as he plated the pancakes. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but in this house, in these quiet moments, it was impossible not to. Every word, every breath, seemed to carry on the same current of air.
When Celestoria's voice rose, speaking of love and of him as a king for his queen, his breath hitched. A slow, pride-softened smile touched his lips, the kind of expression that was reserved solely for the privacy of his family. He felt a swell of affection so fierce it was almost painful to contain.
But it was when she called Serenity "light" that the air in his lungs seemed to thin. He could hear the absolute certainty in his daughter's voice, the unwavering faith she had in her mother's grace. And then came the vow that unraveled him completely: "I want to be your light when you can't be it yourself."
In that moment, Endymion felt a profound, overwhelming sense of peace, a quiet benediction that settled over his soul. It was one thing to be the queen's champion, to love and protect her with his life. It was another thing entirely to see that sacred duty mirrored, nurtured, in the heart of their child. She saw not just the strong queen who stood by his side, but the woman who carried the weight of a world and sometimes needed to rest her crown. And Celestoria, his gentle, observant daughter, wanted to be that refuge for her.
He had given her a kingdom. But it seemed she was busy building a legacy of grace. A lump formed in his throat, and for a moment, the formidable king, the man who commanded armies and faced down empires, was rendered speechless by the quiet, fierce love of his little girl. He simply stood there, a spatula in his hand, his heart laid bare not by an enemy, but by the innocent, profound wisdom of his child.
After settling their youngest in their seats at the breakfast table, again, and kissing her oldest twins on the forehead, murmuring loving nothings about perfect little boys and clever girls—she stood. She didn't rush to the stove or the sink. Instead, she crossed the kitchen slowly, savoring the scene, the sound of clattering forks and happy chatter, the rich aroma of coffee mingling with the sweet scent of warm pastries. Every detail was a brushstroke in the masterpiece of her life. She slipped past the minor chaos of half-prepared dishes and curious little hands until:
She stood just behind him, her presence a familiar warmth against his back, a silent promise in the morning quiet. He felt her before she spoke. Of course he did. He always did.
Her fingers brushed along his back, tracing the edge of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, a fleeting touch that was both a question and a map. They slid around to his chest, her palms coming to rest flat over his heart, stilling there, a grounding weight that anchored him to the moment.
He froze. For half a heartbeat, a current of tension ran through him—a coiled wire of instinct, the predator in him recognizing a kindred huntress in her touch. His body was a map of old battles, and her fingers had just found a border he usually kept fortified. It was a flicker of the wary king, the man who stood at the edge of a precipice every day.
But then, the tension simply… unspooled. Like a sail catching the wind and collapsing into silk, his rigid posture softened completely. Her touch wasn't an intrusion; it was a surrender he had been wanting to make all morning. It was the key to the lock on his armor, and with her hand over his heart, he finally let himself fall. He leaned back into her, a sigh escaping his lips, a quiet sound of relief that he would never allow anyone else to hear.
Serenity rose on her toes, the soft fabric of her robe shifting against his back. He felt as her soft and curvy body molded into his hard and firm one. She pressed a kiss to the strong line of his jaw, slow and unhurried, a deliberate branding in the morning light. It wasn't a kiss of hunger, but of possession—a silent vow etched onto his skin. It said mine without a single sound, a seal placed upon him that belonged only to the sacred space between night and day, when the world belonged only to them.
Her lips curved into a smile against his flesh as she murmured, her voice a low vibration that was meant solely for his ears, "You're my favorite sight, mio re."
My king
Endymion's response was instantaneous, a reflex as ingrained as his own heartbeat. He turned in her arms, just enough, not to possess, but to join with her. His hand found her hip, fingers splaying wide over the smooth silk, his thumb grazing the loose knot of her robe sash. Then his mouth met hers in a quiet collision—not of urgent desire, but of profound familiarity and a need so deep it felt as vital and automatic as his own breathing. It was a slow, deep kiss that tasted faintly of cinnamon and the warmth of shared hours, a flavor that spoke of more than passion. It spoke of home.
"Careful," he murmured against her lips, his voice roughened by the hint of a smile, "you'll make me forget the pancakes."
"You already forgot the bacon," she teased, her eyes bright with amusement.
A soft laugh escaped him, a warm rumble that vibrated through her. "The price of distraction."
He turned back to the counter, reclaiming the espresso cup he'd been neglecting. With the same focus he might bring to a treaty, he began making her coffee exactly as she liked it—a ritual as intimate as touch. Two sugars, a drizzle of honey, steamed milk swirled until it looked like marble, the faintest sprinkle of cinnamon on top. The precision was pure Endymion—methodical, deliberate, almost reverent.
She leaned against the counter beside him, watching his hands—those same hands that had commanded legions, that could wield a sword with deadly grace, that had claimed her body any chance he could get—now turning gently over a porcelain cup with a tenderness that could crumble empires.
When he handed it to her, his palm lingered against her waist, his thumb pressing lightly just beneath the tie of her robe, a silent question and a reassurance all at once.
"Sleep well, tesoro mio?" he murmured, his breath tracing the shell of her ear—a warmth that stirred something deep and familiar inside her. The question was soft, private, meant only for her amid the laughter and small chaos of the kitchen.
Her heart fluttered—not with surprise, but with the quiet ache of recognition. That kind of flutter that comes from being seen. From being home. It was the pulse of something older than longing, something that said: you're mine, and I'm yours, and the world can wait.
"I did," she whispered, her voice threaded with affection, eyes lifting to meet his over the rim of her cup. "Grazie to you."
For a moment, time folded—the morning light, the smell of coffee and cinnamon, the sound of their children's laughter—all dimmed around the gravity between them. In his gaze, she saw everything: the man who had held her beneath the shower's steam, whispering her name like prayer; the king who ruled no throne but the small, holy kingdom of their home; the lover who returned from every darkness only to find salvation in her arms.
A faint smile curved his lips, slow and knowing, a spark of mischief glinting beneath the tenderness. He leaned closer—just enough that his words brushed against her skin, low and husky.
"I figured you'd blame me," he said, his tone a quiet sin meant for her alone. "For keeping you up all night… worshipping you."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through her, a blush rising to her cheeks even as a slow, satisfied smile curved her own lips in return.
Serenity's breath caught—just barely—and she hid the tremor behind a sip of coffee. Her lips curved, slow and knowing, a queen in full command of her expression even as color rose high on her cheeks.
"Blame you?" she murmured, tilting her head, her voice silken with amusement. "You make it sound like I didn't enjoy every moment of my sleeplessness."
His chuckle was low—dangerous, familiar—and she could feel it vibrate in her chest before she heard it in her ears. For one suspended instant, the kitchen seemed to shrink, the air between them thrumming with unspoken memory: his hands, her whispers, the slow rhythm of two souls finding their way back into each other after weeks apart.
Then—
Before he could respond, a small, piercing voice cut through the quiet spell of their moment. Endymion pulled back, a look of fond resignation already on his face as he took a measured sip of his coffee.
"Papino?" their eldest daughter asked from her seat at the table, her chin resting on her folded arms. A mischievous grin tugged at her lips, summer eyes—the same warm blue as her mother's—sparkled with a knowing far beyond her years. "Do you come home just to cuddle Mammina?"
Endymion nearly choked on his sip of coffee, a sharp cough escaping him. He sputtered as he set the cup down with exaggerated care on the granite countertop, the clink far too loud in the sudden quiet. Serenity bit her lip to smother a laugh, her own eyes glinting with shared amusement, a silent encouragement in her gaze.
"I—" he began, clearing his throat with a dignity that was completely undermined by the furious blush rising on his neck. He shot a helpless, pleading look at Serenity, who only widened her eyes in mock-innocence. "I come home to see all of you," he finished, his voice regaining its usual composure but lacking its earlier confidence.
"Uh-huh," his daughter said, entirely unconvinced. She picked up her fork and began to poke at a piece of pancake with dramatic suspicion. "But you're staring at Mammina again. You're always looking at her. Even when she's not looking."
As if on cue, the boys erupted in a chorus of giggles, a perfect, high-pitched harmony of conspiracy. Their youngest sister, strapped securely in her high chair, let out a delighted gurgle of pure approval, her tiny fists waving in the air as she took in the family drama unfolding before her.
Serenity took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, allowing the warmth to spread through her as she watched the scene unfold. A look of utter smug tranquility settled on her features, a queen surveying her clever court. "Smart girl," she said, her voice light and teasing as she blew a silent kiss in her daughter's direction. "But you'll understand one day." She left the words hanging, a promise of future wisdom and shared secrets.
Endymion shot her a look—a potent mixture of mock warning, helpless adoration, and an unspoken plea for backup. And she only smiled sweetly, a picture of innocence, taking another slow sip of her coffee as if she hadn't a care in the world, her victory complete.
The children, satisfied with their small triumph, went back to their breakfast, their immediate focus shifting to the more pressing matter of debate over who rightfully deserved the last piece of toast.
In the lull, Serenity leaned in slightly, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she whispered under the hum of the espresso machine, "They're not wrong."
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound a low vibration that resonated through his chest and into her own. He brushed his nose against hers, his eyes a dark, sapphire storm that held a universe of possessive tenderness. The amusement in them was a mere counterpoint to the deeper, more affectionate current flowing just beneath the surface.
"No," he admitted, his voice a low murmur against her skin, thick with a surrender he offered only to her, "they're not."
For a long moment, the world held its breath—morning light, the soft murmur of children, and the love suspended between their heartbeats—and in that sacred stillness, a profound truth settled over Serenity:
this was what every battle, every mile, every sleepless night had been for.
Not glory. Not a kingdom.
Just this.
The scent of coffee.
The warmth of her children's laughter.
Home.
Him.
Notes:
The children's names are derivatives of their grandparent's names: Vittoria, Vincenzo (Endymion), Celestina, Kenji, Luna, Artemis (Serenity):
Celestoria - Celestina and Vittoria
Artcenzo - Artemis and Vincenzo
Venazio - Kenji
Amoruna - LunaI know for Italian families that children's names should be named as such:
The first male is named after their paternal grandfather
The first female is named after their paternal grandmother
The second male is named after their maternal grandfather
The second female is named after their maternal grandmotherBut I mixed it up some!
Chapter Text
The passports lay open on the coffee table, their blue covers catching the soft afternoon light.
One bore the name Danica Vale.
The other, smaller one — Kyanite Vale.
Danica traced the letters with her thumb, her pulse steady but distant, as if each syllable were an echo of a life she was still learning to inhabit. The scent of new paint and cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
Kyanite was curled beside her on the couch, her small body wrapped in a knit blanket that had once belonged to Danica's mother. The child's breaths came slow and even, her dark lashes resting against her cheeks, her hair a soft halo of night and starlight. Danica smoothed a stray lock away from her daughter's forehead, letting her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary.
"Don't worry," she whispered, the words low and certain, "we will have our justice."
On the low table sat a box she hadn't opened in months. She lifted the lid, and paper memories whispered against one another. The first photograph was creased at the edges, a smile forever trapped in time. A younger woman looked back at her — radiant, expectant, hand resting on her swollen belly. The man beside her had obsidian hair and eyes the color of deep water — eyes that had once promised forever, before becoming the source of a wound that never truly healed.
Danica's throat tightened. She brushed her thumb across his face in the picture, tracing the faint smudge on the corner where time had begun to erode the ink. "I wonder if you'd understand," she murmured, "what we had to become to survive you."
Her reflection glimmered faintly in the window — the same face, older now, hardened by betrayal and tempered by resolve.
She set the photo down gently, almost reverently, before pulling out another one.
The next image was bright, suffused with laughter — Endymion, surrounded by his family. Serenity's hand in his, the children between them, sunlight catching the curve of his smile. It showed a family thinking he was untouchable, immune to the consequences of his past. But all of that security was an illusion Danica intended to shatter.
Enjoy it while you can, she thought, a silent promise settling over her.
Danica's lips curved slowly, a smile that belonged more to calculation than to comfort.
"He built his world," she said under her breath, not to the photograph but to the child sleeping at her side. "And now I know exactly how to make it fall."
Kyanite stirred, murmuring something half-dreamed, and Danica bent to kiss her temple. The child's small fingers reached instinctively for her hand, clutching it even in sleep.
Outside, dusk deepened, and the world beyond their window turned gold, then violet.
Danica closed the passports and gathered them to her chest — two fragile symbols of reinvention, of distance, of survival. She placed them atop the box of old photographs and let her eyes rest awhile on Endymion's smiling face, committing it to memory like the coordinates to a treasure she intended to plunder.
This was not merely a mother protecting her child. This was a strategist preparing a battlefield, every move carefully plotted. In the hush of their new home, where lullabies and plans braided together, Danica Vale was weaving a life that would lead her to the man who had taken everything and left her with only revenge as her inheritance.
She was, in every careful way, his perfect undoing in progress.
Chapter Text
Sunrays spread across the horizon, brushing the world in a rose gold. Soft light filtered through the tinted windows as the black Escalade glided through the quiet suburban streets, the hum of its engine blending with the distant trill of birdsong. Outside, sprinklers arched in slow motion over emerald lawns, flags fluttered lazily in the early breeze — and for a moment, the whole world seemed to move softly, unhurried.
Inside, however, was anything but quiet. It was alive. Laughter and chatter filled the air, overlapping voices, tiny bursts of joy, and the steady rhythm of family life in motion.
Serenity had twisted in her seat, her pearlescent tresses slipping over her shoulder as she reached back with practiced ease to hand Amoruna a small container of fruit puffs. The toddler's small fingers closed around them with triumphant delight, chubby cheeks full, content in her little world.
Beside Amoruna, Venazio had begun to sing in that sweet, off-key way that only toddlers could pull off.
"Mamma, Mamma, I wuv you sooo muchhh," he sang, voice high and proud. "You make pank-cakes and huggies and smell like sunshiiiine!"
Serenity laughed softly, turning to meet his eager eyes. "That's the best song ever, my love. Did you make that up just for me?"
He nodded, curls bouncing. "Only for you, Mamma!" And now he sang with his whole heart, his mother joining in with soft harmony that made the others giggle. Their voices blended — his clear and bright, hers soft and lilting, like sunlight on rippling water. Their duet turned the Escalade into a tiny concert hall; even Amoruna swayed to the rhythm.
Celestoria giggled behind him, clapping in approval, and the sound filled the morning like music.
Endymion's chest swelled at the scene, his hands steady on the wheel though his attention never strayed far from them. He glanced at the mirrors more often than necessary, his instinct always scanning—cars behind them, shadows moving, familiar routes. Serenity noticed it, of course. She always did.
"Endy," she said softly, resting her hand over his on the console, "we're well protected. You've seen to that. Your men are professionals."
He turned his hand beneath hers, threading their fingers together and bringing her knuckles to his lips. The kiss lingered, reverent. "I know," he murmured against her skin. "But I'll always worry."
Her voice softened. "Because you love us."
His eyes lifted to hers, and for a moment, the world stilled. "Exactly that."
In the third row, Celestoria was already halfway through an animated list of all the animals she wanted to see that week during "farm week" at school. "A baby goat, Mammina — the kind that jumps! And maybe a pony, and a cow, and—"
"—and a chicken," her twin, Artcenzo, added solemnly, his tone far too serious for someone with jam on his cheek. His gaze, however, had already shifted from the passing houses to the rows of flags lining the sidewalks. After a long moment of quiet counting, his thoughts took a sharp turn.
"Padre," he began, voice thoughtful, "will the white knight slay the dragon in the next chapter?"
The question hung in the air like a secret between them — the sacred continuation of their bedtime ritual.
The faintest smile curved Endymion's lips. His attention flicked to the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of his son's furrowed little brow — that familiar Vendetti focus, sharp and determined even in a boy of almost six.
"Hmm," Endymion mused, his tone playful yet serious enough to keep the illusion alive. "Do you think he should, mio piccolo e coraggioso re?"
My brave little king
Artcenzo considered this gravely, chin tipping up in thought. "I think… maybe not yet. Maybe the dragon isn't bad. Maybe he's just lonely."
Endymion's brow lifted, impressed. "A wise knight would see that before he drew his sword."
Serenity turned, a smile tugging at her lips as she listened to them. "Sounds like our knight takes after his father," she said softly.
Chuckling, Endymion's eyes went back on the road. "Let's hope not too much, amore. My dragons never stayed lonely for long."
Artcenzo giggled from the backseat. "Then maybe the knight should just invite him for dinner!"
"Ah," Endymion replied, smirking. "Spoken like a true diplomat. Perhaps we should finish the story tonight."
The boy's grin spread wide, pride lighting his face as the car filled again with laughter and sunlight — the road ahead unfolding like a page waiting to be turned.
Morning sunlight traced along Endymion's tatted forearms, catching on the veins that flexed as he turned the wheel. Dressed down in charcoal joggers and a fitted navy tee, he looked effortlessly composed, the kind of man who didn't need to try to draw attention. A faint shadow of stubble framed his jaw, and when he glanced toward the passenger seat, the sharp blue of his eyes softened, lit by something warmer than daylight.
Serenity sat beside him, relaxed yet alert — a portrait of quiet poise. Her slate-gray workout set hugged the elegant lines of her frame, and her ponytail caught the sun like a ribbon of light. She looked serene, but alive — radiant in that way that came from laughter, from family, from mornings where love lingered like perfume.
Endymion's lips curved faintly as he caught Serenity's smiling gaze next to him — sunlight painting her skin gold, her profile outlined like something sacred. Serenity's hand found Endymion's on the console again, their fingers brushing — a silent exchange that said everything words didn't need to. It was a touch that spoke of a thousand shared sunrises, of midnight conversations held in the dark, of a partnership that was both a fortress and a refuge. It was the language they had perfected over years, a conversation that was older than their children, older than the gallery they loved, older than the very continent they drove across.
He felt a pull toward her that was both a physical ache and a deep, soul-deep comfort. It was the gravitational force that had brought them together and that held them fast, even when the world threatened to tear them apart. He had seen empires rise and fall, faced down enemies with names that would make lesser men tremble, but in all his years, nothing had ever felt as momentous, as terrifying, or as right as this quiet, sun-drenched moment in a car.
His fingers turned, curling around hers, linking them together. His grip was firm, grounding, a silent promise that anchored them both. He brought their joined hands to his lips again, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. The gesture was achingly familiar, yet still sparked a flutter in her chest, a warmth that spread through her like honeyed sunlight.
"Papino, we're going to miss the goats!" Celestoria cried, her voice bubbling with urgency as she kicked her little sneakers against the seat. Her face scrunched with earnest concern — the kind only a child could have over petting zoo-goats and feeding chickens. Her concept of time not yet understanding that they were actually early.
Endymion chuckled, eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror. "You won't miss a single goat, colomba dell'amore. I promise, they'll still be waiting for you — maybe even saving a few carrots just for my little dove."
Love dove
That earned him a delighted giggle, her earlier distress forgotten as quickly as it came. She leaned into her car seat with a soft hum of excitement as the car turned down the familiar street, already imagining the goats lined up just for her.
Serenity watched the exchange, her lips curving in quiet amusement. There was something magnetic in the way he could diffuse even the fiercest storm in their children's hearts with a few gentle words. His voice carried a patience that came from strength, not resignation — a kind of calm that steadied the entire car.
She turned slightly, watching his profile as sunlight brushed over the dark stubble on his jaw. "You always know what to say," she murmured softly.
He glanced at her with a faint smirk, one corner of his mouth lifting. "That's because I've had practice," he said, eyes glinting with affection. "Four little ones, one beautiful wife... I'm outnumbered. I've learned to negotiate with love and snacks."
She laughed under her breath, the sound filling the space between them — warm, familiar, grounding. "It's working," she said.
The car rolled to a slow stop near the school, the hum of the morning bustle mingling with the sound of children's laughter and slamming car doors. Amoruna clapped her hands in delight at something only she could see, Celestoria kept talking about goats, Artcenzo was mumbling his thoughts, and Venazio's song turned into a hum that filled the car like a heartbeat. The scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air — his "Miglior Papà" travel mug half-empty, Serenity's perfume weaving through it, delicate as memory.
Best Dad
Serenity glanced toward the front gates, where teachers were waving at arriving families, and then back at him. "Endy," she said softly, touching his arm. "Pull over up there. Let's park and walk in together. I want them to remember this — us, mornings like this." Her voice was soft, full of that warmth he'd missed so much.
He smiled, that easy, disarming grin that still made her heart skip. "Anything for you, mia luce."
My light
The Escalade eased into a parking spot beneath a flowering tree, petals drifting lazily in the breeze. Endymion quickly rounding the SUV to help unbuckle the children with practiced ease. Soon, laughter spilled out as doors opened and little feet scrambled down.
Venazio immediately lifted his arms, and Serenity swung him up onto her hip, earning a delighted giggle. Celestoria clung to her other hand, her little fingers gripping tight. Endymion slipped Amoruna into her carrier across his chest, kissed the baby's soft head, and reached for Artcenzo's hand.
The morning air was crisp, filled with the scent of cut grass and blooming jasmine. Teachers greeted them, children ran past, and somewhere behind them, a bird sang a bright, simple tune.
For a moment, everything was exactly as it should be — sunlight, laughter, and love woven together in motion. Endymion glanced down at Serenity, her ponytail catching the light. Amoruna babbling softly against his chest. He leaned close, brushing his lips over her temple.
"Perfect morning," he murmured.
She smiled up at him, her voice soft and certain. "Because it's ours."
The cobblestone street illuminated with soft golden rays filtering through the canopy of trees that lined the path. Serenity adjusted the child-sized backpack over Celestoria's shoulders, the little girl's blonde curls gleaming like spun sunlight. Beside her, Artcenzo was already tugging at Endymion's large hand, his onyx hair tousled and his sapphire eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Padre, I want to race to the gates!" Artcenzo declared, puffing his chest out.
Endymion's lips curved into a slow smile. "Piccolo re coraggioso, the king does not run to his kingdom. The kingdom waits for him."
Brave little king
Artcenzo frowned thoughtfully, then nodded with all the gravity of a five-year-old. "Then I'll walk very fast."
"Ah, bene." Endymion gave a low chuckle and ruffled his son's hair. "Just fast enough to make your mamma chase you."
Good
Serenity arched an eyebrow, though the soft curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. "He gets that from you, not me."
"Tesoro mio, he gets the courage from me… the charm from you." He winked at her as he leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips, his hand resting at the small of her back protectively as they walked.
Skipping alongside her mother, Celestoria's hand clutched her little brother Venazio's. "Mammina, can Venni sit next to me in class today?"
Serenity smiled gently. "Venni's too little for your class, love dove. But you can wave to him when we drop him off."
Celestoria sighed, but her blue eyes sparkled. "Okay… I'll wave really big!"
Venazio looked up, his chubby cheeks rosy, his small blonde head tilted toward his father. "Babbo, Amo'una wants to be in school."
Endymion adjusted the carrier strapped to his chest where tiny Amoruna was animated against him, watching all of the children around them, her dark wavy hair curling like soft ink over her forehead. "Sì, piccolo principe, she wants to learn like you do." He brushed a hand over her tiny back. "She'll be just as smart as her Mamma."
Yes, little prince
Serenity looked up at him then, heart softening. He was every inch the man the world feared—powerful stride, sharp eyes that missed nothing, bodyguards shadowing them at a discreet distance—but when he looked at his children, when his gaze softened toward her, the steel in him melted into warmth.
"You're going to make me cry before we even get there," she whispered.
"Then I'll carry you too, tesoro mio," he murmured back with a grin.
The school came into view at the end of the tree-lined walk—a pristine, private academy with ivy-covered walls and warm brick, chosen by Endymion himself after weeks of inspections and background checks. Even the playground guards had been handpicked by his men, though to any onlooker, they looked like friendly staff.
Together, they walked toward the preschool's bustling entrance. Two teachers waited by the gate, greeting families as they arrived. Endymion's presence always drew discreet glances—partly curiosity, partly awe. Other parents glanced their way—moms with appreciative smiles flickering at Endymion's easy confidence and dark good looks, dads sneaking admiring glances at Serenity's graceful stride and the way she commanded attention without even trying.
Serenity caught the looks and rolled her eyes, squeezing Endymion's hand. "You're causing a scene, Mr. Vendetti."
He leaned over, voice low and teasing. "Funny, I was about to say the same about you, Mrs. Vendetti. I saw at least three dads nearly walk into the fence."
She laughed, cheeks flushed, shaking her head. "Let's herd our tiny zoo inside before we lose a cub, shall we?"
Once inside, Endymion remained impossibly composed, his presence both commanding and gentle. With Amoruna nestled securely in the carrier against his chest, he knelt to help Celestoria straighten her bow, then deftly wiped a stubborn smear of jam from Artcenzo's cheek with a baby wipe. The sight of him tending to their children—steady, loving, and effortlessly capable—warmed the hearts of everyone around them. Serenity watched with gratitude, quietly thankful for the partner she had in him.
One of the teachers smiled warmly to the lovely couple. "They're precious. You must be very proud."
Endymion's expression softened. "Every day," he said, his Italian accent wrapping the words like silk. "They are my heart walking outside my chest."
At the blue classroom's door, Endymion and Serenity crouched down, spending a moment with Venazio. Brushing a stray lock from his forehead, Endymion pressed a kiss there, then Serenity did the same for Venazio. "Be good, my love. Learn something amazing today."
Venazio hugged his Mamma tight. "I wuv you, Mamma." he sniffled, his eyes all watery. "You come back to get me?"
Serenity wrapped Venazio in a gentle hug, pressing soft kisses to both of his cheeks. "I'll always come back for you, no matter what, my love. You'll be safe with your teachers, and I'll see you so soon." she whispered warmly, brushing a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "I love you, my sweet prince." She smiled, giving his hand a little squeeze before letting him go to hug his father.
Then he hugged his Papa just as tight with small arms around his neck. "Wuv you, Babbo."
Endymion's eyes softened completely. "And I love you, piccolo mio. Always."
My little one
"Babbo, watch out for da moon woofs."
Endymion's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ah, the moon wolves again? I thought I scared them off last time."
Venazio shook his head very seriously. "No, Babbo. Sun makes 'em run 'way, but sometimes dey still come out. You gotta be careful."
Endymion gave a mock-serious nod. "Then I'll keep my eyes sharp and my heart brave, just like il mio piccolo principe forte taught me." He touched Venazio's nose, making the little one giggle.
My strong little prince
Serenity smiled, used to their little code. The "moon wolves" had started months ago—Venazio's way of reminding his father to stay safe. Their ritual, born of love and imagination.
Amoruna bounced gently in Endymion's arms as he shifted, her tiny fingers stretching toward her brother. "Vee!" she chirped, bright as birdsong.
Venazio leaned in, kissing her cheek the same way he'd watched his Papa do countless times—soft, proud, adoring. Amoruna squealed and clung to his little finger, her giggles bubbling softly.
Their older siblings gathered close, forming a small, affectionate circle around him. Artcenzo wrapped Venazio in a quick squeeze, grinning big. "See you later, silly goose!"
Celestoria followed, hugging him with all the warmth she copied from their Mamma, gentle and careful. "Have fun, little one. We'll see you after school," she murmured, brushing a hand over his hair.
"Go on, piccolo principe," Endymion coaxed gently, "Your maestra is waiting." When Venazio finally stepped into his classroom, Celestoria stayed by the doorway, waving as high as her arm could go. "See you later, Venni!" she called, her voice ringing like sunshine.
Her enthusiastic wave made him giggle, courage blooming in his chest. With his whole family cheering him on, Venazio walked inside feeling braver than ever.
As they approached the familiar pastel-colored door, the moment arrived to send their eldest off with all the love they could carry into the day.
Serenity knelt and hugged each twin individually, her heart swelling with pride and love. "Be good, you two. Make good choices. And remember, Papa and I will be right here when school's out."
She kissed both cheeks, lingering just long enough for them to feel it. "And I love you both so much. You make me proud every single day."
Celestoria threw her arms around her mother's neck with unfiltered affection. "We love you, Mammina! And we'll miss you!"
Artcenzo followed with his own fierce little hug. "Love you, Madre. See you later. Never goodbye!"
"Never goodbye," Serenity echoed, voice soft but steady.
Then Endymion crouched down, gathering the twins into his arms. He pressed a kiss to Celestoria's forehead, then Artcenzo's, before ruffling his son's hair with gentle pride.
"Now, colombina d'amore," he said softly, "you listen to your maestra and be gentle, sì?"
Love dove ... teacher ... yes
She nodded eagerly, smiling bright as morning light. "I will, Papino!"
He kissed her forehead again, then turned to Artcenzo. "And you, piccolo re coraggioso, protect your sister."
Brave little king
Artcenzo gave a solemn nod, his small chest swelling with pride. "Always, Padre."
"Good." Endymion's eyes glimmered—half amusement, half pride—and he stood, clasping Serenity's hand.
They stepped back, all four exchanging the same silent gesture—thumb, index, and pinky extended in the simple sign for I love you. Two tiny hands mirrored theirs, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to pause around that unspoken exchange.
Soon after, one of their favorite teachers, Signora Bellini, appeared.
Sharp-eyed and brisk, she carried the kind of no-nonsense warmth that could make toddlers behave, soothe worried parents—and make even grown men straighten their posture.
Her gaze landed on Serenity first. Serenity had unconsciously placed a hand over her flat stomach, the tender, protective gesture, looking—for all the world—like she was shielding a new life. Then Signora Bellini's eyes slid to Endymion. Immediately, they narrowed.
"Ahi, Signore Vendetti," she scolded in rapid, musical Italian, wagging a finger at him. "Ancora?! Tua moglie è sempre incinta o porta in grembo un altro bambino! Cosa pensi che sia, una macchina per fare bambini?
Ay, ay, ay, Signore Vendetti ... Again?! Always your wife pregnant or carrying another baby! What do you think she is, a baby-making machine?
Celestoria burst into giggles, and Artcenzo stage-whispered, "Padre's in trouble," like he was narrating a dramatic scene.
Endymion only laughed—low, warm, completely unbothered.
"Non posso farci niente, Signora," he replied smoothly, eyes twinkling as he looked sideways at Serenity. "È lei che mi tenta. Sempre."
I can't help it, Signora. It's her—she tempts me. Always.
Serenity flushed pink but couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her lips. She shot him a look—half playful warning, half unmistakable affection—very clearly saying, not in front of the children.
"Dio mio," Signora Bellini muttered, though she was grinning as she crossed herself in exaggerated despair. Then she clapped her hands gently toward the twins. "Come, come, darlings. Before your Padre embarrasses your poor Madre any further."
That sent the children into a flurry of giggles. They scampered off toward the classroom, nearly forgetting until the last second to call back:
"See you later, Mammina! Papino!"
"Love you!" Artcenzo added in a rush as they disappeared into the cheerful chaos of morning circle time.
Serenity shook her head, rubbing Amoruna's back through the carrier as she watched them go.
"You're impossible," she said softly.
"I'm honest," Endymion replied, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. "And I'm only stating facts."
"You're stating facts in front of our kids' teacher," she murmured, a smile tugging at her lips.
"Everyone should know how lucky I am," he said simply, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Having you and our bambini. Il mio cuore completo."
My complete heart.
Serenity's eyes lifted to his—loving, luminous. She smoothed a hand over the front of his shirt, fingertips resting above his heartbeat. "And I'm sure they know it."
Endymion dipped his head, his voice brushing her ear like a warm whisper. "You are my heart too, tesoro mio. Without you, I'd still be walking in shadow."
She felt the words settle deep inside her, powerful and quiet. "You don't have to protect us from everything, Endy."
He gave a soft smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It is all I know how to do." His gaze flicked over her shoulder—two of his men, dressed casually, scanning the perimeter. Satisfied, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
Only then did he let out a quiet breath. "Safe," he murmured. "For today."
Serenity looked up at him. "You really do check every shadow, don't you?"
"Every one that could ever touch you."
She smiled gently, slipping her hand into his. "Then come on, Mr. Shadow. Let's go get coffee before Amoruna wakes up."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Sì, tesoro mio. Lead the way."
Amoruna stirred against his chest, a small sigh escaping her. Endymion's hand immediately went to her back, soothing her. "Shh, piccola coniglietta di luna, your papa has you."
Little moon bunny
Serenity reached up to stroke the baby's soft hair. "She looks just like you when she sleeps."
"Then she's a lucky girl," he teased, eyes glinting.
She laughed, that melodic sound he swore could make even the darkest morning glow.
Before Serenity could reply, a warm, steady voice called out from down the hall.
"Mr. and Mrs. Vendetti—good morning!"
Principal Rosario approached with her familiar bright smile, clipboard tucked under her arm. She always treated them like any other parents… which was precisely why Endymion trusted her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Rosario," Serenity greeted gently.
Endymion gave a respectful nod—his version of warmth, quiet and controlled.
Before Principal Rosario reached them, another presence approached from Endymion's left.
"Boss," came a voice beside him, low but enthusiastic.
Endymion, still rhythmically patting Amoruna's back, turned, finding himself face to face with Ferario Virelli, head of security for the preschool and a former intelligence officer who'd taken to guarding important children like his life depended on it — because it did. Especially when four of those children were the Don's heirs.
"Ferario," Endymion said with a nod.
"Didn't think I'd see you today. Usually it's just your wife on drop-off duty," Ferario said, his smile genuine.
A slow smile tugged at Endymion's mouth—controlled, but warm enough to be real.
"Mrs. Vendetti handles most mornings," he said, voice deep and smooth with that unmistakable Don's weight. "But today?" He glanced down at Amoruna, who blinked up at him with sleepy trust. "Today they needed their Papino."
He lifted his chin slightly—an unspoken message that Ferario, of all people, would understand:
A Don shows his face when it matters.
Especially for his children.
Ferario's smile softened with respect. "Buona giornata for them, then. Kids'll walk a little taller with you here."
Good day
Endymion huffed a quiet, amused breath. "They already do." He adjusted Amoruna on his chest, adding with that dry, understated pride only he could pull off, "They're Vendetti children, after all."
"That they are." Ferario said with a crisp nod. "Wanted you to know - perimeter's clean. Extra patrol at the west play yard. No unusual movement."
"Grazie, Ferario," Endymion murmured. That was all he needed to hear.
But then, just as swiftly, something in Ferario's eyes shifted. A flicker of recognition, or concern, danced across his face.
Endymion's senses sharpened. He followed the direction of Ferario's subtle glance.
Principal Rosario finally reached them. "I was hoping to catch you both before the morning rush. There's someone I'd love for you to meet."
She turned slightly, motioning toward a woman and a small girl waiting just behind her.
"This is Danica Vale, and her daughter, Kyanite. They're touring the school today."
The woman stepped forward with an easy, gracious smile. She had that quiet strength—kind, composed, but with eyes that saw far more than she admitted. Not intimidated. Not uncertain. Simply… aware.
But it was the child who made Endymion still.
Kyanite peeked out from behind her mother's arm, her gaze curious and bright.
And her eyes— One a soft, molten gold. The other a breathtaking violet, rare as an eclipse.
Not a combination born by chance. Not one he had seen in years. Not one he could ever forget.
Serenity stood only a few feet away, speaking gently to the principal and the woman and child. The little girl clutched a soft bunny in one hand and Serenity's offered finger in the other. The woman had a striking presence. Not flashy, but… knowing. Her smile was calm, but there was a faint edge in her stance — poised, deliberate.
Endymion's mind scanned through names, faces, histories. He narrowed his gaze slightly, reading the tension in Ferario's posture and confirming what he'd already suspected: this wasn't just some mother with a shy child.
The casual veil dropped. He interrupted both conversations with a calm that felt like the eye of a storm.
"Vale? What origin is that?" Endymion asked the woman directly, not caring if he seemed rude in the least.
A slow smile curved her lips. Not smug—no. Certain. Knowing.
As though she recognized them instantly.
As though meeting the Vendettis was not coincidence, but confirmation.
As though she'd just struck gold.
"Depends. But ours has an Irish link," she said softly.
Her gaze met his—steady, perceptive, and unmistakably aware of exactly who he and Serenity were.
And behind that poised smile, Endymion felt the first spark of suspicion ignite.
Endymion's stare didn't waver. Irish. That narrowed the possibilities to a razor's edge.
But the child's eyes—the gold and violet he thought he'd never see again—pressed a weight into his chest he hadn't felt in years.
Serenity sensed the shift before anyone else. Her hand stilled on the child's back. Her smile stayed gentle, but her eyes flicked to Endymion with a quiet question:
Is everything alright?
Ferario had already stepped half a pace closer, subtle but unmistakable, his hand drifting near the holster beneath his jacket. To most, it would look like he simply adjusted his stance. Endymion knew better.
Danica, however, didn't even blink.
"Vendetti," she said warmly, inclining her head just slightly toward Serenity. "Your children spoke about you both earlier—very fondly, I might add."
Serenity's expression softened, and she thanked her politely. But Endymion? He watched the woman with a stillness that would unsettle anyone who knew what it meant.
"Where in Ireland?" he pressed, voice calm… far too calm.
Danica's smile deepened. "County Sligo. Old family line." She tilted her head. "Does the name strike something familiar?"
It did. But not because of her.
It was the child.
Kyanite, sensing the weight in the room, pressed closer to her mother's side but kept her mismatched eyes locked on Endymion. There was no fear—only a strange, intuitive curiosity. Like she was studying him with a knowing far beyond her years.
That hit him harder than he expected.
Serenity finally stepped to his side, slipping her hand discreetly into his—an anchor, a reminder to breathe.
"She's beautiful," Serenity said softly to Danica, trying to ease the tension neither of them could ignore. "Kyanite is such a unique name."
Danica's eyes flicked to Serenity. "Thank you. She was named for a stone with… potent meaning in our family."
Endymion's pulse kicked once—sharp, controlled, telling.
She knew what she was doing.
And she knew exactly who she was saying it to.
Principal Rosario, oblivious to the deeper currents swirling between them, clasped her hands brightly. "Why don't we all step inside? I'm sure Kyanite would love to see the art room."
Kyanite tugged her mother's sleeve. "Mama," she whispered, voice small but surprisingly steady, "he looks like someone from your stories."
Endymion felt the hit like a blade sliding clean between ribs.
Danica didn't hush her. Didn't look embarrassed. She only laid a hand atop her daughter's head and replied, eyes never leaving Endymion:
"Sometimes stories grow into the people we finally meet."
Serenity's fingers tightened around his.
Ferario's hand hovered one inch closer to the ready.
And Endymion Vendetti—Don, monster, father—felt the past rising like a ghost he'd thought buried.
The spark of suspicion became flame.
Endymion's jaw flexed once—barely a movement, but Serenity felt it. Their fingers were still linked, yet his body had shifted into a quieter, sharper readiness she recognized from darker days. The part of him that never truly slept.
Danica noticed it too. Her chin lifted a fraction, not in challenge but in acknowledgment. A dance begun long before today.
Principal Rosario, bright and unaware, gestured cheerfully toward the hallway. "Shall we?"
Kyanite nodded eagerly and tugged at her mother's hand. Danica followed, but not before pausing in front of Endymion.
"Don Vendetti," she said softly, shifting her daughter's bunny to her other arm. "It's an honor to meet you properly."
Properly. Meaning:
She'd known of him long before this moment.
Serenity offered a polite smile, diplomatic and warm. "We're happy to have you both here."
As the woman moved to follow the principal, Kyanite stopped beside Endymion. Stopped—looked straight up at him—and simply studied him again, those mismatched eyes narrowing just slightly, like she was cataloging him.
The gold eye shimmered with curiosity. The violet one felt like it was looking straight through him.
Then, in a small, surprisingly bold voice, she said:
"You remind me of the man Mama said changed her life."
Endymion's heart stilled.
Serenity inhaled sharply beside him, her hand tightening in his.
Ferario stiffened, eyes narrowing into a calculating threat-assessment.
Danica turned immediately. "Kyanite," she warned softly, not unkindly, "that's a story for home."
But the damage was done. The truth—whatever truth this woman carried—was no longer hiding.
Endymion crouched slowly, bringing himself to the child's eye level. He kept his shoulders relaxed, his tone gentle… but his gaze was razor-focused.
"A man who changed her life?" he repeated quietly.
Kyanite nodded, clutching her bunny tighter. "Mama tells me stories about him. She says he was brave but dangerous. That he wore shadows like a coat." Her little brow furrowed. "She said his eyes were like night until he smiled."
Every muscle in Endymion's back tightened.
Serenity's breath trembled.
Danica stepped closer, her voice low. "Kyanite. That's enough."
But Kyanite's gaze remained on Endymion—unblinking, steady, unnervingly perceptive.
"You have the same look," she said softly. "In your eyes."
Silence thickened around them.
Danica's hand came to rest on her daughter's shoulder—protective, but not fearful. She faced Endymion fully now, her expression shifting into something more solemn. Older. Weighted.
"Children notice truths long before adults will admit to them," she murmured. "And some truths… have their own timing."
Endymion rose slowly, staying close to Serenity, though his presence filled more space now—heavy, commanding, dangerous in a way only she knew how to soothe.
He studied the woman with that sharp, penetrating Don's gaze.
"Truth," he said quietly, "usually does not introduce itself with a child's honesty."
Danica held his stare without flinching. This time, her smile had no edge at all—just a strange, gentle sadness.
"No," she replied. "It doesn't."
Principal Rosario turned back, waving them further inside. "Let's see the art room!"
Kyanite brightened instantly and tugged her mother along.
Danica paused long enough to look at Serenity—truly look at her. And Serenity felt the weight of that gaze, ancient and knowing. Then she turned, following her daughter down the hall.
When they were out of earshot, Serenity leaned slightly closer to her husband, voice soft but edged with unease.
"Endymion," she whispered, "who is she?"
Endymion watched the retreating mother and daughter, shadows gathering behind his eyes like storm clouds.
"I don't know," he said.
A beat.
"But I intend to."
Chapter Text
Serenity woke to silence.
A soft, pale blue washed over the bedroom walls. It's first light slipping past the balcony curtains, brushing against the sheets like a whispered good morning. She blinked slowly, letting her body acclimate to the stillness.
Then the stillness became suspicion.
Her hand reached across the bed on instinct, palm meeting cool satin instead of warm skin. Endymion's side was untouched. Undisturbed. The faint dip of his weight nowhere in sight.
He hadn't come to bed.
Not really a surprise. He'd come home late, tension clinging to him like smoke, shoulders tight beneath her touch. He'd murmured something about unfinished work, kissed her forehead, and told her to sleep.
But she'd felt him pacing the room hours later. She'd heard the shower run at a time when most people were dreaming. And when exhaustion finally dragged her under, he'd still been awake.
Now the rising sun painted his absence in harsher strokes.
Serenity exhaled slowly, steadying her breath. Worry didn't often come for her like this. Not anymore. Endymion had earned her trust a thousand times over, and still—
His empty side of the bed made something cold stir in her.
She pushed the blankets back and stood, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. A yawn pulled free, soft and lingering, as she padded toward the en suite bathroom.
Her morning routine grounded her.
Warm water on her face.
The faint scent of neroli from her cleanser.
Cool mint lingering on her tongue.
Her hair swept up loosely.
And finally, pumping. A quiet, steady rhythm that filled the room with a soothing, familiar sound.
The twins would be stirring soon.
Her younger children, too.
Endymion usually brought them to kiss her good morning before breakfast. Some days he carried all four into the room himself, refusing help from anyone. Other days, she woke to their tiny giggles and his low whispering as he told them stories from his own childhood.
So where was he?
Where were they?
Serenity cleaned up, slipped into soft lounge shorts and one of Endymion's shirts—large enough that it brushed mid-thigh—and stepped into the hallway.
The house was awake.
Not loudly.
Not chaotically.
But she could feel it. The faint vibration of activity, like the pulse of a living thing.
Voices murmured somewhere below.
Small ones.
Bright ones.
Laughing.
Her heart finally unclenched a little.
Following the sound of her children's laughter, Serenity descended the spiral stairs that led to Endymion's private gym, bare feet silent on the steps. The closer she came to the lower level, the clearer the noises became: giggles, playful scuffling, and—
A familiar baritone, steady and deep.
Endymion.
She breathed out. Relief was a warm thing, curling beneath her ribs.
She pushed open the door to his private gym.
And stopped. Paused at the threshold, her heart swelled at the sight before her. Serenity let the scene imprint itself on her senses.
The Don himself.
Her husband. Father of her children.
Endymion was in the center of the room, shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin, a low-slung pair of black shorts clinging to his hips. Muscles rippled beneath the ink on his arms and back as he moved through a punishing set of pull-ups with flawless precision, shadowed jaw clenched in focus, while simultaneously monitoring their children—each one of whom had claimed space in his gym like tiny sovereigns ruling a kingdom.
He looked tired, yes.
He looked like he hadn't slept, absolutely.
But he also looked impossibly, devastatingly hers.
Gods, he was beautiful.
Not in the polished, effortless way he looked in a tailored suit, but raw. Real. Morning light carved gentle gold across the lines of his back. Muscles flexed and tightened with every controlled movement. The ink on his skin shifted like living scripture. Sweat beaded along the hollow of his throat, sliding down the cut of his chest in a way that made something warm coil low in her stomach.
She had missed him in bed last night. Missed his weight, his heat, the steady anchor of his arm draped over her. Seeing him now, half-dressed and full of focused strength, only sharpened that ache. Desire curled inside her, slow but undeniable, blooming right beneath her ribs.
He hadn't slept.
She had woken alone.
And now her husband stood before her like a temptation carved from sunlight and sin.
Her pulse fluttered.
But then—just as quickly—her gaze shifted to the children sprawled around him.
And her heart softened. The scene almost made her laugh.
Artcenzo was laying on his own toy weight bench, lifting a plastic bench press bar with foam weights solemnly copying his father's reps like he'd seen him do hundreds of times; Celestoria was walking on their child's manual treadmill, moving with effortless grace; Venazio was on a kid's-sized stationary exercise bike, peddling his little legs as fast as he could, intent on his efforts; while Amoruna was attempting to hop on a mini trampoline, curls bouncing with every giggle.
Serenity leaned against the doorframe, warmth blooming across her chest.
A different warmth took her—the kind that filled her chest instead of her belly. A mother's pride. A wife's quiet happiness. The sweetness of seeing her whole world gathered in one room.
Endymion paused, dropping lightly to the mat, and ruffled Venazio's hair, murmuring encouragement. He caught Serenity's gaze in the wall mirror, a slow, wicked smile curving his lips.
Serenity smiled.
She stepped deeper inside, her voice soft with affection.
"Good morning."
Endymion turned immediately. His gaze swept over her, lingering on her legs, her face, the oversized shirt she wore, then softened completely.
"Tesoro mio," he breathed, straightening, voice husky from exertion. "You should still be asleep."
She smiled. "Hard to sleep when your side of the bed is cold."
His expression shifted—guilt, then gentleness, then something deeper. He crossed the room in a few long strides and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat.
"Mi dispiace. I didn't mean to worry you," he murmured. "Long night."
I'm sorry.
"I figured," she replied quietly. "And an early morning too, by the looks of it."
He glanced back at the controlled chaos behind him, expression softening. "They woke up before the sun. I didn't want them waking you."
She touched his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there, "How kind of you, my king." Her voice was soft, warm honey flowing over his heart. She took in his handsome yet tired features, noticing the faint lines of worry around his eyes. "Everything okay with work? You look exhausted."
Answering, he leaned into her touch, his eyes closing for just a moment as if savoring the moment. The absence of it last night really showing now in the way he drank in her presence like a man parched in the desert. "Nothing I can't handle," he brushed off her concern, never wanting to worry her with the burdens of his responsibilities. "And you look perfect," he countered softly, because in the kingdom of his heart, she always did—more perfect with each passing day.
She leaned into him, breathing him in—warm skin, clean sweat, and the faint trace of the cologne he'd put on hours ago, a scent that had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
Her mind replayed his workout routine and now she was unable to look away from his perfect physique, the strength in his arms evident even in repose. "Apparently I'm missing the real show," she whispered, a playful smile dancing on her lips.
He tossed a towel over his shoulder and pulled her flush to him, sweat-slick and powerful, his eyes dark with both affection and something more primal, a fire that burned only for her. "You know I like to keep my queen happy," he teased, glancing at her with an unmistakable promise that sent shivers down her spine.
Serenity's cheeks flushed, heat curling low in her belly as her heart swelled with the love that radiated between them, a love as deep and enduring as the ancient sands.
Interrupting in perfect toddler fashion, she watched as Amoruna came waddling over to them. Endymion's heart melted as he lifted her overhead, spinning her until her giggles filled the morning air, then set her gently down next to her brothers who waited eagerly.
"Babbo is strong!" Venazio crowed, and Artcenzo nodded seriously, flexing small arms beside their father in a mirror of his father's strength.
"So is Mamma," Endymion replied, giving Serenity a look that made her toes curl. The look he gave her was one such that sent warmth pooling in her belly, a reminder of nights spent wrapped in each other's arms. "But sometimes she needs her rest, especially after nights when Papa misses her too much."
Serenity bit her lip, savoring the memories that bloomed in her mind—the way his hands and mouth would map her body as if relearning every cherished inch, a private language of love written upon her skin. She moved closer, brushing her hand over his damp chest, letting her fingers linger, tracing the strong line of his collarbone.
"Does Papa miss Mamma now?" she murmured, voice low so the children wouldn't hear the deeper meaning.
Growling playfully, he bent to press a slow, deliberate bite to the side of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "Papa definitely misses Mamma," he whispered back, eyes lit with shared secrets.
"Papino, my turn with Mammina!" Celestina inserted herself between them, breaking their private moment. Probably for the best, he knew, considering he was already losing himself to Serenity's magnetic pull—her body, her scent, her very touch.
The children took their turns getting hugs and kisses from their Mamma before they clamored in a cheerful chorus for breakfast.
"Let's eat," he whispered. "And then I'll help you take the bambini to school before I go into work."
Her heart tightened in that sweet, familiar way that always happened when he spoke of their shared life. Then she frowned, noticing the fine lines of fatigue around his eyes even as he tried to hide them.
"You need to rest, my love," she murmured, her worry for him a soft thread in her voice. Serenity was beginning to feel a growing concern about him, something that seemed to be holding his thoughts captive, keeping his mind from finding peace.
Endymion saw her concern for him, clearly etched on her face, felt it in the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm. "I promise to come home to you tonight," he said, pulling her close and pressing a tender kiss to her lips. Properly. Slow. Warm.
The kind of morning kiss that was a promise in itself, telling her that the day had only just begun and that their love was the sunrise itself.
"And I'll show you," he murmured against her mouth, "exactly how much I've missed you."
A soft moan slipped past her lips at the mere thought of his promise coming to fruition. "Promise?" she asked breathlessly.
"Always," he vowed, his forehead resting against hers.
Venazio suddenly turned to his Papa with the gravity only a child possesses:
"Babbo," his voice dripping with complete seriousness, "why do you keep eating Mamma's face?"
Both parents froze, then Endymion started coughing while Serenity tried not to laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.
"My prince," Serenity said, reaching out to smooth Venazio's hair from Endymion's ruffling of it earlier.
Before she could continue, Celestoria cut in with the wisdom of a five-year-old: "That's not eating faces, it's kissing."
Serenity nodded and then, thinking more of it, she added with a gentle smile, "French kissing. Only Mamma and Papa do it together."
Venazio just frowned deeper, his little brow furrowed in concentration. "But it looks like you gobbled him up all gone," he explained. "Last time, when I gobbled my biscuit all gone, lunch teacher said I had biscuit on my mouth. You have Babbo all over your mouth."
This time Endymion laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room, and Serenity shot him a stern, albeit smirking look. Bending down to his level, Endymion tried to explain. "Well, principino mio," he said, his voice full of affection. "When you love someone very much, sometimes you just want to… nibble on them."
Artcenzo now interjected with a thoughtful expression. "Is that why you bite Madre sometimes?"
Venazio's eyes went wide. "Nibble?" he gasped. "Are you a biscuit now, Mamma?"
Serenity threw her head back and laughed fully this time, the sound like music. "No, my prince. Not a biscuit."
Smirking, Endymion responded cheekily, leaning close to whisper just loud enough for her to hear, "Questo è discutibile. Your biscuit is delicious, tesoro mio."
That's debatable.
"Endymion!" Serenity shrieked, though there was no heat in her voice, only affection and a blush staining her cheeks.
"Speaking of biscuits," he said with a wink, "let's eat breakfast!" Endymion herded them up the stairs, each child taking a hand as Serenity followed, her gaze lingering on the powerful lines of his back, the strength in his thighs, the easy confidence in every movement.
"Yes, everyone sounds hungry!" Serenity called out, though her blush deepened as a different kind of hunger stirred within her—a hunger for the man slowly ascending the stairs with their precious and innocent children in tow.
In that moment as she watched her family, she knew with a certainty that settled deep in her soul—no matter what darkness threatened to encroach, the strength of their family and the enduring heat of their love would always, always conquer it.
Chapter Text
The morning sun had climbed high enough to cast long, golden shadows across the school parking lot as the Vendetti SUV pulled into a space, its sleek black paint catching the light like polished obsidian. The soft blush of sunrise had already vanished, replaced by a brilliant wash of peach and pale gold stretching across the sky, warming everything it touched.
The courtyard was alive.
Children darted back and forth in energetic bursts—some running with uncoordinated limbs, others hopping from tile to tile, pretending the ground was lava. Their laughter flew up into the air, bright and bubbling, layering over the happy chaos of morning greetings. Little backpacks decorated with dinosaurs, stars, and glittered unicorns bounced against tiny spines as they ran.
Parents wove through the small whirlwinds of motion, balancing half-finished pastries and overstuffed bags while offering hurried reminders:
"Don't forget your lunchbox!"
"Give your brother back his jacket—now, not later!"
"Walking feet inside the building!"
Steam curled from fresh coffees clutched in sleepy hands, carrying warm scents of hazelnut, cinnamon, and toasted caramel into the crisp, early air. A few parents stood grouped near the gate, chatting quietly, the gentle hum of adult conversation mixing with shriller laughter and squeaky shoes.
Bright chalk drawings from yesterday's playtime still decorated the concrete—hopscotch grids, swirling rainbows, smiling stick figures, and a somewhat lopsided dragon drawn by a very ambitious five-year-old. Morning dew made the colors darker and more vivid.
A pair of teachers supervised near the entrance, offering waves and cheerful "Good morning!" greetings to arriving families. One knelt to tie a student's shoe while another guided a shy child inside with gentle hand-holding.
The entire scene pulsed with movement, warmth, and a kind of organized chaos that only children's mornings could summon. It was a world brimming with innocence and routine—a sharp contrast to the world the Vendettis ruled outside these gates.
And yet, as the sunlight warmed the courtyard and laughter echoed from every direction, it was easy—just for a moment—to believe this place existed purely in light.
Endymion stepped out first.
He moved with that effortless, controlled confidence only men who commanded entire empires carried—shoulders relaxed, chin lifted slightly, gaze sweeping the environment in one fluid motion. The kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself; it simply shifted the air.
Morning sunlight slanted across him as he straightened, illuminating the crisp lines of his suit. Black, impeccably tailored, hugging the breadth of his shoulders and long frame perfectly. But true to form, he'd left the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone and the strong lines of his throat. No tie, ever—his signature refusal. Endymion Vendetti did not allow anything around his neck, not even silk. Unless it was family clinging to him.
He looked every inch the Don, even in the soft spill of morning.
The breeze caught the open collar, fluttering it lightly against his skin.
He reached up, smoothing a hand back through his thick, dark hair—still slightly damp from a quick, early shower—before adjusting his cuffs. The glint of his watch caught the sun, a discreet but expensive piece, the kind favored by men who appreciated precision and legacy.
In the shifting tide of families, he stood out instantly.
A few fathers couldn't help glancing his way—most with respect, some with a quiet, uncertain edge. Some mothers paused mid-sentence, stealing discreet glimpses from the corners of their eyes. Teachers eyed him with a mix of warmth and awareness, familiar with his reputation but also with the tender way he always interacted with his children.
He didn't seem to notice any of it.
His attention was solely on his family.
The moment Serenity stepped out from the opened door he held, the sharpness in his eyes softened, melting into something private, something only she ever saw.
Serenity stood beside him, dressed in a modest pale-blue dress, her art tote slung over one shoulder. Today she would be rotating through each child's class during morning art—a promise she'd made and kept with her whole heart.
The morning breeze tugged at a strand of her hair, and he reached without thinking, tucking it gently behind her ear. His voice dropped so only she could hear.
"You look beautiful, tesoro mio."
Her small smile answered him, but before she could speak, the back seats erupted in a chorus of tiny voices and bustling limbs.
"Papino! Papino, look!" Celestoria cried, waving a crumpled drawing she'd apparently brought to show her teacher.
"Padre, me first!" Artcenzo insisted, clambering toward the open door with boundless energy.
Venazio reached for Endymion with chubby hands. "Up! Babbo, up! Me!"
And Amoruna squawked indignantly when her siblings blocked her view, kicking at her blanket with all the righteous outrage a baby could muster.
Endymion chuckled—a low, warm sound that made Serenity's heart flutter every time—and crouched to help them one by one.
He lifted Venazio first, settling him easily on his hip despite the child's delighted wiggles.
"Buongiorno, principino," he murmured, kissing the top of his head. "Did you sleep well?"
Venazio nodded vigorously. "Dreamed about dinosaurs!"
"Ah," Endymion said brightly. "Again? You'll have to tell me which ones scared off the moon wolves this time."
Next he reached for Artcenzo, ruffling his dark hair.
"Il mio coraggioso re," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Try not to challenge your maestra to a duel today."
"I'm not sure," Artcenzo shrugged. "She might start it."
Endymion laughed softly and kissed his son's forehead.
Then came Celestoria, who jumped into his arms with complete trust. He lifted her and spun her lightly once, her giggles ringing across the lot.
"La mia piccola colomba dell'amore," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "Ready to make art with your Mammina today?"
"YES!" she squealed.
Finally, he leaned into the car and brushed a gentle hand over Amoruna's cheek. The baby immediately grabbed his finger and cooed.
"Il mio coniglietto lunare," he whispered, kissing her tiny hand before unbuckling her.
Serenity watched him, her heart full.
It was always this way. No matter how dangerous his world was, no matter how many sleepless nights or difficult deals, Endymion Vendetti became nothing but softness when he stood before his family.
The children bustled with excitement as Serenity unfolded the stroller for Amoruna. Celestoria twirled in delighted circles, Artcenzo bounced with boundless energy, and Venazio hummed his cheerful morning "Mamma song." Perched on Endymion's shoulder, Amoruna babbled happily, her tiny hands reaching for his hair as he pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks. Usually, Endymion would have managed the stroller, but today he wanted to keep Amoruna close, savoring every cuddle and giggle while they waited for Serenity to finish getting the stroller ready.
As the Vendetti family approached the school in their morning walk, the familiar morning rhythm of social interaction swept them up.
Teachers, aides, and parents noticed Serenity instantly.
"Buongiorno, Vendettis!" called Signora Bellini, waving brightly from near the entrance.
"Good morning!" Serenity replied, her tone warm and melodic as she steered Amoruna's stroller with practiced grace. She flashed a genuine smile. "Big day today—three art classes in a row!"
"Oh, those lucky bambini," Signora Bellini said, clasping her hands. "Your projects are still displayed from last month! The parents keep asking who the little Picassos are."
Serenity laughed, a touch of pride in her eyes.
"Buongiorno, Signora Bellini," Endymion replied warmly, a hint of mischief in his voice. She was easily one of his favorite teachers—though he'd never admit it aloud, at least not in front of Serenity.
Signora Bellini grinned, glancing at their growing brood. "Presto un altro Vendetti per la mia classe, Signore?"
Another Vendetti for my classroom soon, Signore?
Endymion chuckled, glancing lovingly at Amoruna. "Amoruna arriverà presto qui e presto ne avremo un'altra nel passeggino, ne sono sicura."
Amoruna will be coming here soon and we'll have another in the stroller before long, I'm sure.
Signora Bellini laughed, shaking her head. "Ah, molto bene allora. Non vedo l'ora di conoscere la piccola principessa."
Ah, very well then. I look forward to getting to know the little princess.
The warmth between them was infectious, the joy of the morning made brighter by these familiar, teasing exchanges.
A pair of mothers approached, one pushing a stroller, the other holding the hand of a little boy with a cape on.
"Serenity," one breathed, "that dress is gorgeous. Did you make it?"
"No," Serenity laughed softly, "but I did iron it myself, so I'll accept the compliment."
"You're too humble," the other mother said, leaning in to peek at Amoruna. "And look at this one—ciao, piccolina!"
Amoruna squealed back, reaching for the woman's hair.
Celestoria and Artcenzo were already darting ahead toward the courtyard, where a small group of children gathered around chalk drawings.
"'Toria!" a little girl cried, running to her. "Come hopscotch with us!"
"'Cenzo, come race!" another boy shouted, tugging him toward painted numbers on the ground.
Within moments, both twins were absorbed into the swirl of playground activity, their backpacks forgotten on the pavement.
Venazio toddled along behind them until a tiny friend with pigtails spotted him.
"'Nazio!" she squeaked, throwing her arms around him. "I missed you!"
Venazio giggled so hard he nearly fell backward.
Serenity watched her children tumble into friendships with ease, heart melting.
Endymion watched too—but differently.
He stood slightly behind his family, shoulders squared, hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping the courtyard with quiet precision. Always alert. Always assessing.
He skimmed over the teachers and aides, noting who was paying attention and who was distracted. He clocked the parents he recognized—and the few he didn't. He checked the far edges of the fence, the parking lot, the gate, the rooftop line.
And behind that vigilant sweep…
He looked for them.
Danica Vale and her daughter, Kyanite.
Nothing.
No splash of violet-and-gold eyes.
No poised, knowing woman watching him from the periphery.
His jaw flexed ever so slightly.
Serenity caught it—but didn't comment.
"Ready?" she asked softly, brushing her fingers along his arm in a gentle request for his hand.
"Always," he replied, slipping his hand from his pocket and intertwining his fingers with hers as they guided the children toward the classroom wing.
Teachers waved at Serenity as they passed; several gave Endymion a respectful nod, though most didn't dare say his name out loud. Almost everyone suspected they knew exactly who he was.
At the pastel classroom door, that familiar moment arrived—a quiet ritual amid the morning bustle. All around them, parents hurried past, offering quick goodbyes before rushing off to work.
But the Vendetti farewells were never rushed.
Endymion crouched down and opened his arms wide. "All right, miei tesori," he said gently. "Papa needs his arrivederci's."
My darlings... see you laters.
Artcenzo came first. Endymion straightened his son's collar, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Make good choices, re coraggioso. And I'll see you later."
"See you later, Padre!" Artcenzo grinned, giving a playful salute before barreling into him for a big hug.
Celestoria threw her arms around Endymion's neck next.
He spun her lightly once, drawing giggles, before kissing her cheek. "Paint a masterpiece, colomba dell'amore."
"I will! See you later, Papino!"
Then Venazio.
Endymion scooped him up, letting the boy cling to him like a koala.
"Ciao, principino forte. No climbing shelves today."
Venazio shook his head solemnly. "No shelfs. Or moon woofs. Promise."
Endymion kissed his cheek. "Good. See you later, alligator."
Amoruna giggled and babbled happily in her stroller as Endymion bent down, brushing a tiny curl away before kissing her soft temple. He then stroked her cheek reverently.
"And you, piccolo raggio di luna… be sweet to your Mamma, yes?"
Little moonbeam
Then it was Serenity's turn.
Endymion straightened and stepped close—close enough that the noise of other families faded. He reached for her free hand.
Serenity tilted her chin up, warmth softening her eyes. "You're in a very affectionate mood this morning."
"I missed you in bed," he said simply, cupping her cheek. "I came in late, and you were finally sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."
Her shoulders relaxed at the sincerity in his voice.
"But hear me," he continued, leaning his forehead against hers, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "I'll be home on time tonight. To you. I promised you that."
Her chest softened. Serenity placed her hand on his chest, over his steady heartbeat. "And I believe you."
He kissed her cheek—slow, lingering—and whispered, "Have a wonderful day, tesoro mio. See you later. Never goodbye."
"Never goodbye," she whispered against his chest.
He exhaled, full of something achingly tender.
A sleek black sedan rolled up quietly to the curb—his secondary vehicle. Dante stepped out and opened the back door.
Endymion nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned back to Serenity.
"The Escalade stays with you," he said, placing the fob in her palm. His fingers lingered. "If you need anything, call me or call Ferario."
She smiled, brushing faint lint from his lapel. "I'll be fine."
"Still," he murmured.
He gave her one last touch—a soft swipe of his thumb along her jaw—before turning and striding toward the waiting car.
"Papinoooo!" Celestoria called, giggling.
Endymion turned, giving all four children a last wave.
"Have a beautiful day, miei cari!"
My darlings
"Ah-ree-vah-dar-chee, Papino!"
"See you later!"
"Later, Babbo!"
"Pa-pa!" Amoruna squeaked.
Their little voices chased him as he walked toward the awaiting car—his stride strong, sure, every inch the Don again the moment he left the bubble of his family.
And Serenity stood there, sunlight warming her skin, watching the Don of the Vendetti family walk into a world far less gentle than the one she remained in.
But his promise echoed in her chest.
He'll come home.
He always comes home.
Serenity turned to her excited brood.
"Okay, my loves," she said, "Let's go make art."
Chapter Text
Endymion had just stepped away from the school entrance, the echo of his children's laughter still warm in his ears as he crossed the courtyard toward the waiting car. Leaving them was never simple—not for a man wired to protect—but Serenity was with them, and that truth eased something tight in his chest. If they were with her, they were safe. If they were here, in this place, they were sheltered. It was enough to turn the ache of parting into something he could bear.
The morning air brushed cool against his skin as he moved. His eyes tracked the space in a slow, invisible sweep—absorbing, assessing, calculating—without betraying a flicker of motion.
Parents gathered in little clusters, murmuring over coffee cups.
Teachers shepherded tiny hands across thresholds.
Children leaned out of car windows, shouting goodbyes that dissolved into giggles.
A mother laughed as her toddler paused to hop dramatically over every crack in the sidewalk.
A normal morning.
At least, it wore the shape of one.
But beneath the gentle scene, Endymion's instincts churned—coiled, alert. His gaze continued its quiet patrol, precise and tireless, hunting for even a whisper of violet-and-gold eyes or the unsettling composure of Danica Vale.
And then—
He saw her.
Danica stood near the stone balustrade, posture relaxed, Kyanite at her side clutching her backpack. They looked like any mother and daughter beginning an ordinary day.
But nothing about Danica was ever ordinary.
And she knew he was watching.
She didn't turn toward him, didn't meet his stare. She simply spoke—softly, almost dreamily—as though recounting a memory only she and Kyanite shared.
Yet every syllable was aimed squarely at him.
"It's a morning just like that one in Ireland," she murmured. "Remember that mist, darling? How it rolled over the green… how the air tasted like rain and sweet grass?"
And yet, as Danica spoke, the memory reshaped itself—
or rather, the mist tried to reshape it.
"And the way the wind pushed against us," she went on, her tone airy, almost fond. "Strong enough you thought it would knock us right off the cliff. I pulled you back. I said I'd never let you fall."
His breath hitched—because that line had been said…but by him to Serenity.
Her hands curled into the collar of his jacket, cheek brushing his, him whispering it with laughter in his voice as the sea wind rose around them.
In Italy.
He had longed to share with her his homeland—the rugged cliffs of the island rising above the sapphire sea, where the wind carried salt and stories through the air. He wanted her to stand with him at the edge of those ancient stones, to feel the wild beauty of the place where his family's history began, and to breathe in the same sea wind that had shaped the hearts of his ancestors.
Never Ireland.
Never Danica.
He stopped completely now, the world narrowing to a point.
Late spring along the cliffs of Isola di Favignana—just after the twins were born, before the wars, before the second Italian wedding they shared. They'd slipped away early that morning, hidden among coastal paths washed in dawn light, two lovers pretending the world had no claim on them.
He remembered the sea fog lifting off the water, drifting in slow curls around Serenity's silhouette.
He remembered the dew on the grass wetting her ankles.
He remembered the smell—salt and wild thyme crushed beneath his boots, lemon trees blooming faintly inland.
A perfect memory.
Untouched.
His. Serenity's. Theirs.
But the faint aether mist curling around Danica's silhouette bent its edges, blurring truth into something fluid. The cliffs of Isola di Favignana flickered—just for a heartbeat—into the green rise of the Irish coast. The thyme and lemon softened into grass and rain. Serenity's sunlit smile—
Shifted.
Reformed.
For a flicker, it was Danica's.
Endymion's pulse dropped into a cold, heavy thud.
He pressed his tongue to his teeth, grounding himself, pushing back against the fog threading through his thoughts like fine wire.
That morning belonged to Serenity.
To them.
To a time when everything had been fragile and blooming with promise.
And now Danica stood in a school courtyard, weaving their moment into something else—claiming it, bending it, trying to wedge herself into a memory she could not possibly know.
His voice came low, rough, edged with warning.
"Ireland?" he said—not accusing, not yet. "Funny. I don't remember you there."
Danica didn't react.
Didn't even look at him.
She smiled down at Kyanite—light, wistful, as if living inside a memory that wasn't hers.
"But you do remember," she said softly. "Even if you pretend you don't."
And the mist shimmered—thin, silver, delicate as spun glass—tightening its hold.
Endymion's jaw flexed hard.
"Danica," he said, voice steady but dangerous. "Enough."
She didn't move. Didn't acknowledge him.
But Kyanite looked up—too knowingly, too expectantly.
Ireland? Us?
The words pulsed through him—wrong, out of place—yet threaded with imagery so vivid it scraped something raw inside him.
A breeze stirred. Something glittered in the air.
A shimmer—quiet, innocent-looking—drifted around Danica's outline.
It caught the morning sunlight like pollen.
It brushed his cheek—cool, featherlight.
And then—
The cliffs surged back.
Only now it wasn't Italy.
It wasn't Serenity's hand in his.
Not the real memory he cherished.
The place changed.
The woman changed.
His mind rearranged it like a painting being repainted beneath his awareness.
For one impossible heartbeat, Serenity's face flickered—
and Danica's replaced it.
Endymion's stomach twisted.
No.
No, that wasn't real.
He forced a slow inhale. "Vale," he said, sharper now. "I don't know what you think you're doing. But whatever this is—stop."
Danica turned her head only slightly, just enough for a faint, thoughtful smile.
Not mocking.
Not smug.
Worse.
Certain.
"Oh, I'm just reminiscing," she said lightly. "Memory is a curious thing. Slippery. Selective."
Reminiscing about moments she had never lived.
Memories she couldn't know.
Scenes she had no right to touch.
His vision tightened at the edges. The mist clung to his collar, threading through his thoughts with quiet precision.
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong with me.
He cleared his throat, grounding himself in the weight of his own voice.
"Those aren't memories with you," Endymion said quietly. "You weren't there."
Danica blinked—slow, serene, unreadable.
His own mind betrayed him with the smallest flicker of uncertainty.
Had she been there?
Had he forgotten something small—something insignificant—that now felt monstrously important?
A seed of doubt dropped into him.
He hated it.
Endymion exhaled through his nose and turned toward his car. "Stay away from my family," he said quietly. "And stay away from me."
Danica's expression held. Soft. Untouched.
"I'll see you around," she murmured.
Not a threat.
Not a promise.
Just a reality she believed in.
As he walked away, the mist tugged at him—whispering false familiarity, rewriting edges of memories he had once known by heart.
A doubt he could not yet name rooted itself deep, and began to grow.
Dante had already stepped out of the car when Endymion approached, posture straightened, one hand resting subtly near the holster beneath his jacket. His eyes swept the courtyard once—twice—reading the air the same way Endymion did, ready to intervene at the slightest signal.
"Boss," he greeted quietly, voice low and respectful. "Everything okay?"
Endymion didn't answer right away—his senses still prickled from Danica's presence, from the shimmer of that strange mist. His expression remained carved from stone, but Dante had worked for him long enough to see the tension simmering beneath the surface.
Before Endymion could respond, a small voice chimed from behind him.
"Mr. Endymion?"
He turned.
Kyanite stood a few steps away, shoes scuffed, backpack hanging crookedly off one shoulder. She held a folded piece of paper between her fingers, clutching it like a fragile secret. Her eyes—too clear, too observant—lifted to his.
"You inspired me to draw this," Kyanite murmured. "Please accept it."
Danica stood further back, hands clasped lightly in front of her, expression unreadable. She didn't speak. Didn't gesture. Just watched.
Endymion's jaw tensed.
Every instinct screamed to ignore the paper—to walk away—to refuse any trail Danica laid at his feet.
But Kyanite wasn't her.
Kyanite was a child.
A child who had done nothing to deserve suspicion.
He forced the rigidity from his shoulders, softening just enough to crouch slightly to the girl's height.
"You sure this is for me?" he asked gently.
Kyanite nodded.
Endymion hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but Dante noticed it. The hesitation was enough to set his driver subtly on guard, weight shifting in readiness.
Finally, Endymion extended his hand.
"Thank you," he said.
The paper was warm from her palm. Too warm. As though it had been held for longer than she let on.
Kyanite's small fingers brushed his as she released it.
She smiled—small, tentative.
A normal smile.
A child's smile.
And yet it unsettled him.
"Have a good day, Mr. Endymion," she added, bowing her head a little before turning and hurrying back toward the school doors.
Danica didn't follow immediately.
She lingered—watching him accept the note, watching the moment settle into place. Her gaze followed him as he reached his driver, calm, measured. The encounter had been brief, casual—almost innocent—but the mist's invisible work, paired with her storytelling, had left its mark.
Then she pivoted gracefully and walked away without another word.
Endymion straightened, every muscle drawn taut. He slid the folded note into his jacket without opening it.
Dante stepped closer, voice pitched low so only Endymion could hear.
"You want me to handle that, sir? I can take it and—"
"No." Endymion's voice was quiet but absolute. "Not here."
Dante nodded once—sharp, obedient.
"Understood."
Endymion drew in a slow breath, the crisp air burning down his throat. The mist still lingered faintly in his senses, like a memory clinging just beneath his skin.
His jaw tightened, the worry familiar, instinctive—a thin blade at the base of his spine. A lifetime of enemies didn't fade just because he built a home full of sunlight and children's laughter.
He took one last look at the school entrance where Serenity had disappeared moments before—his wife, moving with the soft grace of a promise he'd vowed never to break.
His shoulders eased—finally—by an inch.
Endymion released a slow breath.
She had seemed… peaceful.
For a man like him, peace was a rare luxury. Something paid for in blood and caution.
Something worth everything.
"Let's go," he said, his tone leaving no room for questions.
Dante opened the car door for him immediately, shielding the area with his body as Endymion slid into the back seat.
Only when the door closed did Endymion finally allow himself to press a hand to his brow, shutting his eyes for a brief, controlled inhale.
He leaned back in the seat, elbows braced on his knees, palms pressed together—his thinking stance, the one Dante recognized instantly in the rearview mirror.
His mind sharpened, slicing through the fog.
Through the doubt.
Through the manipulation.
Time to work.
Time to clear the path.
Time to make sure that when he returned home tonight—when he crawled into bed beside Serenity—there would be nothing in the dark waiting to take that peace from her.
He'd promised her.
Whispered it against her lips before she turned toward the school with the children.
"I'll be home to you tonight, amore mio."
He'd meant it.
Endymion Vendetti kept his promises.
Or he scorched anything in his way to ash while trying.
And Danica Vale had just put herself directly in the path of a man who did not lose.
Chapter Text
The Three's outdoor classroom sat beneath a canopy of trees, the morning sunlight filtering through like liquid gold. Everything felt gentle out here—quiet but alive, arranged with purpose but humming with small discoveries.
Low wooden tables had been set out in the shade, each one covered in natural provocations: baskets of river stones, bowls of warm beeswax, wool scraps, pinecones, mirrors, soft clay, and little wooden scoops. A shallow water basin sat at one end, its surface rippling each time a child dipped a hand in.
The air smelled faintly of citrus soap, damp soil, and clean wood.
The moment Serenity stepped through the gate, Venazio spotted her from where he sat perched on a stump, kneading a warm golden ball of beeswax so earnestly his tiny eyebrows were nearly touching.
"Mamma!" he chirped—his whole body lighting up before he launched himself across the grass with his joyful, uneven three-year-old trot.
Serenity knelt and caught him, laughing as his warm arms wrapped around her neck. He smelled like sunshine and beeswax and the faintest trace of oatmeal from breakfast.
"I'm here, my love," she whispered into his light curls.
Around them, the Three's class moved in the soft, wandering rhythms of littles:
• One little boy crouched near the water basin, gently "bathing" a smooth river stone.
• Two girls carried wool scraps back and forth between baskets, narrating a story only they understood about "rainbow beds" and "fairy sisters."
• A child in a sunhat sat in the dirt, drawing slow spirals with a stick, humming tunelessly but contentedly.
• Another crouched by a log, poking at a line of ants with intense scientific focus, whispering, "They going home. They got crumbs. Shh, don't scare them."
Their teacher, Miss Ansel, approached with a warm smile, a clipboard loosely held but mostly forgotten.
"We're so happy to have you join us this morning, Mrs. Vendetti. Venazio's been waiting by the gate since drop-off."
"He's been excited since dawn," Serenity said, brushing a smudge of beeswax from his cheek.
Amoruna, in her stroller beside Serenity, let out a delighted squeal and slapped both hands onto her tray table. Serenity had prepared a tiny invitation-to-play for her: soft felt shapes, a wooden ring, a set of fabric squares, and a small spoon-and-bowl.
She immediately grabbed the wooden ring and hurled it to the ground triumphantly, then leaned over her tray to look at Serenity as if to say, Did you see that? I did that.
Serenity laughed softly and retrieved it for her. "Amazing throw, moonbeam."
The class ebbed around them with gentle busyness.
One of the little ones waddled toward Serenity holding a pinecone with both hands, as reverent as if he were carrying a sacred relic.
"Is spiky," he informed her solemnly.
"It is," Serenity agreed, touching it lightly. "And listen—when you shake it quietly, it rattles."
He gasped, delighted, and ran off to show another child.
Miss Ansel guided the children toward their morning art invitation: softening warm beeswax in their hands until it was pliable enough to shape.
Venazio plopped down on a stump again, pressing his beeswax between his palms with great seriousness.
"I'm making… um… a wolf. But also a dragon. But also a dog," he announced.
"Of course you are," Serenity said, kissing the top of his head. "That sounds perfect."
Next to him, a curly-haired girl held her beeswax to her cheek like it was a beloved teddy bear.
"It's warm," she sighed, blissful.
"It is warm," Serenity said. "Your hands make it soft."
Two boys sat across from each other, both insisting they were making "the biggest mountain ever," their little brows furrowed, their beeswax lumps lopsided and identical.
A third child wandered up, poked one lump, and declared, "It's a pancake."
The boys gasped in outrage, then immediately switched to arguing whether it was a pancake, a volcano, or a dinosaur nest—which, in Three's logic, were all basically interchangeable.
Serenity moved from stump to stump, helping tiny fingers pinch shapes, listening to stories that made perfect nonsense and all the sense in the world.
A breeze rustled the branches overhead, scattering a few leaves onto the children's workspaces.
One girl caught a leaf and held it up like a trophy.
"It says hi to me."
"I think it does," Serenity agreed solemnly.
It was a morning that felt simple and whole.
Next came the twins' space—their outdoor kindergarten atelier, cradled beneath a cathedral of oak and cedar branches whose leaves whispered with every breeze.
The moment Serenity stepped through the wooden gate, that familiar creative hum brushed over her skin.
This place always felt like stepping into a living sketchbook.
Sunlight sifted down in shifting mosaics, dappling the tables with gold.
Battery-powered light tables glowed softly under their shade cloths, illuminating translucent gems and shapes that the children moved through the light as if they were conducting tiny symphonies of color.
The long natural-materials studio along one side was already bustling in that gentle, child-led way.
Jars of earth-pigment paints stacked like warm-toned jewels.
Bowls of river clay sat cool and inviting.
Wooden brushes soaked in water warmed by the morning sun, steam rising faintly.
A communal weaving loom stretched between two sturdy posts, threaded with wool yarn dyed in marigold, indigo, and walnut—colors the children had helped gather from local plants. Some strands were loose, some pulled tight, some accidentally knotted—perfect in their imperfection.
Nature trays displayed the morning's provocations: river stones smooth as eggs, feathers soft as whispers, eucalyptus leaves that smelled like waking dreams, seed pods that rattled, driftwood twisted into storybook shapes.
Everything breathed.
Everything shimmered with possibility.
Celestoria and Artcenzo shared a low wooden table, though they might as well have been in different worlds.
Celestoria sat tall, luminous in the dappled light.
Her wooden board rested across her lap as she painted soft, drifting watercolor shapes—misty circles, pale streaks, gentle halos.
"I'm painting the sky the way it feels," she whispered when Serenity approached, as if the sky might overhear her.
Her little shoulders were relaxed, her breath slow, her expression dreamy.
Serenity smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.
"It's already perfect, my dove."
Across from her, Artcenzo was a different story entirely.
He attacked his mound of clay with warrior-like seriousness, elbows wide, fingers strong, brow furrowed. Every few seconds he made a sound—half grunt, half tiny growl—that meant he was deeply focused.
Clay streaked his arms like battle markings.
Mrs. Ida caught Serenity's eye and gave a gently amused look.
"He's been… enthusiastic this morning," she said in the most diplomatic voice possible.
Which, of course, meant he was in full Endymion mode—determined, physical, wild in spirit, unstoppable.
The instant Artcenzo spotted her, he launched upright.
"Madre! Look! Mine is bigger than everyone's!"
His chest puffed out. His clay creature leaned precariously to one side.
Serenity smoothed his hair back, her voice warm but steady.
"It's remarkable! How about we work on the details today, hmm? Not just size."
Artcenzo blinked, considering this. His face settled into a solemn, heroic expression—as if "details" were now a sacred quest he needed to fulfill.
He nodded once. Gravely. Then immediately began plotting how to make it both gigantic and detailed.
Meanwhile, baby Amoruna sat in the shade near Serenity's feet, gnawing on a wooden teether.
Periodically she lifted a felt shape, stared at it with great toddler reverence, and then hurled it joyfully from the tray table of her stroller.
Each throw was greeted by her own delighted squeal—as if she had rediscovered gravity personally every time.
Parents drifted through the space—unhurried, curious, soft-spoken in the Waldorf–Montessori way.
No hurried footsteps.
No sharp tones.
Just warm murmurs and the faint rustle of leaves overhead.
"Your twins are so different," one mother remarked with a smile, watching Celestoria's ethereal artwork and Artcenzo's intense sculpting.
"They balance each other beautifully," Serenity replied.
Artcenzo lifted his clay creation—a bold, lumpy creature somewhere between a bear, a dragon, and a potato—and Mrs. Ida clapped her hands lightly.
"Very strong form. Lots of power in this one."
Artcenzo beamed, proud enough to glow.
Across the yard, Celestoria finished her painting, exhaling with that soft little sigh she made when she had "completed a feeling."
She stood, slipped her arm through Serenity's with elegant ease for such a small child, and together they walked toward the outdoor washbasin.
It was an old hand pump—sturdy metal, cold to the touch, beloved by every child here.
Celestoria helped pump the water, giggling at the splash, her face radiant with morning joy.
The entire space felt like a moving poem—one written in sunlight, clay, watercolors, and wonder.
Serenity moved gently through the atelier, offering guidance at nearby tables—showing one child how to swirl pigment instead of stabbing the brush into it, helping another decide between ochre and rosewood, adding a few sun-dried leaves to the communal nature collage spread across the canvas cloth.
Children giggled, stomped in imaginary mud puddles drawn in chalk on the stones, built driftwood towers that leaned like ancient temples, and narrated elaborate stories to the sky with frantic hand gestures. The entire space buzzed with that soft, imaginative electricity unique to five-year-olds.
And then—at the very edge of the group, half in shadow, half in sun—was Kyanite.
Small.
Quiet.
Cross-legged on the grass beside a set of mirror tiles.
She moved a wooden dowel in slow circles across the reflective surface, her mismatched eyes tracking the motion with a steady, moonlike focus—as if following the arc of a celestial body drifting over a dark lake.
For a long moment she didn't join the others.
She simply watched Serenity with a stillness too deep for her age—
listening not with ears, but with something quieter, older, tucked deep inside her.
Serenity noticed immediately.
She crossed the grass with gentle steps and lowered herself beside the little girl.
"Kyanite, sweetheart," Serenity murmured, voice soft as shade. "Are you okay today?"
Kyanite blinked up at her, lashes long, expression unreadable.
Her little bunny plush peeked out of her dress pocket like a silent guardian.
"I… fell," she whispered at last. "On my elbow. It's okay."
Serenity offered her hand, palm warm and open.
"Can I take a look?"
Kyanite hesitated—not with fear, but with a carefulness far too old for five, then placed her small arm into Serenity's hand.
A shallow scrape. Pink. Fresh. Tender.
"Oh, honey…" Serenity breathed, heart melting. "Let's clean that."
As the other children continued their important missions—mixing river clay, painting drifting galaxies, weaving uneven yarn, and announcing to no one in particular that they had discovered a "dragon leaf"—Serenity cleaned the scrape with slow, soothing movements.
Kyanite didn't flinch.
Didn't tighten.
Didn't make a sound.
"Very brave," Serenity told her softly.
A tiny smile—no bigger than a sigh—formed on Kyanite's lips.
Serenity placed a small Band-aid over the scrape, the kind decorated with watercolor birds mid-flight, and pressed it gently so it would stay.
"There," she whispered. "Good as new."
Kyanite looked down at the Band-aid, touched it with one careful fingertip…
Then, with the quietest motion—like a leaf drifting into place—she leaned her head just barely against Serenity's shoulder.
No words.
Only soft gratitude, warm and weightless.
Serenity stayed there as long as Kyanite needed, holding the stillness with her.
When Kyanite was ready, she pushed herself lightly to her feet.
She looked at Serenity with those uncanny eyes, solemn for a moment—
then offered a small, careful,
"Thank you, Ms. Serenity."
Her voice was soft, but steady.
A child who did not waste words.
Then she turned and ran—light-footed, almost soundless—toward another art station where Celestoria was rinsing her brush in a bowl of lavender-tinted water.
Serenity watched the moment their paths crossed.
Celestoria brightened instantly, her whole face opening like a morning flower.
"Kyanite! Look—I made the clouds swirly today."
Kyanite leaned in close, inspecting the watercolor with thoughtful seriousness.
"That looks like… the sky right before bedtime," she decided, and Celestoria beamed.
The two girls settled beside each other, shoulders nearly touching, quietly sharing brushes and little bowls of plant-dyed water. Celestoria narrated her ideas with soft excitement; Kyanite nodded along, contributing small but meaningful comments, entirely at ease in her presence.
A friendship unfolding gently.
Intuitively.
Like something their spirits recognized before their words did.
Serenity felt her heart soften.
Celestoria had always been luminous—open, kind, seeing the world in metaphor and moonlight.
And Kyanite… Kyanite carried loneliness like a thin veil, one so delicate it could tear with a careless touch.
Serenity was grateful—deeply—that her daughter could be a soft place for the little girl to land.
That Kyanite had someone who noticed her, understood her quiet, and didn't ask more of her than she could give.
Their laughter—light, fragile, real—floated across the outdoor atelier, and Serenity let herself breathe, just for a moment.
Friendship, blooming beautifully under the morning sun.
By the time the final class ended, Serenity was dusted with clay, watercolor, and a smear of beeswax—but she felt full. Whole. Nourished in a way she didn't always realize she needed.
Amoruna was dozing in her stroller now, fingers still curled around a soft felt star she had "made."
Serenity looked between her children—happy, engaged, immersed in their own worlds—and felt gratitude pulse through her chest.
Here, they were safe.
Seen.
Respected as the small, growing individuals they were.
And through the hum of the school day, she still felt the gentle tug in her heart—the invisible thread connecting her to Endymion.
He was working. Protecting. Keeping his promise.
Coming home to her tonight.
And as she wiped a bit of blue watercolor from her arm, Serenity smiled, already imagining the look on his face when she told him about their children's masterpieces.
Chapter Text
Endymion's conference room at M.A.R.E. Crisium occupied the entire 66th floor, a glass box suspended over the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the space in a sweeping, fractured panorama—New York reflected back at itself like a living kaleidoscope. Even with the skyline sprawling behind him—its gold, steel, and haze stretching to the river—the air inside held a taut, electric stillness.
Late morning light poured in unfiltered, cutting clean beams across the obsidian floor, sharpening every line of the room into something warm, pristine, and meticulously controlled. On the surface, everything was as it had always been. But beneath that sleek veneer, a tension coiled through the room like a drawn bowstring.
Endymion stood at the head of the conference table—not sitting, not today. His jacket hung over the back of his chair, forgotten, while his sleeves were rolled to his forearms in that deliberate, effortless way of his. Ink climbed the muscle of his arms in dark, intricate lines—ancient sigils of protection, old-world runes for guardianship, the marks of a man who fashioned his own fate and carved his oaths into his skin so he could never forget them.
Some of the symbols were old enough to predate empires. Some were spells passed down through blood and shadow. But a few—only a few—were his.
He had started with Serenity.
Then, as the years passed and their family grew, he added more—each child woven into the ink in a sigil only he and a trusted handful could read.
And there was still space left. Deliberate, intentional space. In case life chose to bless them with more little loves to protect.
One for Serenity.
One for Celestoria.
One for Artcenzo.
One for Venazio.
One for Amoruna.
Each mark was a vow disguised as ancient geometry, woven into the protective lattice inked across him. A shield. A warning. A promise.
And in the sunlight, those sigils glowed faintly—ink darkening as if stirred by the pressure in his chest, by the thoughts cycling through him like a mantra he couldn't shut off.
His family was his armor.
His family was his weakness.
His family was the reason he could not fail.
His shirt lay open at the collar, exposing the tense line of his throat, the steady pulse betraying what he refused to name.
He'd tried to bury the morning.
Tried to bury the way Danica's presence had seeped into him like fog.
Tried to bury the treacherous flicker of another woman's face where only Serenity's should ever exist.
But the unease had followed him up all sixty-six floors, tightening with every step—a weight settling beneath his ribs, cold and unwelcome, refusing to be ignored.
One by one, his men entered.
Kunzite came first—straight-backed, silver hair catching the light, eyes already sweeping the perimeter as if he could feel the tension vibrating beneath Endymion's stillness.
Jadeite slipped in next, silent but keen, taking up a post against the glass wall with the practiced ease of someone who could read a room's temperature in a single breath.
Nephrite followed—tall, composed, eyes sharpened by instinct. He carried a slim, dark surveillance tablet in one hand, its screen flickering with encrypted feeds and intel packets. Even before he spoke, he was already analyzing patterns, tracking anomalies, calibrating the threads of whatever trouble he suspected had led to this meeting.
Zoisite came in behind him, his own tablet alive with scrolling data—operation logs, security reports, projections he'd predicted Endymion might demand. His fingers hovered over the glass, poised, precise.
And finally Lex entered—solid, steady, the quiet anchor of the room. He took the seat closest to Endymion without hesitation, offering a subtle nod that was not a question but a vow:
Whatever this is, we're here for it.
His men gathered around him—five shadows of unwavering loyalty. Endymion didn't waste a second. His hands were clasped lightly on the conference table, but every muscle in his frame hummed with readiness.
"Status," he said, voice clipped, low, leaving no room for unnecessary preamble. "Tell me everything."
Kunzite spoke first. "We started with her identity trail. Danica Vale—if that's even her real name—appeared in New York… five years ago."
"Only five?" Endymion asked sharply.
"Yes," Zoisite replied, flicking data onto the holographic display above the table. "Before that, her digital footprint is nonexistent. No social media, no school records, no bills, no tax records, no leases. It's as if she materialized out of thin air."
"Or someone built a persona for her," Jadeite muttered.
Nephrite lifted his tablet, swiping through layers of surveillance footage aggregated from both public and private sources. His division handled espionage—deep dives, digital shadows, patterns no one else would think to track.
He zoomed in—grainy night footage of arrivals from three different terminals.
"She came in through a private charter," Nephrite continued, "registered under a shell corporation tied to a defunct pharmaceutical company."
He switched screens.
"And the passport used on that flight? Flagged in three countries for controlled border crossings—Russia, Germany, and the U.K. The Russians kept her file sealed."
Jadeite's jaw ticked. "That's never good," he muttered.
Nephrite tapped the screen. "We pulled her immigration logs. They show an entry stamp at JFK. But the passport she used was flagged as synthetic in origin—constructed. Clean, but not natural."
Endymion's jaw locked. "Who made it?"
"That's the problem," Zoisite answered. "Most synthetic passports still leave a signature—algorithmic residue from the forgers, micro-patterns, cryptographic fingerprints. Hers has none. It's advanced. Too advanced for the usual New York or European circuits. We suspect a private syndicate… or someone with federal-level clearance."
Kunzite added, "And whoever it was erased the metadata afterward. Cleanly. Elegantly."
"Meaning someone with resources," Lex said. "Not some lone operative."
"Someone who knew how to hide her," Kunzite agreed.
Endymion exhaled slowly, the weight of the information settling into a colder shape.
Zoisite continued, "We also checked customs cameras for that day. Nothing. The footage glitches out exactly when she should have been walking through."
"That's not coincidence," Jadeite said. "That's orchestration."
Nephrite's tablet glowed softly in the corner, his fingers scrolling through surveillance feeds he'd cross-referenced from the last two years. "We went further than entry records." he said, voice calm but edged with gravity. "We tracked her first place of residence in New York—an apartment in Astoria. Subtle identities, temporary rentals, false utility bills. Every trace she leaves is… minimal, but there. A pattern emerges only if you look across months, years even. Someone meticulous, and very careful. Rented under her name, but the payments were wired from an untraceable overseas account routed through twelve shell companies."
"And all twelve vanished within a month," Zoisite added. "Scrubbed."
"Someone wanted her to blend," Kunzite said. "And they wanted her untraceable."
"Why?" Endymion asked.
No one answered immediately.
Lex cleared his throat. "'Dym… we don't know. Yet. But she didn't choose this neighborhood, this school, this life at random. She's too precise for that."
Endymion's gaze hardened. "Continue."
Zoisite switched screens. "We tracked her routines chronologically—down to the minute. She's consistent, but inconsistent where it matters. Every Tuesday and Friday, she takes a detour through the Flower District. No reason for it. No purchases. No surveillance loops that we can find. It's a dead zone."
"Why would she need a dead zone?" Jadeite asked.
"Communication drop," Kunzite said. "Or rendezvous."
Nephrite added, "We analyzed her behavior patterns across months. She has a habit of distancing herself from other parents. No friendships formed. No confidants. No gossip, no idle chatter. Everything she says is measured. Even her affection with Kyanite is… limited."
Lex rubbed his jaw. "Controlled. Like she's protecting the kid from something—or preparing her."
The room fell silent at that.
Endymion's fingers curled against the edge of the table. "What about before New York? Anything?"
Zoisite shook his head grimly. "Every trail stops cold. There's no trail of her—or Kyanite—anywhere before the passport stamp. No airline records. No medical history. No birth certificate for the child."
"We checked hospitals around the world," Kunzite said. "Even black-market clinics. Nothing. Either she hid the birth flawlessly, or…" His voice trailed.
Jadeite finished, "Or she wasn't the one who gave birth."
That thought hung in the room like smoke.
Endymion's pulse thudded once, slow and heavy. He hated the chill crawling along his spine—the suggestion of something larger, darker, buried beneath layers of precision.
Zoisite continued to speak, swiping across his tablet with practiced efficiency. "We've traced Danica Vale's movements over the past forty-eight hours," he reported. The screen flickered with overlapping GPS points, mapped against the city grid. "She follows a rigid schedule. Morning school drop-off, then errands within a two-block radius, afternoon pickup. The only anomaly was this morning—the thirty seconds she deviated to approach you at the school entrance."
Endymion's jaw tightened, a flicker of unease crossing his sharp features, but he didn't speak. Silence was a weapon; his men had learned long ago not to fill it.
Kunzite stepped forward, gaze direct. "Her phone," he said, voice low and even, "is locked behind end-to-end encryption we haven't been able to breach. Military grade. Above what even the Blackwell families typically employ."
"That alone tells you she isn't who she claims to be," Jadeite muttered, leaning back slightly. His eyes never left the data projected on the table—patterns, movements, anomalies—every one of them flagged with surgical precision.
Lex, always the observer, leaned forward, elbows on the polished surface, hands steepled. "She's precise, 'Dym," he said quietly, as if the words themselves carried weight. "Every move is calculated. Avoids cameras without making it obvious. Chooses side streets that keep her out of blind spots. And she times herself perfectly—leaves two minutes before or after Serenity every day. Never overlaps unless Serenity signals in advance. She's… systematic. Methodical."
Endymion absorbed all of this, shoulders stiffening, every instinct in him sharpening. The room felt smaller now, the glass walls a mirror of the city outside and the danger pressing in from within.
He exhaled slowly, voice controlled but lethal in its calm. "And her connections?"
Kunzite's eyes darkened. "Sparse, but persistent. She meets unknown contacts twice weekly—always off-camera, in places where no cameras are registered. These meetings aren't casual. She isn't socializing—she's acquiring information."
Lex added, low and precise, "We can't confirm the content yet. But every move has the hallmarks of someone trained, someone who knows exactly what to avoid—and exactly who to watch."
Endymion leaned forward, palms pressed against the table, eyes flicking from one man to the next. He didn't flinch, didn't breathe too quickly. Inside, a storm was brewing. Every fact, every small calculated detail, fit together into a puzzle that didn't just concern him—it threatened everything he held dear.
"This isn't just curiosity," he said finally, voice a razor of control over simmering heat. "She's watching. And she's coming closer than she should be. I want everything—every interaction, every anomaly, every possible alias—documented. Cross-reference it with our contacts, the security feeds, everything from the past six years. I don't care what it takes."
The men nodded, understanding the gravity.
Endymion exhaled once, sharp, eyes narrowing as he stared down the skyline beyond the glass walls. Shoulder stiff, jaw locked, every instinct alive.
"We're not letting her near my family," he murmured, almost to himself, the words both promise and threat. "Not now. Not ever."
Zoisite didn't pause after the initial briefing. He tapped again, pulling up another set of files—screens of archived data, cross‑referenced timestamps, and long-buried digital footprints.
"We didn't stop at the last forty-eight hours," he said. "I pulled every scrap of metadata tied to the name Danica Vale going back seven years. Most were dead ends. Manufactured paper trails. But two stood out."
A map opened—one line tracing a move from Dublin to Montreal, then a sudden stop.
"Notice the gap," Zoisite said. "Ten months completely unaccounted for. No tax record. No work history. No digital signature—not even a pharmacy purchase or a library login."
Endymion felt the faintest prickle across the back of his neck.
Ghosts moved like that.
Trained people moved like that.
Kunzite stepped forward then, sliding a printed file onto the table—thick, annotated, brutal in its thoroughness. Endymion recognized the formatting: Kunzite's personal code sheets. He only did this for cases he believed were threats.
"We searched not only for who she is," Kunzite said quietly, "but for who she pretends to be."
He flipped the folder open.
"Her accent is inconsistent. Mostly American, but she slips—vowels flatten when she's tired. There's a trace of Eastern European cadence beneath it. Not enough for the average person to notice. But Jadeite picked it up the first week."
Jadeite's brow lifted, just once, in acknowledgment.
"We ran facial recognition," Kunzite continued. "Found twelve partial matches over the last decade."
He tapped one photo—grainy security footage outside a Moscow museum.
Another—outside an embassy in Prague.
Another—in Munich, strolling past a basilica with a stroller that didn't belong to her.
Zoisite added quietly, "Every match is five to ten years apart. As if she's been playing different lives. She never ages. Not noticeably."
Nephrite swiped to another screen.
"We went deeper—property records, utility bills, digital residuals from devices near hers."
He pulled up a timeline.
"She rented a series of apartments in Manhattan under alternate identities. Always six months or less. Always in neighborhoods close to schools or playgrounds."
Lex frowned deeply. "She was watching families. Watching patterns."
"And refining," Nephrite said. "Learning how to blend in."
Lex leaned forward, tone dark. "She's been studying us."
Zoisite nodded grimly. "She knew the school Endymion and Serenity would choose before they even enrolled the twins."
Endymion's head snapped toward him. "How?" His voice was low, cold.
Zoisite hesitated only a breath. "Because she tried to get a job there… four years ago."
The room stilled.
Even Kunzite froze.
Nephrite looked up from his tablet. "Background check blocked her application. No references. No verifiable employment. But she knew exactly what kind of education Serenity likes—Montessori foundations, Waldorf gentleness, Reggio creativity."
Lex muttered, "She crafted the perfect camouflage."
Endymion's heartbeat slowed—not with calm, but with lethal, boiling focus.
"We're not done," Jadeite said suddenly. He stepped forward, pushing a small black binder across the table—actual paper, actual weight. That alone made everyone still. Jadeite only went analogue when something mattered.
"Her aliases trace further back if you look outside the States," he continued. "But the earliest verifiable identity? Appears in Ireland."
A ripple of unease slid through the room.
Zoisite's voice dropped. "And the timing aligns with when you were in Ireland."
Endymion's jaw tightened—just a fraction, but enough for the temperature to shift. The ink on his forearms seemed to harden with him, every line of his body sharpening.
Kunzite held his gaze, steady and unflinching.
"She's been orbiting your life for a long time, fratello," he said. "This isn't random. This isn't new. She didn't just show up. She approached."
Brother.
The word landed with the weight of blood oath.
Nephrite closed his tablet with a soft click, every movement controlled.
"She has purpose. Training. Discipline. And she's too close to Serenity." His eyes lifted, sharp and final. "Too close to the children."
Silence tightened around them, thick with unspoken implications.
Endymion inhaled once—slow, lethal, the sound of a man calculating the perimeter of a threat that suddenly stretched years longer than expected.
"She's not just someone passing through my city," he said, voice low enough to make the windows feel colder.
His gaze lowered to the binder, then rose again—black, burning, certain.
"She's been hunting the perimeter of my life."
No one breathed.
No one dared.
"Find out why."
Four words carved into the air like a blade.
The men didn't argue. Shoulders squared. Eyes sharpened. Purpose locked in place.
But Nephrite continued as if the final thread had just clicked into place.
"There's more," he said quietly. "Not just Ireland back then. Your recent trip to Ireland may have had a deeper meaning."
Endymion's eyes narrowed.
Nephrite continued, voice steady:
"That's when Kyanite first appeared in the U.S."
The implication throbbed like a pulse in the center of the room.
Not coincidence.
Perfect timing.
Shadow matching shadow.
Endymion's breath stilled. Then he asked, "What about the child?"
A beat passed.
Even the air seemed to still—as if the city itself leaned closer.
"Kyanite," Nephrite said carefully, "shows no signs of conditioning or tactical grooming. No micro-reactions that suggest stress inoculation. She behaves like a typical five-year-old—impulsive, affectionate, easily overwhelmed. Her emotional responses are raw… not rehearsed."
He glanced down at his tablet, flicking through thermal overlays, heart-rate snapshots, timestamps. "If she's involved, it isn't by choice. She's unaware."
"That doesn't mean she isn't being used," Kunzite murmured, voice low and lethal.
Endymion nodded once, slow, heavy. "She is."
A ripple of unease moved through the room.
Only one voice broke it.
Lex.
He took a step forward, jaw set, concern threading quietly through his usually steady tone.
"'Dym," he said, careful but direct, "what happened today?"
Endymion didn't answer immediately. His fingers flexed once at his side, a tell of tension only his inner circle could read.
Then he exhaled, long and tight—the kind of breath pulled through clenched teeth. The memory crawled beneath his skin like static, prickling up the back of his neck. He straightened slowly, turning to face all of them, the city burning behind him in the glass.
"She approached me before I got into the car." His voice was calm, but the calm of a blade laid flat. Too sharp around the edges.
"Danica spoke of Italy, though she said Ireland. She described the coastline. The wind. The exact curve of the cliffside. Details from a moment in my past she should not—could not—know."
A heavy stillness dropped over the room, settling like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
Zoisite tapped the edge of his screen, data shifting in quick, irritable flashes. "There's no record of her in Italy."
"Or anywhere near the Amalfi Coast during that era," Jadeite added, pushing off the window with a low, simmering scoff. "Not even as a tourist."
"And yet she described it perfectly," Endymion said. "As though she had stood there. With me."
Kunzite's expression turned thunderous, shoulders tightening as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon.
"She's tampering with you."
The words weren't a warning. They were a verdict.
"I know." Endymion's tone left no room for doubt. "There was aether mist in the air. A low dose—barely enough to cling, but enough to distort."
Nephrite stepped forward, tablet lowered. "Do you need a cleanse? Full reset? I can have the room prepped—"
"No." Endymion cut him off immediately—firm, grounded. "The second I realized what she was attempting, I shut it down. But she's playing a longer game. And I want to know exactly what it is."
Lex's jaw flexed. "She's crafting a narrative. Stitching herself into your past. What's her angle?"
Endymion's jaw tightened, a muscle feathering just beneath the ink on his neck. "To make me doubt. To make me believe she and I share history." His voice dropped. "To make me believe…"
He hesitated—not with uncertainty, but with fury.
"That Kyanite could be mine."
The room erupted—quietly, but violently.
"That's impossible," Zoisite said, nearly scoffing.
"She's grasping for leverage," Jadeite added.
"She's rewriting memory," Kunzite concluded, voice ice. "It's a precision strike."
Nephrite lifted his tablet again, scrolling through new data streams. "Whoever trained her—"
"—knew exactly where to hit," Endymion finished.
And the silence that followed wasn't fear.
It was the collective promise of retaliation.
The kind that vibrated with impending violence.
The city hummed far below, unaware that a decision was about to shift its tectonics.
Endymion turned toward them, eyes like polished obsidian.
"I need the full dossier on her. Everything. Every movement. Every person she's spoken to. Every shadow she's walked through. I want her life peeled back down to the bone."
Continuing, his voice low and deadly calm.
"Find the earliest trace of her—anywhere. I don't care if it's years back or continents away. If she set foot in a hospital, a safe house, a port, a border, I want to know. If she changed her name once or a dozen times, I want every alias. Pull satellite archives. Scrub private databases. Shake every tree you have to."
Cold, commanding.
"And I want it fast."
The room stiffened with purpose.
"And the child," Endymion continued. "Make sure Kyanite is safe. Protected. But I want to know why she exists. Why Danica brought her here. And why she wants Serenity anywhere near her."
His men bowed their heads, each accepting his orders without hesitation.
"We'll tear every layer apart," Nephrite promised.
"We'll find who she really is," Zoisite said.
"And who sent her," Jadeite added.
Lex met Endymion's gaze. "And we'll neutralize whatever she's building."
Endymion nodded once.
Kunzite bowed his head once—soldier, blade, oath. "Consideralo fatto."
Consider it done.
The men rose as one, silent and lethal, moving with the coordinated precision of a unit that had ended empires together.
Predators released.
With a target.
As the others moved toward the door, minus Kunzite, who was already pulling up satellite overlays, Jadeite speaking low into an encrypted mic, Nephrite typing rapid-fire into his device, Zoisite sorting data streams—Lex remained where he was.
He didn't follow.
Not yet.
"'Dym," he said softly, just for him.
Endymion didn't turn, not at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the city—on its lattice of glass and steel, on the reflection of a man he should have been able to trust himself to remain. The ink along his arms shifted as his hands curled into fists, the tattoos darkening with the tension coiled beneath them.
Lex stepped closer.
"Whatever she's doing…" His voice held no pity—only truth, steady and grounded. "It didn't work. You know that, right?"
Endymion finally glanced his way.
A long breath dragged through him, slow and strained. He looked past Lex's shoulder—to the memory he'd been trying to outrun all morning. Serenity's warm smile. The light catching in her hair. Her hand brushing his chest.
And then, in a flicker he hadn't allowed himself to admit aloud—
Danica's face overlapping it.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to leave a scar of doubt.
"It won't work," he said.
He meant it.
He intended it.
But the conviction didn't reach his eyes.
The words felt… thinner than they should have. And he hated that. Hated that something so small, so calculated, had slipped through the armor he never let crack.
Lex watched him carefully.
The room was quiet—too quiet for a man who led an empire.
"You don't sound like you believe that," Lex said gently.
Endymion's jaw flexed, the muscle jumping hard beneath his tattoos.
"No," he said after a moment. "But I will."
And Lex, loyal to the bone, nodded once.
He didn't offer comfort.
He didn't try to reassure him again.
He simply placed a steady hand on Endymion's shoulder—brief, solid—and said:
"Then we'll make damn sure she never gets another chance."
Only then did he turn and leave, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing like a promise of war.
And when the door shut, Endymion remained standing—surrounded by glass and city lights and the faint, corrosive echo of Danica's voice whispering Ireland into his mind.
He felt the shadow of the morning's manipulation lingering in his thoughts.
He hated that he could still feel it.
He hated even more that she'd managed to plant it.
Kunzite stepped closer, tone low and steady—the kind of voice meant to anchor, not provoke.
"So che è più facile a dirsi che a farsi," he said, meeting Endymion's eyes without flinching. "Ma non preoccuparti di Danica. La tratteremo nello stesso modo in cui gestiamo ogni minaccia a questa famiglia—"
I know it's easier said than done, but don't concern yourself with Danica. We'll handle her the same way we handle every threat to this family—
A faint shift of his stance, a quiet echo of steel.
"—con precisione letale."
—with lethal precision.
It wasn't bravado.
It was a promise.
Endymion didn't look at Kunzite right away.
For a moment, he simply stood there—hands braced on the table, breath steady but too deep, as if keeping something darker caged beneath his ribs. The memory of the morning—Serenity's face flickering into Danica's—twisted like a knife behind his sternum.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. Fraying just at the seams.
"Non si tratta di lei," he said. "Riguarda ciò che sta cercando di toccare."
This isn't about her, it's about what she's trying to touch.
His jaw flexed once, a tremor of fury barely contained.
"Si è avvicinata troppo a Serenity oggi. Troppo vicino ai bambini." A pause. "Questa è la linea. La mia linea."
She stepped too close to Serenity today. Too close to the children. That's the line. My line.
He lifted his gaze—black as polished onyx, seeming darker under the conference room lights.
"Non me ne frega un cazzo di Danica Vale," he continued, each word cut with precision. "Ma se pensa di poter entrare nel mio passato, nel nostro passato, e riscriverlo?"
A slow exhale, lethal in its calm. "Ha sbagliato i calcoli."
I don't give a fuck about Danica Vale, but if she thinks she can reach into my past—into our past—and rewrite it? She miscalculated.
He straightened to his full height, shoulders squared with a finality that filled the room.
"Gestitela. In silenzio. Completamente."
Handle her. Quietly. Completely.
A beat.
"E tenerli al sicuro. Tutti quanti. Questo viene prima."
And keep them safe. All of them. That comes first.
Kunzite stepped a little closer, voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of someone who had walked beside Endymion through every battlefield, literal and figurative.
"Inteso," he said, his gaze unwavering. "La conterremo. Ogni passo, ogni ombra che cammina, lo sapremo. E niente tocca Serenity o i bambini. Non un sussurro, non una traccia. Non dovrai vederlo, fratello. Ce l'abbiamo."
Understood, we'll contain her. Every step, every shadow she walks, we'll know it. And nothing touches Serenity or the children. Not a whisper, not a trace. You won't have to see it, brother. We've got it.
He let the assurance hang in the room, a quiet shield. Endymion's eyes flicked toward him, sharp, still burning, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. For now, he could trust. And that small measure of relief was enough to anchor him, however briefly.
"Kunzite," Endymion said quietly, the calm before a storm. "Promettimi qualcosa."
Promise me something.
The room went still.
Kunzite straightened. "Nulla."
Anything.
Endymion's gaze didn't waver. "Se si arriva al dunque, li proteggi prima. Non io. Serenità e i bambini. Capisci?"
If it comes down to it, you protect them first. Not me. Serenity and the children. Do you understand?
A beat.
Kunzite froze—not visibly, not to anyone who didn't know him—but Endymion saw it. The smallest tightening around the eyes. The breath held just a fraction too long.
A fracture in the air.
"Endymion—" Kunzite's voice was low, dangerous, almost pleading. "Il mio posto è alle tue spalle. È sempre stato alle tue spalle. Non ti lascio. Non abbandono il mio incarico. Non ti deludo."
My place is at your back. It has always been at your back. I don't leave you. I don't abandon my post. I don't fail you.
"Non mi hai sentito." Endymion stepped closer, jaw set, eyes black with unshakeable resolve. "Vengono prima. Sempre. Sopra di me. Sopra ogni cosa. Non mi interessa cosa devi fare."
You didn't hear me. They come first. Always. Above me. Above everything. I don't care what you have to do.
Kunzite's breath left him in a tight, silent exhale. His loyalty was a blade—sharpened over decades, carved into bone. This command cut against the very core of him.
He shook his head once, the faintest resistance. "Non posso prometterlo."
I can't promise that.
Endymion's voice dropped to lethal softness.
"Kunzite," he said, "questo è un ordine."
That's an order.
A suffocating silence filled the room.
"Non ci saranno ulteriori discussioni a riguardo."
There will be no further discussion on it.
For a long moment, Kunzite didn't move, didn't breathe—caught between oath and command, between brotherhood and duty.
Endymion's gaze softened just enough—not much, but enough that Kunzite felt the weight behind it.
"Conosco la tua lealtà," Endymion said quietly, the corner of his mouth almost imperceptibly lifting. "So che sposteresti cielo e terra per me. E io... lo apprezzo. Più di quanto tu possa mai capire." His voice carried both gravity and warmth. "Ma questo... questo è il mio desiderio assoluto. Deve essere seguito. Non per me, non per orgoglio, non per controllo. Per loro. Serenità. I bambini. Nessuna eccezione."
I know your loyalty, I know you would move heaven and earth for me. And I… I appreciate it. More than you'll ever understand. But this… this is my absolute wish. It must be followed. Not for me, not for pride, not for control. For them. Serenity. The children. No exceptions.
Kunzite's jaw tightened. He shifted slightly, the edge of his hand brushing against the hilt of the dagger he always carried—a reflexive gesture, a tether to his instinct to act, to protect. His eyes flicked to Endymion, then to the city below, measuring, calculating.
"IO…" Kunzite began, but stopped. His loyalty screamed against the order, his instincts bristled with conflict. And yet… he exhaled, slow, deliberate. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally as he dropped his hand from the weapon.
I…
"…Sì, signore," he said finally, voice low and tight, threaded with reluctance but absolute resolve.
…Yes, sir.
Endymion gave the faintest nod of acknowledgment, eyes narrowing slightly as if to seal the command into memory. "Bene," he said. "Perché niente conta di più che tenerli al sicuro. Soprattutto."
Good, because nothing matters more than keeping them safe. Above all else.
Kunzite straightened fully, though every motion of his body—the set of his shoulders, the measured calm in his hands, the careful step back—spoke of restraint, of a warrior forcing himself to obey an order that pierced him at his core. He would follow it. But every fiber of him ached to keep Endymion himself in the forefront of danger.
And yet, in that silent understanding, a line had been drawn. One that Kunzite would honor, every second he breathed.
Endymion's eyes lingered on Kunzite, scanning the subtle shifts in posture, the tension in his shoulders, the quiet rigidity of a man who had spent a lifetime at his back. He didn't need words—he could read every instinct, every unspoken thought.
"Hai la mia eterna gratitudine," Endymion said softly, voice carrying more than just acknowledgment. "Per tutto quello che mi hai dato... e per quello che darai adesso. Questo non è facile. So che non è facile."
You have my eternal gratitude, for everything you've given me… and for what you will give now. This is not easy. I know it's not easy.
Kunzite's jaw flexed once. He bowed his head slightly, a concession, a quiet acceptance of the order—even as his heart and instincts bristled against it. His hands, clenched lightly at his sides, relaxed only fractionally, a subtle gesture of obedience.
Endymion stepped back, allowing space, letting the weight of the command settle into the room. "Mi fido di te," he continued, tone firm but warm. "Non perché lo richiedo. Non perché sei legato a me. Ma perché sei sempre stato leale. E ora... segui il mio desiderio. Non prima la mia vita, ma la loro. Capire?"
I trust you, not because I demand it. Not because you are bound to me. But because you've always been loyal. And now… you follow my wish. Not my life first, but theirs. Understand?
"Completamente," Kunzite replied, the single word tight, measured, but carrying every ounce of his reluctant submission. He would obey. He would protect Serenity and the children first, no matter the cost. And yet, every muscle in his body ached with the knowledge that his duty to Endymion—the man he had guarded for decades—was being restrained.
Completely
Endymion gave the faintest nod of satisfaction. His gaze softened, ever so slightly, acknowledging Kunzite's loyalty and sacrifice.
Kunzite straightened fully, a warrior honoring an order that went against every fiber of his being. In that quiet, shared understanding, the line was drawn—and both men recognized it, unspoken but absolute.
Endymion let the silence settle—solid, immovable—until he felt the last tremor of Kunzite's resistance turn into acceptance. Not agreement, never that, but obedience. Duty. Devotion redirected by force of command.
Only then did he inhale, slow and steady, grounding himself.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone—the matte-black device reinforced, encrypted, untrackable. A line that didn't appear on any network. A line that bypassed every conventional system his organization used.
Because this one wasn't for business.
This was for things far more dangerous.
His thumb hovered over the contacts list. He selected the number without hesitation, then dialed the private line — the one only four people in the world had access to. Four people on earth who had the right, the clearance, the trust of this channel.
His expression hardened into something carved—stone, shadow, a man preparing to reveal vulnerability only to someone who could handle the truth without fear.
He stepped away from Kunzite, enough for privacy but not so far his consigliere would feel dismissed. Kunzite watched him anyway—silent, attentive, knowing this call meant something was shifting.
Endymion's jaw flexed as he held the phone to his ear, the polished metal cold against his palm.
He didn't rush. He let the single ring stretch just long enough to make its presence deliberate, weighty, a signal of control. One ring.
Then the line clicked, sharp and immediate. A familiar voice answered, calm and precise. A low rasp, always two breaths away from violence.
"Vendetti," it said.
"I have a name," Endymion said. "Danica Vale. Irish origin. County Sligo. About early thirties. She has a daughter named Kyanite — around five or six. I want everything."
"Everything," Lorenz repeated. "Meaning…?"
"Birth records, travel logs, family line, immigration, known associates. If she clipped her nails in the last decade, I want the pieces bagged."
Lorenz exhaled a quiet whistle. "That level? She a threat?"
Endymion stared out the window, jaw locked.
"She's a question," he said. "A question I don't like."
He watched sunlight fracture across the tinted glass like shards of suspicion.
"Activate the genealogical tracing team," he added. "Discrete channels only."
There was silence on the other end — the kind that meant Lorenz understood exactly how serious this was.
"On it," he said.
When that call ended, Endymion scrolled to another number he had not used in years.
A secure international line. No caller ID. No trace.
He dialed that number. A monk with data.
When the call connected, a man answered in Gaelic before switching to English.
"Don Vendetti," he said with something like reverence. "Has the sleeping lion awakened?"
"Awake and hunting," Endymion replied. "I'm sending a partial profile. Danica Vale. Irish. Possibly tied to old houses in Sligo. I want archives searched. Paper trails. Oral traditions. Any mention of heterochromia in ancestral lines."
A pause.
"You're searching for blood."
"I'm confirming lineage."
"And if it's confirmed?"
Endymion's voice dropped to a whisper that felt colder than winter steel.
"Then the past wasn't finished when I buried it."
Click. The call ended.
His third call was to The Ghost Unit.
Kunzite glanced to him.
"Calling them?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
Kunzite swallowed — a rare moment of unease. "Last time you used them, two governments pretended a building collapse was an earthquake."
"That was a small job."
He dialed.
The line clicked. A modulated voice answered, unreadable.
"Vendetti."
"I want eyes on the woman. On the child. Nothing intrusive, nothing sloppy. If she senses a shadow behind her, I'll know you failed."
"Understood."
"And if anyone else is watching her," Endymion added, "I want their eyes in a box."
"Understood," the voice repeated. Then: "We already have one observation."
Endymion straightened.
"What is it?"
"Someone else began tracking Danica Vale eighteen months ago."
Everything inside him went still.
"Who?" he demanded.
"Unknown. Using high-level encryption. Very clean. Very skilled."
A long, heavy silence vibrated through the car.
"They're not Mafia," the voice continued. "Not Cartel. Not Triad. Not Agency. And not Syndicate."
"Then who the hell—"
"We're working on it. But whoever they are… they do not want her found."
The line went dead.
Endymion's blood turned to ice.
He didn't go home.
It was still early afternoon.
Instead, Endymion directed Dante toward the southern district—toward a warehouse so unremarkable it appeared abandoned even to the rats. No cargo. No workers. Not even dust on the windowsills.
Only secrets.
Inside, biometric locks scanned him in less than a second, metal bolts clicking open one by one until the heavy door released and the world shifted.
The warehouse's hollow shell gave way to a subterranean command center—an obsidian-lined nerve hub of screens, encrypted servers, and a surveillance grid most governments couldn't even dream of matching. This place didn't just observe the city.
It owned it.
Endymion shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby console, rolling his sleeves to the elbow in a practiced motion that exposed ink, muscle, and intent. He stepped up to the central holotable, its surface dormant but waiting.
"Bring everything up," he said, voice low but absolute, directed to Nephrite.
This was his terrain.
His war-room.
Home turf.
And at his command, the room came alive—light flaring, maps unfolding, data streams racing across glass and air like constellations snapping into place.
The hunt had begun.
Files. Maps. Ancestral charts. Irish census logs. Immigration entries. Photographs Danica had never posed for. Traffic cam captures from her arrival in the state. Banking anomalies. Rental agreements. Medical visits.
Kunzite stood at his shoulder.
"So far," Nephrite murmured, "she's spotless."
"That's the problem," Endymion replied, eyes scanning data like a predator studying tracks. "No one is spotless. Not in our world."
A red dot blinked — DNA registry match incomplete.
"Working on genetic lineage," Lorenz reported through the speakers. "Preliminary scan suggests she's using a falsified maiden name."
Endymion's jaw flexed.
"Which means," Kunzite said softly, "she doesn't want to be found."
"Or," Endymion murmured. "She doesn't want to be recognized. Yet."
He zoomed out the holographic display, switching from Danica's photo to Kyanite's school ID scan.
Those impossible eyes filled the air.
One violet. One gold.
A signature he had seen only twice before.
A signature he hoped to the Gods did not mean what he feared.
One in a man whose funeral pyre had lit the sky red.
Nephrite turned to him, voice low.
"Do you think she's connected to that family?"
"Connected?" Endymion said quietly. "She walked down the hallway with their colors staring straight out of the child's face."
And for the first time in many years, something flickered across the Don's expression.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But the shadow of a past that had teeth.
Endymion slowly exhaled. "Run the comparison again. Full biometric trace."
Nephrite hesitated. "Don… you've already run it a dozen times."
"Again," Endymion said softly.
Because this time, the algorithm came back with a flicker — not a match, but a ghost of one. A percentage so low it shouldn't have mattered.
But not zero.
Endymion leaned in, studying the faint overlapping patterns of facial structure and ocular genetics. Not enough to identify a person. But enough to stir a memory he wished he'd forgotten.
A memory of a man with the same violet-gold eyes, smirking as blood dripped from a blade.
A man whose very existence once threatened Serenity.
A man Endymion had sworn was dead by his own hand.
A man who, rumor once whispered, carried the blood of an exiled Russian line tangled in old Italian shame. A disgraced uncle lost to scandal decades ago. A woman from the old Russian aristocracy. A child born in secrecy. A child who became a rival.
That man.
Brother to that monster. Collateral damage.
Sapphire.
Killed years ago.
Endymion forced the memory back into its grave and shut the projection off.
Kyanite Vale wasn't him — she couldn't be.
But the blood…
The eyes…
The instinctive familiarity…
They were threads tying themselves together in ways he couldn't yet see.
Or refused to.
He stepped away from the table, reaching into the drawer beneath it. He pulled out a small box — an old one, scuffed from years of being moved but never discarded.
He opened it. Inside lay a single object:
A ring.
Black metal. Engraved with a sigil extinct to everyone but him.
Everyone but them.
He closed the box slowly and slipped it into his pocket.
Nephrite watched him, tense.
Kyanite's image appeared again on a side monitor — the school's lobby camera capturing her holding her bunny, smiling shyly at Serenity.
Endymion stopped mid-step.
His expression shifted. Barely. But enough.
"She looks at me like she recognizes me," he whispered.
Kunzite's voice softened. "Kids feel things adults ignore."
Endymion rubbed his thumb across his palm — a habit he'd developed only after becoming a father.
"She shouldn't recognize me," he said quietly. "She shouldn't know anything about my past."
Kunzite didn't answer. Because there was nothing to say.
Not yet.
A notification pinged.
Lorenz's voice crackled through the encrypted speaker.
"We ran a deeper line trace on Danica Vale's last known address."
"And?" Endymion asked.
Silence.
Uneasy silence.
"Don," Lorenz said carefully, "she lived for six months in a building owned by your uncle's estate."
Endymion froze.
Cold rippled through him — the kind that only came when the universe whispered:
Look closer.
"Which uncle?" he asked, though he already knew.
Lorenz named him.
The disgraced one.
The one tied to the Russian woman decades ago.
The one whose existence had led to Sapphire — the enemy with those impossible eyes.
Kunzite swore under his breath.
"Is this coincidence?" he asked.
"No."
Endymion's voice was low, lethal.
"Someone led her there. Or she sought it out."
Kunzite finally stepped closer. "The Irish angle looks wrong. Too neat. Too polished. She dropped it like bait."
"She did," Endymion murmured.
"Why lie?"
Endymion looked at the screen showing the city — the city he ruled, the city that obeyed him because it knew his wrath was a storm no one survived.
"To make us look the wrong way," he said. "To turn Italians toward the Irish. To make me assume this comes from the wrong lineage."
"And if it comes from—"
"Don't say it," Endymion cut in sharply.
Kunzite fell silent.
Because neither wanted to speak the dead man's name aloud. Not yet.
Endymion tapped a screen, opening Danica's supposed genealogical trail.
Perfect.
Symmetrical.
Believable to anyone but him.
"Irish," he muttered with disdain. "She chose a nation with a long-standing truce with us. A place where our alliances are delicate."
"She's trying to stir old scars."
"Or hide new ones," Endymion said darkly.
He enlarged one document — her birth record.
Too official.
Too pristine.
Too untouched by bureaucracy.
"Forged," he concluded. "Professionally."
"Then who is she?" Nephrite asked.
Endymion's jaw tightened.
"That's what she wants me asking."
He shut the files and paced once, hands clasped behind him — the way he always did when his mind moved faster than his body could hold.
"She's not Irish."
Nephrite nodded. "So what is she?"
"Wrong question," Endymion said. "The right one is: why does she want us to believe she is?"
Because misdirection meant fear.
Or strategy.
Or both.
"What's our next move?"
Endymion's eyes hardened with something ancient and unforgiving.
"Find out who she really is," he said. "Before she decides to tell me."
He walked toward the exit — a man carved from inevitability.
"And Kunzite," he added without turning, "double security at the school. Discrete. Invisible. If a shadow crosses my wife or my children with ill intent, I want it erased before it breathes."
"Come si desidera."
As you wish.
Endymion paused at the door.
"And find out," he murmured, "why a child with another bloodline's eyes is calling me the man who changed her mother's life."
Then he stepped into the daylight — a Don who had smelled a lie, sensed a ghost, and declared war on the unknown.
Chapter Text
Endymion made it home on time. He always did when he promised—especially to her.
The sun had barely vanished beyond the city, streaking their windows with rose-gold when he stepped through the front door. He'd shed the day the moment he crossed their threshold: the weight of Danica's file… the hours of surveillance footage burned into his vision… the uneasy, unsettled sense that something in New York had shifted the moment she arrived years ago.
But Serenity didn't need to see any of that.
The children were already asleep; Serenity had tucked them in early so tonight could belong to the two of them alone. He adored his children—every laugh, every tiny hand reaching for him, every moment of their chaotic little joy—but tonight, he needed Serenity.
Not just her presence.
Her.
Her warmth, her grounding, the way she steadied the parts of him no one else ever saw, and the quiet way she made the world make sense again.
Serenity noticed him from the hallway. She stood barefoot, hair soft around her face, wearing one of the nightgowns he loved—the one that shimmered delicately with every step, as if moonlight had been woven into the fabric.
To him, she looked like heaven wrapped in silk.
"There you are," she whispered, relief threading through her voice. "You're home."
Two simple words—gentle, warm, trusting—yet they unraveled something tight in his chest.
Her smile when she saw him was like the exhale he hadn't realized he'd been holding in all day. She crossed the room and slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest as though it had been molded for her alone.
He gathered her into his arms instantly. Her scent—soft, warm, familiar—hit him like a wave. He pressed his lips to her hair, then her temple, then the edge of her cheekbone, as though grounding himself through the map of her skin.
Ground yourself in her.
Only her.
"I missed you," he murmured, the words rumbling against her ear. Not a lie—not even close. Even with the haze clinging stubbornly to the edges of his thoughts, he had missed her with an ache that felt bone-deep.
His heart lurched—hard, uneven.
And she felt it.
She always felt everything with him.
Concern softened her features, her fingers brushing lightly over his ribs like a question she wasn't ready to voice.
Her eyes lifted to his. "I missed you more." But the concern continued to cloud her expression. "Endy… what's wrong?" she asked, quiet, careful, already reading the tension in him the way only she ever could. Her brows were drawn together in a way that made him want to kneel and confess every sin.
He forced the stiffness out of his posture, smoothing his face into something lighter, more controlled.
"Nothing I can't handle," he said, brushing a kiss to her forehead—praying she couldn't hear the faint distortion in his breathing, that sharp, fragile stutter of a man holding himself together by threadbare focus.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingertips ghosting over the tension he hadn't quite managed to hide. "You always say that right before you try to distract me."
He let out a low huff, almost a laugh. "Maybe I'm trying to distract myself."
That, unfortunately, was the closest he could get to admitting the truth.
Serenity molded herself into him. "Then let me."
His chest loosened, just a little.
"Please do," he whispered, brushing a strand of pearlescent hair away from her cheek. "I really need you, tesoro mio."
Her smile gentled, soft and sure. She rose onto her toes, arms slipping around his neck as she kissed him—slow, loving, unhurried.
And he kissed her back.
And for a split second—just long enough to break him—Danica's face shimmered over Serenity's.
A flicker.
A ghost.
The aether mist still poisoning the edges of his perception.
Endymion's breath stuttered, panic tightening in his chest. Not out of longing for Danica—never, not even in his nightmares—but out of raw, gut-deep terror that this hallucination, this betrayal of his senses, might brush across his expression. Might hurt the woman he adored if she sensed even a whisper of hesitation.
He pulled Serenity closer, arms tightening around her in a way that looked like passion but felt like desperation—wanting to drown out the illusion with her warmth, her scent, her heartbeat.
At first, Serenity only felt the familiar warmth of him—his breath against her cheek, the steady strength in his hands, the quiet longing in the way he drew her close. But then something in him shifted.
A tremor.
Barely there.
But she knew him too well not to feel it.
His hold on her tightened—not the way he normally claimed her, but sharper, closer, almost… bracing. As though he needed her. As though something inside him had pitched off balance.
Her heart fluttered—not in fear, but in worry.
Endy?
She drew back just enough to search his face, her brows gently pinching. "Endy? You okay?" She saw the flicker of panic he tried to force into stillness. Saw how he pulled her closer with a need that wasn't about desire at all, but about grounding himself.
He cradled her cheek with one hand, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with deliberate tenderness. "I am now."
Not entirely true. But close enough. Because being in her arms—touching her—dragged the ghost-image back into the shadows where it belonged.
Something's wrong.
The thought whispered through her like a chill, but she didn't recoil. She didn't stiffen. She softened—instinctively, protectively—her hands sliding up his back, her body molding to his in reassurance.
If he's hurting… then hold him.
If he's lost… then anchor him.
If he's afraid… then be the place he returns to.
She had never once doubted him. Not his love. Not his loyalty. Not the way his soul orbited hers even on his darkest days.
So when his breath shuddered against her lips, she didn't pull away. She pressed her forehead to his, breathing quietly with him, letting his panic bleed into her steadiness.
He thinks he's hiding it.
He isn't.
But Serenity didn't push. She didn't question. She simply kissed him again—softly, slowly—trying to remind his body what his heart already knew:
This is real.
I'm here.
You're safe.
And when he clutched her even closer, almost desperate—
—Serenity tightened her arms around him too, offering everything she was without a single spoken word.
Because whatever storm he was fighting… she would hold him through it.
"I thought about you all day," he murmured, voice low and rough. "Every hour."
Serenity's breath hitched, her cheeks warming as she pressed her forehead against his chest. Her fingers curled lightly at his shirt, anchoring him just as much as he was anchoring her.
"Show me," she whispered, voice soft as moonlight.
Endymion exhaled slowly—controlled, steady, the way a man restraining a storm must breathe. He threaded his fingers through hers and guided her toward the bedroom. Every step echoed the vow pounding through his chest:
This is my wife.
My heart.
My truth.
Not Danica. Never Danica.
Once the door closed, he drew Serenity into his arms again—this time with purpose, not fear. He kissed her the way he kissed no one but her: reverent, deliberate, filled with a devotion she never questioned and he never betrayed.
For a moment—blessed, fragile—the aether mist loosened its claws around his perception.
He pressed his forehead to her hair, breathing her in until his lungs ached.
"I missed you so much today," he whispered again—and this time the words trembled with exhaustion and truth. "You have no idea."
Serenity's smile softened, then slowly faded against his chest—sadness, worry, and tenderness all weaving together at the desperation she heard in him. She tilted her head, brushing her cheek along his sternum, trying to soothe the tension she felt under her palms.
"I'm always available for you," she whispered. "I could always meet you at the office…"
He groaned—low, rough, helpless—the kind of sound that vibrated against her cheek. He couldn't help it. The mere suggestion painted a flash of memory across his senses: her on his desk, her in his lap, her lips at his ear, silk slipping off her shoulder—every way she'd already undone him behind his closed doors.
"Don't tease me, tesoro mio," he murmured, tightening his arms around her until she fit against him perfectly. His voice dropped, warm and dangerous. "I might have to take you up on your offer."
He meant it—every word, every breath.
Even as the faint shimmer of Danica's illusion flickered at the edge of his sight like a ghost born of fractured aether, he anchored himself in Serenity. Her warmth—her presence—pulled him back from the brink, dragging him into what was real. Into home. Into love. Into truth.
And this time, when he inhaled, the illusion receded just a little more… replaced by the woman he loved beyond reason, beyond sense, beyond himself.
Serenity tipped her head back, eyes luminous in the low light. Her fingers slid up his chest, tracing the edge of his open collar before curling lightly at the back of his neck.
"Then take me up on it," she whispered, voice warm and sure. "Anytime. Every time. If you need me, Endy… I'll come to you."
She brushed her thumb over his jaw, slow and careful, as if grounding him one touch at a time. The touch was so gentle, so familiar, it made fatigue melt right out of him.
"You don't have to fight anything alone. Not the exhaustion. Not the shadows. Not the things you won't say yet." Her hand drifted to his cheek, guiding his gaze to hers. "I'm yours. And you can always reach for me."
Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth—soft, reverent.
"Especially on the days you miss me, Endymion…" she breathed.
His name on her lips softened him instantly. It always did—like she touched something ancient in him, something that predated the crime and the kingdom and the shadows he commanded.
He lifted her chin with a slow, steady tenderness, cupping her face as though she were something sacred.
"Come here," he whispered—and he kissed her again.
He backed her toward the bed slowly, deliberately, as though giving her time to stop him. She didn't. She never would. Serenity trusted him with a kind of innocence he didn't deserve—and a devotion he'd kill to protect.
The room dimmed around them.
Only she mattered.
He lowered his mouth to hers—slow, reverent—then deepening when she curled her hands behind his neck. She let him kiss her, the kiss lengthening, growing warmer, more urgent, as though she could taste that something was off but refused to break the moment. She kissed him back with warmth that made whatever poison clung to his perception scatter like ash.
His hands framed her face, then her waist, guiding her backward until the mattress caught her legs.
He lowered her down, bracing himself over her, his forehead nearly touching hers.
She felt the edge of something in him—an ache, a dissonance—but she didn't pull away. She simply held him closer.
"Are you sure—" she began.
He silenced the question with another kiss—deeper, steadier—trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the way he touched her.
The weight of him caged her in, but she met him with equal intensity, legs drawing around his waist. His hands slid along her thighs, her hip, her waist—memorizing her like she was the only anchor he had left.
"Serenity…" His voice cracked on her name. "I craved you. All day."
She pressed her lips to his jaw, then trailed soft kisses along his throat. "Prove it," she whispered, her fingers deftly slipping open the buttons of his shirt, palms exploring the contours of his chest as if memorizing every line.
His breath shuddered at her challenge, at the feel of her fingers slipping beneath the open edges of his shirt. The world narrowed to her—her touch, her scent, the way she looked at him like he was still hers even on the days he couldn't trust his own mind.
He cupped her face with one hand and slid the other down the curve of her spine, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, only heat and longing and the frantic beat of his heart against hers.
"Proof," he murmured against her lips, "I can give you."
He kissed her again—slow, consuming—pressing her back into the sheets with a reverence that bordered on prayer. Each unsteady exhale brushed over his skin as his shirt slipped off his shoulders, her hands guiding it away.
Her palms explored him like she was relearning every inch, and he let his weight settle over her, bracing himself on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her even though part of him wanted to be held that tightly, that completely.
"Serenity…" Her name came out lower this time, rougher, like it lived somewhere deeper than breath. His mouth trailed along her throat, lingering where her pulse fluttered fast beneath his lips. "Tesoro mio..."
"I thought about you every hour," he whispered against her skin. "And I hated every second I didn't have you."
Her fingers buried in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
"Then don't keep me waiting," she breathed, arching into him.
And he didn't. He answered her with touch, with devotion, with the kind of proof that left no room for doubt—only the certainty of how much he needed her, how much she steadied him, how fiercely he loved her.
Not rushed.
Not frantic.
But with a slow, consuming devotion that had her breath escaping in soft, trembling sighs, her fingers gripping his shoulders as though he were the only gravity she knew.
He took his time—moved with a worshipful patience, mouth on her skin, hands learning her again, the steady rhythm of him drawing her closer, deeper, until she was whispering his name like a prayer. Every touch a vow, every breath a confession, letting her body, her warmth, her heartbeat drown out the ghosts at the edges of his mind.
His fingers brushed the strap of her nightgown, grazing her shoulder with a touch so gentle it made her tremble. He paused—only for a heartbeat—meeting her eyes as if asking permission even now, even after years of knowing every inch of her.
She nodded, barely a breath. "Endymion…"
That was all he needed.
His lips followed the path of the slipping strap, kissing her skin as he eased it down her arm. Then the other. The silk pooled at her waist, then further, until he was drawing it over her hips with slow, unhurried devotion—like undressing her was its own sacred act.
When the nightgown finally left her body, he let it fall forgotten beside them, his hands returning to her as though he couldn't bear a second of separation.
"Sei perfetta," he murmured, almost to himself, voice thick with awe and something more fragile beneath it. He lay his palms along her ribs, up her sides, over her curves—mapping her, grounding himself in the truth of her.
You're perfect.
His palms skimmed the delicate lace of her bra, his thumbs finding the curve beneath. With a tenderness that stole her breath, he reached behind her, his fingers working slowly at the clasp. There was a soft click, and the tension gave way. He drew the straps down her arms, the fabric whispering against her skin as he eased it away, revealing the full soft swell of her breasts to his reverent gaze. Her breath hitched, and she curled her legs tighter around his waist, drawing him closer, a silent plea for the intimacy that followed.
She whispered against his lips, "Endy…"
Serenity arched beneath him as his mouth traveled, her breath hitching with each deliberate, worshipful kiss. He lowered himself further, his mouth finding the warm line of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the valley of her breasts—anywhere he could reassure himself she was real and solid beneath him. But then he went lower, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of her stomach just above the lace of her panties. He looked up at her then, his eyes holding a universe of unspoken need before he hooked his fingers into the delicate material and drew them slowly down her legs, discarding them carelessly.
He settled between her thighs, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer before he bent to his task. He moved with intention—slow, reverent, a man starved not for pleasure but for reassurance. His tongue was a gentle explorer, relishing the taste of her, the sounds she made, the way her body responded to his touch. It was a conversation spoken with honest words, a confession of longing that went deeper than anything he had experienced recently.
"You're ambrosia to me, tesoro mio," he murmured, the words barely more than a breath against her skin. "I could drown in the taste of you and still want more."
It wasn't a line, or a lover's embellishment—it was truth, stripped bare and trembling on his tongue.
His nose brushed her thigh, his lips tracing the delicate curve of her lower lips as he whispered, voice gone rough with reverence, "Your taste… gods, Serenity. I could never get enough of your taste. Not in this life. Not in any other."
His hands framed her hips, drawing her closer as though proximity alone could soothe the ache inside him. Every confession spilled from him like an unguarded prayer, raw and hungry and utterly devoted.
Every sigh she released, soft and sweet against the pillow, seemed to melt the remaining tension from his shoulders, softening the hard edges of his worry.
Every whisper of his name, a breathy plea that escaped her lips, was an anchor in the storm of his mind, steadying him and pulling him back to the present.
It all made the shadows of darkness loosen their insidious hold on him.
He showed her exactly how much he'd missed her by learning her all over again—slowly, reverently, like rediscovering a sacred text in a language only the two of them spoke.
He memorized the nuance of her skin beneath his mouth, the way her breath hitched when he grazed her clit, the soft gasp she made when his hands framed her hips. He followed the rhythm of her pulse—quickening, fluttering, racing—his palm splayed over her heart as though he could steady his own through hers.
Serenity arched beneath him, fingers twisting in the sheets, her voice breaking in those quiet, desperate sounds she only ever made for him. Every tremor of her body, every exhale, every plea pulled him deeper, grounding him, anchoring him exactly where he needed to be.
He worked her to the edge with a devotion that bordered on worship, his name a prayer on her lips, her thighs trembling around him. And when she shattered—beautiful, breathless, undone—she screamed his name and the words that tethered him back to himself, back to truth, back to her.
Words that made the world still.
Words that reminded him exactly who he belonged to.
Exactly who loved him.
Exactly who he was touching.
With a shared, knowing glance—a silent conversation flickering between them—Serenity's nimble fingers found the button of his pants. With a soft pop, it yielded to her touch. Slowly, deliberately, she eased the zipper down, the sound a hushed whisper in the intimate space between them. Her hands slipped beneath the fine wool, pushing the fabric down over the firm, powerful lines of his thighs. He shifted to help her, and his trousers pooled in a dark, soft heap at his feet.
Her gaze, dark with longing and velvet-warm with trust, never left his as she reached for the final barrier. The soft, stretched pima cotton of his boxer briefs clung to his hips—a last shield between her and the full revelation of him. With teasing certainty, she hooked her fingers into the waistband, drawing them down his body in one slow, reverent glide, over the sculpted strength of his thighs.
They joined the rest of his clothing on the floor, leaving him utterly, gloriously exposed—every inch of him offered to her eyes, her touch, her devotion.
He rose above her, the moonlight streaming through the window catching the strength in his shoulders, the hard lines of his body. He braced one hand beside her head, his gaze locked with hers, a silent question and a promise in the dark depths of his eyes. Serenity met his look, her own eyes filled with a trust so complete it humbled him.
His free hand came between them, his fingers finding her warmth, gathering evidence of her desire for him. He coated himself in her essence, the act a quiet preparation for the sacred vow he was about to fulfill. Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to press into her.
It was not a rush, not a claiming, but a homecoming.
He felt her body yield to his, the initial resistance giving way to a perfect, snug fit that stole his breath. He watched her face as he filled her inch by painstaking inch, memorizing every flicker of pleasure and the way her brow furrowed in concentration. There was a moment of exquisite fullness when he was seated deep within her, their bodies melded as one, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Endymion," she sighed, her voice thick with emotion. "My king..."
He didn't move for a long moment, simply savoring the feeling of her surrounding him, the quiet intimacy of the connection. Then, with the same deliberate reverence, he began to move. A slow, steady rhythm that was more about affirmation than friction, about proving she was real, solid, and there beneath him. Each withdrawal was a near loss, each re-entry a profound relief, a returning to where he belonged.
He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like medicine.
And with every kiss, every slow stroke, every moment he pressed himself to her, he anchored himself deeper—letting her body, her presence, her love smother the lingering ghosts trying to steal her face from him.
"Mine," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. "All mine, tesoro mio…"
The whole time, he kept the darker pieces locked behind his ribs—the exhaustion, the threat, the investigation… Danica's shadow stretching farther than even he expected.
Here—now—this was all that mattered.
Her.
Her warmth, her trust, her love.
The life they built.
The family he'd burn cities for.
He held her tighter—too tight for a breath, then loosening as if afraid of crushing what grounded him. His lips brushed her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, soft but urgent, as if he could reassure himself through touch alone.
"Serenity…" he whispered again, the word trembling this time.
She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers, worried for half a heartbeat—but his mouth found hers again, slow and reverent, and she melted back into the moment.
He kissed her like a man pulling himself out of deep water.
Like she was the first breath.
"My wife…" he murmured against her skin, barely audible. "My love…"
His lips traced the line of her neck as if rediscovering her pulse. Her fingers slipped into his hair, cradling his head gently, and he shuddered—an unraveling exhale, desperate and relieved all at once.
"My everything…" he breathed, almost silent, almost broken. "Serenity…"
She didn't understand why he kept saying her name like that—fractured, clinging, as if she might disappear if he didn't tether himself to her—but she felt the way his body pressed closer, deeper, steadier, and she wrapped her legs tighter around him.
"I'm here," she whispered, brushing her lips against his temple. "Endy… I'm right here."
But he needed more.
Needed to drown out the flicker of a face that was not hers, the poisoned memory someone had tried to plant. Needed to overwrite it with truth—with her.
He kissed her again, slow and consuming, moving inside her with deliberate devotion. His hands came up to cup her face, his forehead resting against hers, breaths mingling.
"Serenity…" he whispered like a mantra.
"Serenity… my wife… my love… my everything…"
Every repetition steadied him.
Every word was an exorcism.
Every breath was a plea to remember—and to forget.
She felt it—the shift, the ache, the desperation buried under his tenderness—and she held his face between her hands, guiding his lips back to hers, giving him something real to cling to.
"Endymion," she whispered softly, soothingly. "Come back to me."
He closed his eyes.
And this time, when he whispered her name against her lips, it wasn't confusion.
It was worship.
"Serenity…"
He moved with a steadiness that belied the storm inside him—each slow thrust deeper, closer, grounding himself in the one truth no one could rewrite. His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips as though anchoring himself to the very core of her.
She arched into him, breath catching, fingers threading into his hair as if she felt the tension trembling beneath his skin.
"Endy…" she breathed, voice soft, inviting, trying to pull him back into her warmth.
But he wasn't drifting away.
He was clinging.
His mouth moved along her throat, her shoulder, every kiss a silent vow. "Serenity… mio cuore…" His forehead pressed to her chest, right over her heart, and she felt the exhale that shook through him.
She cupped the back of his head, her nails trailing lightly at his nape. "What is it?" she whispered, searching his face when he lifted it. "Endymion… look at me."
He did.
And she saw it—the dark flicker behind his eyes, not lust, not exhaustion… but fear. Something had rattled him. Something had made him seek her not just with desire, but with need.
Raw, primal, aching need.
She softened beneath him immediately, guiding his cheek to her palm. "Amore… whatever it is… I'm here."
He swallowed hard, the motion visible in the tense line of his throat. His lips brushed her palm, then her wrist, then her jaw—slow, almost apologetic.
"I need you," he confessed, the words slipping out low and unguarded. "Only you. Only ever you."
She kissed him softly, reassurance in every press of her lips. "You have me."
"No," he murmured, deeper, rougher. "I need to feel it. To know it. To know it's you."
Her breath caught, not with worry this time—but with the aching tenderness of understanding.
So she pulled him down again, guiding his mouth back to hers, her lips soft and certain. He kissed her like a vow, like a claim, like a man rebuilding the truth with his own hands.
He thrust deeper—slow, steady, controlled—but the emotion behind it was anything but. His hand slid between their bodies to cradle her waist, his thumb brushing her trembling stomach as his forehead fell to hers again.
"Say my name," he whispered.
"Endymion…" she breathed, shivering.
He closed his eyes, the sound anchoring him.
"Again."
"Endymion…"
His breath stuttered, hips pressing into hers with a quiet groan.
"Tell me it's me you need," he whispered, almost breaking.
"It's you," she said instantly, cupping his face. "Always you."
Something inside him loosened—some knot tied too tight, some fear he hadn't dared name.
He kissed her again—deep, slow, reverent—his hand sliding up to rest over her heart as if he could feel her truth through her skin.
And as he moved inside her, her body softening beneath him, her voice whispering his name with each breath, the last remnants of Danica's illusion burned away.
Because nothing—no spell, no trick, no poison—could ever feel like this.
Only Serenity could.
Only her touch.
Only her breath.
Only her love.
And as he buried his face in her neck, trembling with relief as she held him tighter, he whispered the words that finally steadied his heart:
"You bring me home. Only you."
She felt the shift in him before she heard it—the subtle release of tension, the way his body softened but his hold on her tightened, as if she were the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to deceive him.
Serenity ran her fingers slowly through his hair, her touch gentle, soothing. "Endy…" she whispered, feeling his breath shake where his lips rested against her shoulder.
He didn't lift his head.
Didn't need to.
He just breathed her in, deeper, slower, like her scent alone was pulling him out of whatever shadows had clawed at him all day.
Her other hand slid down his spine, tracing the long lines of his back—the strength there, the tension, the faint tremor beneath her fingertips. She kissed his temple softly.
"I'm right here," she murmured. "I'm yours."
His hands clutched her waist, almost desperately at first, then steadied. He nudged his nose along her throat, pressing a kiss to her pulse point like the steady beat reassured him she was real, she was alive, she was his.
"Tesoro mio…" His voice was a rasp, barely shaped. "My wife… my love… my everything."
She closed her eyes, a warmth spreading through her chest at the way he said it—like prayer, like anchor, like truth.
Her hips lifted gently to meet his next slow roll into her, her legs tightening around him, encouraging him without words. "Endymion…" she breathed against his jaw.
That did something to him. His breath hitched sharply, and his hips pressed deeper, slower, claiming—not frantically, not to chase release, but to replace every corrupted image in his mind with her.
Only her.
He whispered it against her lips between soft kisses, his voice raw:
"You're real."
Kiss.
"You're mine."
Kiss.
"My Serenity."
The emotion behind it gathered in her throat like a swell, her hands framing his face. "Endy… amore, look at me."
He lifted his head, finally meeting her eyes.
And there it was—the truth.
Not darkness.
Not confusion.
But relief.
He brushed his fingertips down her cheek, tracing her skin like a vow. "You're the only woman I've ever seen like this," he murmured, voice low, intimate, trembling at the edges. "The only touch that reaches me. The only face that stays."
She leaned up, pressing her forehead to his. "Good," she whispered. "Because you're the only man I belong to."
A shiver rippled through him—a soft exhale, half-pleasure, half-emotion—as he moved inside her again, deeper, slower, reverent.
Her breath hitched. "Endymion…"
His lips parted, his voice falling into that quiet, aching place between a groan and a confession. "Serenity… keep saying my name."
She did.
Breathless.
Soft.
Certain.
"Endymion… my love… my heart… my forever…"
His body trembled against hers, his arms curling around her like he was holding something precious—fragile only in how fiercely he adored it.
And as he pressed deeper into her warmth, her hands on his back, her lips brushing his cheek, she felt the exact moment his fear shattered.
Not from lust.
Not from dominance.
But because she whispered in his ear—gentle, certain, absolute:
"No one could ever replace you. No illusion. No shadow. No one."
A sound left him then—quiet, broken, beautiful. A sound she'd only heard a handful of times, in the years he trusted her most.
He held her tighter, hips moving slowly, deeply, love pouring into every motion as he whispered:
"You saved me today."
She kissed him softly.
"I always will."
And in that sacred stillness, with his forehead resting against hers, the world outside their bedroom ceased to exist. They moved as one, a slow, deliberate dance of love and reassurance, the depth of his thrusts matching the rhythm of his own pounding heart. His control was a fragile thing, a thread of sanity woven through the fabric of his desire, and her words were the only anchor holding him steady.
He could feel it building in him, not as a frantic storm, but as a deep, inexorable tide, rising from the very core of his being. It was a release born of more than physical sensation; it was the shattering of his self-imposed prison, the breaking of the darkness that had clung to him all day. When it finally came, it was a quiet, overwhelming wave that crashed over them both. His body shuddered with a force that stole his breath, a raw, guttural sob escaping his lips as he spilled himself into her, a final, perfect offering of his soul.
He felt her tense beneath him, her body arching into his as a soft cry was torn from her throat. Her own release mirrored his, a silent, shuddering answer to his prayer. She clung to him, her nails gently scoring his back as she rode the crest of her pleasure, his whispered name a benediction against his neck.
For a long moment, they simply remained there, joined as one, their bodies humming with the aftershocks of their shared release. The shadows in his mind had receded, replaced by the radiant warmth of her presence, the scent of her skin, the solid reality of her body beneath his. He was home. Truly, deeply home.
Finally, with a last, lingering kiss pressed to her damp forehead, he carefully, gently withdrew from her, rolling to his side and pulling her flush against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his hand splayed over the steady, rapid beat of her heart, a silent promise to protect this sanctuary they had built.
"Thank you for being my savior, mia amore," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and a profound relief that felt like coming up for air after being held underwater for too long. "Now, rest. I've got you."
She pulled him close, curling into his chest the way she always did—instinctively, trustingly, as if her place had always been there. Her breathing settled into something slow and content, each exhale brushing warm against his skin. "It's you who should sleep."
Endymion gathered her in without hesitation, one arm tucked beneath her shoulders, the other securing her waist as though she were the most precious thing he'd ever be asked to hold. He pressed a lingering kiss into her hair, breathing her in.
Her fingers drifted across his chest in small, sleepy strokes. "You must be exhausted," she murmured, voice thick with drowsiness.
His eyes slipped closed as he drew her tighter against him. "If I am," he whispered into her hair, "you're the only thing that makes it worth it."
The truth of it settled between them, warm and quiet.
His body was begging for rest—muscles heavy, breath slowing, the aftermath of too many days running on will alone. But he didn't want to surrender the moment. Not yet. Not when holding her like this filled every hollow place inside him, every fear, every ache.
He wanted to stay awake just long enough to memorize the weight of her, the softness of her breath, the certainty of her love wrapped so easily in his arms.
Because a part of him, small but stubborn, still feared that if he let himself drift… he might wake without her.
Serenity nuzzled closer, sensing his tension even half-asleep. Her hand flattened over his heart in a quiet promise.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, barely audible.
And only then—only when she said it—did Endymion finally let himself soften, his grip easing just enough to let rest claim him as he held her safely against his chest.
Wrapped around each other, they drifted together into sleep.
Chapter Text
Endymion woke the way soldiers and sinners do—cleanly, silently, with his mind already three steps ahead of his body.
The world was a warm, silent void. The room was dark, washed in the faintest silver of the moon sliding through the curtains.
He had floated in the deep, dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted, a rare and precious commodity. He found it only when Serenity was by his side, her presence a soothing balm to the constant tension that came with being the head of the most powerful mafia family in New York.
Tonight, she was a soft, warm weight curled against his side. Her head tucked beneath his chin, pearlescent hair fanned out across the pillow and bed. One arm was thrown possessively over his chest, one leg thrown across him in a way that made movement impossible without disturbing her.
He didn't mind. He never minded.
Her soft even breaths against his skin were like a lullaby, and for once, Endymion didn't have his mind calculating risks or threats. He was simply at peace. It was a haven, a sanctuary from the city's grit and the ghosts that now haunted its edges.
For a moment, he let himself savor the peace—the rare, precious stillness of her body pressed close, her heartbeat echoing softly with his.
That peace was shattered when his phone vibrated again, and a muted, bing from his phone on the nightstand alerted him. The sound barely there but enough to snag every instinct he possessed. It wasn't the gentle chime of a message, but a specific alert tone he had programmed for emergencies only. His men knew the rules: between the hours of midnight and six a.m., they left him with his wife.
It was a sound he had trained his inner circle to use only under the most dire of circumstances. It was the digital equivalent of a gunshot in the night. The only reason his phone should make that sound was if the entire organization was at risk.
Endymion's eyes snapped open, the fog of sleep instantly burned away by adrenaline, his body instantly coiling with alertness. A spark of tension flickered through him. Something was wrong. He lay perfectly still for a moment, his body rigid, listening. Serenity stirred, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep, and snuggled closer, her arm tightening its hold as if protesting his departure even in sleep, to anchor him to their peaceful world.
He reached for the phone with slow, measured care, quietly as he could, careful not to wake Serenity. He kept his other arm firmly around her in case the movement stirred her. Her fingers tightened instinctively, as if sensing his intent, and he paused, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. He angled his wrist to read the encrypted notification.
Kunzite: Urgente. Rispondi immediatamente.
Urgent. Answer immediately.
His jaw tightened.
He set the phone down.
Carefully, slowly, he began to extricate himself. He shifted his arm from under her head, wincing at the slight movement. Then, with infinite patience, he began to peel her arm off his chest, easing out from beneath her arm and leg. She clung for a moment, her fingers tightening like a child's, before relaxing back into his pillows he replaced himself with. She murmured in her sleep but didn't wake.
Slipping out of the bed, Endymion held his breath until she was settled on her side, exhaling in that soft little sigh that always meant she felt safe—safe with him. Endymion swallowed hard. He watched her for a long moment, committing the serene picture of her sleeping face to memory. Her pert mouth opened slightly, whispering his name, the sound undid him, stabbing him in the heart.
"Shh, amore," he whispered, brushing his lips over her forehead. "Just a moment."
He stood up from the bed, muscles flexing in the cool air, and pulled on a pair of dark sleep pants hanging off a chair. No shirt. He then pulled his phone from the charging pad on the nightstand. The screen glowed, displaying a single, encrypted message from Kunzite. He didn't need to read it to know the gravity of the situation.
Moving with the silent precision of a hunter, he slipped across the cold marble floor—barefoot, bare-chested, every step controlled violence waiting to happen. At the door, he cast one last look at Serenity, ensuring she was undisturbed… untouched by the storm gathering in him.
He eased the door closed without letting the latch dare make a sound.
The moment the hallway swallowed him, the softness fell away. The air itself seemed to recoil as he lifted his phone and hit the call button.
Kunzite answered before the first full ring.
"Che succede?" Endymion's voice was a low, lethal growl—
What's happening?
Kunzite's voice came through, tight and strained. "Problemi al porto. Il nostro carico è sparito. Necessaria la tua presenza."
Problems at the port. Our cargo is gone. Your presence is necessary.
Endymion stopped pacing, his entire body going still. "Cosa intendi 'sparito'?"
What do you mean 'gone'?
Kunzite didn't hesitate. "Intendo che è svanito. I nostri uomini al porto dicono che il container è stato svuotato. Non c'è traccia di lotta, nessun sangue. È come se fosse svanito nel nulla."
I mean it vanished. Our men at the port say the container was emptied. No sign of a struggle, no blood. It's like it vanished into thin air.
Endymion's eyes sharpened, the air around him shifting, cooling. He didn't need more than that. A missing shipment was never an accident. Someone was testing him. Someone was trying to move in on his territory.
The shipment from the West wasn't just merchandise; it was a cornerstone of their operations, a multi-million dollar influx of arms and raw materials that funded a dozen legitimate and illegitimate enterprises. For it to disappear without a trace wasn't just a loss of revenue. It was a message. A loud, arrogant, and deeply insulting one.
"Chi?" Endymion's voice was flat, cold.
Who?
Kunzite's tone was ice. "Non lo sappiamo. Finora, nessuno ha rivendicato nulla. Ma è stato pulito, troppo pulito. Questo non è un lavoro amatoriale. Qualcuno sta giocando con noi, Endymion. Qualcuno che sa come colpirci dove fa più male."
We don't know. So far, no one has claimed anything. But it was clean, too clean. This isn't an amateur job. Someone is playing with us, Endymion. Someone who knows how to hit us where it hurts most.
A chill ran down Endymion's spine. Someone was testing the edges of his empire, and they were bold enough to leave a mark. Endymion closed his eyes, the peaceful image of Serenity sleeping in their bed burning behind his eyelids. Danica's face, the corrupted memory, several disruptions lately—it all clicked into place with a sickening, inevitable logic. This wasn't a random act of aggression. It was targeted. It was personal.
Endymion caught the pattern by the fourth incident.
Someone was testing him.
Someone who knew his routes.
His networks.
His blind spots.
His schedule.
His marriage.
His expression didn't change. Not outwardly.
But inside, a quiet, murderous calm spread through him like a tide.
He inhaled once.
Then he spoke, voice soft and absolute.
"Vado io," Endymion said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Radicci i miei figli. Tieni la famiglia al sicuro. Io mi occupo di questo personalmente."
I'm going in. Secure my children. Keep the family safe. I will handle this personally.
"Ovviamente."
Of course.
Endymion ended the call, the screen of his phone going dark. For a moment he stood alone in the hallway—the house peaceful, the night still, Serenity asleep behind the door he had just closed.
He let himself look back at it.
Just once.
Then he squared his shoulders, rolling the tension from his neck, every inch of him shifting seamlessly into the man no one crossed, no one challenged.
Someone had invited war into his territory. They would regret it.
The empire he had built, the life he had carefully constructed to protect the woman and children he loved, was under attack. And he would not let it burn. He would go into the night and remind them all why they feared his name.
Chapter Text
Serenity woke slowly, drifting upward from velvety darkness into a coolness that did not belong. Chilled sheets. Soft pillows cupping her like clouds. And beside her—only the lingering impression of warmth, the faint hollow where a body had lain.
But the body was gone.
Her hand moved instinctively in sleep-fogged seeking, fingertips brushing across the mattress where his shoulder should have been, where she always found him—steady, warm, anchoring her to the waking world.
Only cool cotton met her palm.
A tiny crease formed between her brows as she blinked into the dim morning light sneaking through the curtains, hesitant and pale. The room still held him in pieces: the clean cedar of his skin, the warm spice at the hollow of his throat, the dark, grounding scent that was wholly Endymion. It clung to the sheets, the air, her own skin.
And yet the atmosphere itself felt wrong.
Hollow. Echoing. Unbalanced in the way only his absence could make it.
Serenity pushed herself up on one elbow, pearlescent hair sliding over her shoulder like poured moonlight, pooling around her thighs in shimmering folds. Her hand drifted across the empty space again, as if the truth might change on a second try.
Still cold.
He had been gone not minutes, but long enough for the bed to forget him.
Her heart gave a small, disappointed thump—soft but sharp, like the pluck of a string. Endymion almost never left their bed before dawn. Never without the brush of his lips against her forehead, or the soft rasp of his knuckles along her cheekbone. Never without letting her mumble sleep-heavy protests while he promised he'd return soon.
She straightened slowly, drawing her knees to her chest, trying to quiet the tightening coil inside her. Her gaze swept the room: the undisturbed shadows. The curtains barely stirred.
Something had pulled him away.
Something that had required silence. Swiftness. A choice he did not want to wake her for.
A flicker of unease whispered through her ribs, delicate as a fingertip tracing bone. She wrapped her arms around her legs, breaths shallow and listening, as though the air might tell her where he'd gone.
But it told her nothing.
Only that the world felt a shade less steady without him in it.
When Serenity slid toward his side of the bed, something pale glinted at the edge of her vision—a small slip of white tucked beneath his charging pad on the nightstand, almost hidden, almost shy. But unmistakably placed for her to find.
Her breath caught and stilled.
She reached with careful fingers, the way one might touch a fragile relic, a message left behind by someone who mattered too deeply.
The handwriting was undeniably his—strong, sure strokes; elegant angles that mirrored his precision; the almost possessive curl he used when writing her name, even in casual notes. A script that looked like him, felt like him.
It read:
I'm sorry, amore.
A work issue.
I'll make it up to you.
Promise.
I love you, tesoro mio.
—E.
Her chest tightened, blooming warm and aching all at once.
He had left quickly—so quickly he hadn't woken her, though he always did. But even in that urgency, he had slowed long enough to write this. To anchor her morning before it could drift into worry. To remind her she was the first thought in his mind, even while the world he commanded might already be shaking beneath his feet.
Serenity lifted the note to her lips, pressing a soft kiss against the ink as though it could carry her warmth back to him.
"Endy…" she breathed into the stillness.
She bowed her head, resting her forehead against his pillow. She inhaled deeply—the ghost of his scent curling through her senses: cedar, spice, warmth, the magnetism she could find blindfolded in a crowd of thousands.
But beneath the warmth, concern flickered. Whatever had pulled him from her side before dawn wasn't trivial. Endymion didn't move for small things.
Her hand drifted across the nightstand to check the time.
Barely past five.
She let out a quiet sigh.
With slow, graceful movements, she rose from the bed. She crossed the room and picked up his shirt—casually abandoned over the armchair the night before. She slipped it over her head, the fabric falling to mid-thigh, swallowingly large, comforting in a way no blanket could ever match.
It smelled entirely of him.
Her fingers brushed the collar, pulling it close around her shoulders, as if simply tightening it might recreate the weight of his arms around her.
Bare feet whispering across cool floors, she moved back toward the window. But her gaze slid once more to the note, still held carefully between her fingers—delicate, but steady. A promise captured in ink.
"I love you too," she murmured, voice soft enough to blend with the morning light.
She drew back the curtains just enough to see the horizon—a faint bloom of dawn staining the sky in muted golds and peach. A world yawning awake while somewhere out there, Endymion was already moving. Already commanding. Already hunting down whatever dared disturb their peace.
And he would come back.
He always came back.
Her eyes lowered once more to the note.
Promise.
He had never broken a promise to her. Not once. Not even in their darkest trails, their hardest nights, the moments when love had felt too fierce for flesh to hold.
Serenity exhaled, letting the breath soothe her bones. Trusting him. Trusting his strength. Trusting that he had left not to distance himself, but to protect what was theirs.
Still, she whispered into the hush of the waking house:
"Come home to me, Endy."
She slid the note into her nightstand drawer, closing it gently as though sealing something precious inside. The click was soft, final, steadying.
Endymion was gone for now.
But the house still thrummed with their life—echoes of laughter down the hallways, memories in every frame and cushion, the soft stirrings of their children dreaming in the rooms beyond. The world they had built together did not pause simply because dawn felt emptier without him.
And morning, as always, waited for no one.
She rose from the bed, pulling his shirt tighter around her as she padded into the master bathroom. The floor was cool beneath her feet, grounding her in the morning that felt a little too quiet. A splash of cold water over her face woke her fully, the shock gentle but firm, pulling her from lingering sleep-haze. She tied her hair loosely back; the pearly strands fell into soft, elegant waves that framed her shoulders.
Her reflection looked calm, composed… but her eyes betrayed her, flicking again and again toward the cracked bathroom door.
She missed him.
She always did, in these small moments of absence—before the world demanded their strength, before the children barreled into the morning, before the house filled with voices and footfalls and life. But she knew the rhythm they lived by, the unspoken rules Endymion enacted with unwavering consistency. When he wasn't home for breakfast, or to wrangle their children into clothes and shoes, or to drive them to school—a ritual he guarded like sacred tradition—he always sent help.
And right on cue, she heard movement downstairs.
Not loud.
Not intrusive.
Precise.
His help. His men.
A faint smile curved her lips. Endymion never left her unprotected—not even for an hour. Especially if last night's tension had driven him out before dawn. She could picture it already: the sharp, calculating look in his eyes, the one that meant he was hunting shadows again—threats only he could sense, dangers already being dismantled before anyone else knew to fear them.
She stepped into the shower, letting the warm water run over her shoulders until her thoughts settled into a steady rhythm. The quiet hum of the house muffled behind the glass, a soft reminder that even in his absence, Endymion's preparations never faltered.
By the time she emerged, steam curling around her ankles and her hair twisted into a loose, effortless knot, the entire home had shifted into its unmistakable morning cadence—one she recognized instantly as his doing.
Quiet voices downstairs.
Deliberate, disciplined footsteps.
The soft clatter of a pan being set on the stove.
A chef, then.
Not surprising.
Endymion hated the idea of her rushing around without support.
As Serenity descended the stairs, the scent met her halfway—caramelizing butter, herbs blooming in warm oil, citrus sliced open to brighten the air. It was enough to lift the corners of her lips. In the kitchen, Chef Luciano stood at the counter with a discipline that bordered on reverence. He moved like a surgeon and a priest all at once: slicing fruit into perfect crescents, whisking eggs with practiced care, lining bowls as if he were preparing for a battalion rather than a large, lively family.
He looked up and nodded warmly.
"Buongiorno, Signora," he greeted. "Everything will be ready shortly."
Serenity returned his smile. "Thank you, Luciano. Truly. You're a lifesaver."
She barely took two steps into the room before the front door opened without knocking—smooth, light, and unmistakably authorized.
Only a few people could do that. And Serenity had a pretty good idea who it was.
"Mina?" Serenity called, her voice already softening with fondness.
"I come bearing children and chaos!" came the bright, musical reply.
Mina swept in with the confidence of someone who could cross a battlefield or a living room with equal ease. Cipriano clung to her leg like a tiny octopus, while baby Serafina slept peacefully in her carrier, blissfully oblivious to their dramatic entrance. Mina's hair was braided in a hasty weave, wisps escaping in all directions; she had the flushed, determined look of a woman who had sprinted through half the city…and won.
Serenity lifted a brow. "Didn't we just do this song and dance?"
Mina groaned, tossing her bag onto a chair with a thud. "Endymion disappears at ungodly hours, and suddenly—boom—I'm on emergency standby. Again. Tell him I demand compensation. Preferably in pastries. Expensive pastries."
Serenity laughed as she leaned in to kiss Serafina's tiny forehead. "I'll negotiate on your behalf."
Mina nudged her with a grin. "Seriously, though. You alright? The house feels very… Endymion this morning."
"Overprepared?" Serenity teased.
"Exactly. Like Defcon One, but make it domestic."
Serenity exhaled—soft, controlled, but telling.
Mina's expression gentled. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Kunzite got the call just after midnight." Meaning flickered in her eyes, the kind only someone in the inner circle would understand. "He didn't say much. Just that he had to move. Fast."
Serenity's heart tightened. "So it's serious."
"Serious enough that your husband went full shadow mode," Mina murmured, adjusting Cipriano's grip on her leg with one arm while keeping the baby steady with the other—graceful multitasking born of experience. "Kunz didn't give details. He barely stopped long enough to kiss me goodbye. And he kissed me like he was going to war."
Serenity breathed out slowly, steadying herself. "Thank you. For coming."
"Always." Mina bumped her shoulder affectionately. "If Kunzite is at Endymion's side, then I'm at yours. That's the marriage package. Comes with vows and mutual panic."
Serenity managed a small smile. "You should've negotiated better perks."
"I did," Mina said smugly. "Unlimited pastries. And the occasional rescue mission."
Serenity laughed—quiet, warm, grateful—and the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
It was easy to forget sometimes that Mina was more than a friend. She was one of Endymion's most trusted operatives—quick-thinking, fiercely loyal, soft where she chose to be, steel where she needed to be. She had stepped between Serenity and danger before, without hesitation. She would do it again without blinking.
And yet here she stood, balancing a toddler and a baby with one arm, radiating maternal warmth as effortlessly as she wielded a weapon.
"Come on," Serenity said, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's get breakfast started before the herd wakes."
Mina planted her feet, cracking her knuckles with dramatic flair.
"Operation: Feed the Tiny Monsters is now in effect."
Serenity buckled Venazio into his car seat, kissing his forehead as he clutched his little plush moon. Artcenzo and Celestoria were already arguing over whose turn it was to pick the playlist, and Amoruna babbled from her car seat, utterly delighted just to be part of the chaos.
Mina, wrangling Cipriano and baby Serafina, shot Serenity a look that said motherhood is a full-contact sport.
"Everyone strapped in?" Serenity called.
"Yes!" chorused her twins.
"Maybe," Venazio said.
Amoruna blew a raspberry.
Mina sighed. "Close enough."
They loaded into their respective cars—Serenity into the black Escalade, Mina following in her black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows, which was also bullet-proof. It was a well-practiced convoy, one Endymion had organized long ago: Serenity never drove anywhere with the children without someone she trusted following.
Serenity tapped her pockets, then the console.
Her lip curled.
"Phone?" Mina called out through her open window.
"Inside. Again." Serenity groaned. "I'll survive twenty minutes."
Mina snorted. "Your husband's going to have an aneurysm."
"Oh, absolutely."
They pulled out, Serenity leading the way through the quiet, early-morning streets.
Meanwhile at Port Authority District
Endymion stepped away from the chaos of the investigation, the muffled shouts of his men fading behind him. The port was a hive of tension—crates overturned, forklifts idling, men barking orders into radios—but none of it mattered for one suspended, narrowing moment.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
He checked Serenity's location automatically, thumb moving before thought.
Home.
Still.
At this hour?
His brow contracted, not in confusion—Endymion didn't get confused—but in calculation. Serenity was precise to the minute every morning, especially on school days. She should've left ten, maybe twelve minutes ago.
Her routine was a rhythm he could recite from memory.
And this was off-beat.
He hit call.
It rang.
And rang.
Each chime was a thread pulled tighter around his ribs.
No answer.
Something inside his expression changed—subtly, dangerously. A cold, surgical focus settled along the sharp lines of his face. His men, watching from a distance, exchanged glances. That look meant someone, somewhere, had made a mistake they would not survive.
He didn't call again.
He called Mina.
She answered before the first ring completed, breath quick like she'd expected him.
"Boss? I'm behind her," Mina said immediately. "We're heading to the school now."
Endymion went absolutely still. Relief didn't unravel him. Relief turned his edges sharper—like a blade cooled too fast, ready to snap or cut.
"She left her phone at home."
"I know," Mina replied, exhaling a tiny, sympathetic groan. "Not ideal."
His jaw worked once. "Is everything normal?"
Mina looked through her windshield, tracking Serenity's black Escalade gliding smoothly through morning traffic. She could hear the faint muffled chaos even in her own car—children singing shrill, off-key versions of whatever song Serenity had playing.
"Kids are loud," she reported. "She's singing along. No weird cars, no one following, no detours, nothing in the mirrors. I swear to you—everything is fine."
Endymion exhaled slowly—a controlled, lethal sound, like a blade cooling after fire. A sound his enemies never lived to hear twice.
"Good."
A beat.
Measured.
Heavy.
"Have Serenity call me the moment you park and the children are settled. Immediately. Not later."
"I will," Mina promised, her voice gentling around the tension she felt echoing through the line. "She's fine, Endymion."
His reply came quieter, the danger folding inward into something far more intimate.
"I need to hear her voice."
"I know." Mina's tone softened with understanding, not pity. "I'll make sure she calls."
Silence stretched between them—unspoken worry, unspoken loyalty, unspoken vows.
"Grazie, Mina."
A gratitude few ever heard from him.
The line clicked.
Mina lowered her phone and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She watched Serenity's SUV ahead, children's shadows bouncing wildly behind tinted glass.
She didn't need Kunzite's legendary intuition to read the truth:
Endymion was still burning under his skin.
A quiet, controlled, white-hot inferno.
And he wouldn't cool—
he wouldn't even begin to—
until Serenity's voice soothed the flames back into something human.
Endymion didn't move from his spot between the shipping containers. The world around him—diesel fumes, salt-heavy wind, shouted orders ricocheting across steel—blurred into meaningless static.
Only the phone in his hand existed.
He opened the secure app with quick, controlled precision, entering the triple-code authentication only he and two others in the world had access to.
The feed loaded.
The interior of the Escalade blinked onto his screen.
And there she was.
Serenity.
Driving one-handed, her other hand tapping against the wheel in rhythm with whatever cheerful children's song thundered in the background. The twins were in full chaos mode—Celestoria attempting to braid Artcenzo's hair while he twisted away dramatically. Venazio kicked his feet in delight, sending the rhythm off-beat, and tiny Amoruna swung her stuffed star like she was conducting an orchestra only she could hear.
Safe.
Whole.
Laughing.
Endymion's shoulders dropped—not fully, never fully, but enough that the tension coiled in him loosened by a single notch.
Not relaxed.
Just… less lethal.
His thumb hovered over the screen, unable to look away. He absorbed the small, intimate details like a man deprived of oxygen finding air.
The brush of Serenity's hair across her cheek.
The soft smile she sent into the rearview mirror.
Her instinctive scan of the road—precise, trained, exactly as he'd taught her.
Her presence, serene but alert, guiding their children through the start of another ordinary morning.
And she had no idea her husband was watching her with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with reassurance—proof that she was still untouched, unharmed, still his to guard.
One of his men, Luca, approached from yards away, clearly hesitant to interrupt. He stopped a respectful distance off, waiting silently. Endymion didn't spare him a glance.
He zoomed in on Serenity.
Her profile filled the frame.
The curve of her smile—gentle, luminous.
The tilt of her head as she sang.
The subtle sway of her shoulders with the music, the same motion that had once lulled all their children asleep on her chest.
Mina's Navigator remained exactly where she promised—from the rear camera, he could see the familiar silver grille following at a safe, disciplined distance.
Serenity turned a corner, sunlight spilling across her dashboard.
Still singing.
Still safe.
Endymion let out a breath—long, controlled, quiet.
The kind of exhale that wasn't relief, not truly.
It was simply a release valve before the pressure could split him open.
He locked the screen with a sharp tap and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Jaw tightening.
Mind recalibrating.
Mina had been right.
But he needed to see Serenity with his own eyes—even through a lens—before he could drag himself back to his present reality. Before he could face the war simmering at the docks. Before he could become the version of himself the world feared.
Now he could.
His expression hardened.
The warmth in him extinguished.
The man who loved Serenity and their children receded behind steel and shadow.
Cold.
Purposeful.
Deadly.
Someone had dared to threaten the stability of his empire—
And now that he had confirmed his wife and children were safe—
Endymion turned toward the port with a calm, lethal certainty.
He was free to unleash hell.
Serenity pulled the Escalade into a school parking space beneath the spreading shade of an old maple tree. Morning sunlight spilled across the hood in warm gold streaks, glinting off the chrome grille as she shifted the car into park. The moment the vehicle stilled, a wave of movement exploded inside.
Artcenzo unbuckled himself so fast she swore he'd trained for it. Celestoria was already halfway leaning over his seat, hair ribbons askew, ready to race him out the door. Venazio squealed in pure delight at the prospect of freedom, and Amoruna clapped her little hands, her stuffed star wobbling dangerously in her grip.
"Alright, little ones," Serenity laughed, leaning over to release Venazio's belt. "One at a time, please."
As if that ever worked.
The twins tumbled out the moment the door opened, hitting the grass running—literally running—like small, hyper-charged rockets.
Serenity stepped down from the SUV with Amoruna on her hip. Behind her, Mina's Lincoln Navigator pulled in smoothly, a guardian shadow just as Endymion intended. A moment later, Mina emerged with her practiced mother-operator grace—Serafina strapped to her front, Cipriano bouncing excitedly at her side.
"Morning chaos!" Mina proclaimed brightly as she wrangled Cipriano's backpack. "Round seven-hundred."
Serenity grinned. "You'd think we'd get used to it by now."
"Never," Mina said, deadpan. "Survival is the only option."
Together they fell into an easy, well-practiced rhythm. Mina set Cipriano loose with the twins and Venazio, keeping one sharp eye on all of them like the trained operative she was, mother or not.
When they were nearly finished, Mina reached into her pocket and held something out wordlessly.
Serenity blinked.
A phone. Mina's.
Mina's expression said everything before she spoke.
Serenity took it with a slow, knowing sigh. "He must have called."
Mina's lips twitched into a sympathetic, amused little grin. She nodded. "Called me when you didn't answer. He's probably still staring at the camera feed, making sure you're safe."
Serenity pressed her hand to her forehead, though the exasperation was softened by unmistakable affection. "Saints above… let me call him before he thinks I've been abducted by rogue PTA moms."
"He'll believe it," Mina warned with a snort.
Her lips curved in quiet exasperation. "Or he really does have that aneurysm," she muttered, but her smile softened into a fond warmth.
Mina laughed and Serenity laughed with her under her breath, shaking her head as she stepped aside.
She moved a few steps toward the quieter corner of the courtyard, where the school's morning sun hit the pavement in soft warmth. Behind her, the children dashed across the grass, Cipriano following the twins, Venazio stumbling joyously behind them, Amoruna squealing whenever she saw a bird. Their laughter echoed bright and golden, a counterpoint to the low hum of cars arriving and parents chatting.
Serenity breathed it all in—the light, the sound, the sense of safety she never took for granted. Her heart lifted, even amid the unspoken vigilance that never truly left her when Endymion was on a mission.
Then she tapped his name, already dialing Endymion to let him know they'd arrived safely.
The phone rang once.
"Tesoro mio?" His voice—low, rich, and instantly warm despite the steel that always lingered beneath—hit her like a caress. Silky, vibrating, threaded with something magnetic that traveled from her ear straight down her spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting it anchor her.
"Yes, darling. I'm here," she murmured, tilting the phone so her words brushed his ear like a whisper, soft and intimate. Relief and affection coiled together in her chest, tightening into a bright, quiet bloom.
The relief in Endymion's voice poured through the small speaker of Mina's phone—rich, warm, threaded with the exhaustion of a man who had been up all night cleaning blood from an empire. "I called," he said, voice softer now but still taut as a drawn wire, the underlying tension threading through every syllable.
"I know," she replied gently. "I'm sorry. I left my phone at home. Everything… feels off in the morning when you're not here."
A breath left him—quiet, low, aching. Almost guilty. "Mi dispiace. I shouldn't have needed to leave."
I'm sorry.
From behind, Mina gave her a playful salute before turning towards the children. "Tell him he owes me coffee," she whispered loudly.
Endymion must have heard that, because he huffed a sound too fond to be a real sigh. "I'll buy her the entire café if she keeps answering when you don't."
Serenity laughed, and the sound made something in his chest unclench. She could almost hear him rolling his shoulders, loosening tension, as if her voice alone eased him back from the edge of whatever midnight violence he'd walked through.
Then, her hand tightened around the phone. She swallowed hard, glancing at the children tumbling across the playground grass, their laughter ringing bright and chaotic. Mina moved among them, always watchful, always steady, a perfect shadow at Serenity's side. Serenity's lips curved softly, a smile that was fond, worried, and tender all at once.
"Is everything okay?" she whispered. Her voice dropped, a careful murmur threading through the phone line. "You don't normally leave us in the middle of the night without saying why," she murmured, not quite scolding, but the echo of worry sharpened the words. "I woke to an empty pillow, an empty room, and silence. Not my favorite combination, my king."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat—or perhaps several—before his voice returned, lower, resonant with a mixture of distance and longing. "Per favore, perdonami, amore. I had to… things at the port. Complications I couldn't ignore. But hearing your voice now… it steadies me, tesoro. More than you know."
Please forgive me, love.
Her fingers flexed around the device, heat rising into her cheeks despite the morning sun. "I worry," she admitted softly. "Even when I know you've got it under control."
"And I worry about leaving you," he murmured, almost reverently. "About leaving all of you… I never want you to feel unsafe. Even for a second."
Serenity drew a slow breath, letting his words settle against her heart. "You don't leave us unsafe," she whispered. "You… you leave us protected. We're safe. We made it to school. And we're all okay."
A pause. And then, just his voice again: low, steady, filled with the unshakable weight of him. "Hm," he hummed, not yet convinced. "I need to see you. All of you."
There was a quick series of soft taps: Endymion unlocking something, sliding through menus. Surveillance feed. He had cameras everywhere—security for the royal heirs, for her, for the wives and children of his inner circle.
Her lips curved in a smile, invisible to him but felt, in every sinew of her being. "We're here," she murmured. "Waiting. Safe. And loud."
A faint, almost unnoticeable chuckle rumbled through him, mixed with that deep, inevitable steel. "Loud… yes. Perfect."
She exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of his voice anchor her in the chaos of the playground, the laughter, the sunlight, and the hum of life that always carried them through.
Even when he was away, even when the world demanded his strength, she could feel him—steady, distant, yet always near.
And she trusted him, utterly.
Unseen by her, miles away, Endymion pulled up the school's security feed—his thumb flying over commands with the ease of reflex.
The footage auto-zoomed as if even the camera recognized her as the priority target. Within seconds, Serenity filled his screen.
Honeycomb leggings hugging her legs, sculpting every line of her calves, thighs, and ass.
A rose-colored tank top fitting her curves like a glove.
Her hair cascading in soft waves down her back, catching the sunlight like gleaming pearls.
Endymion went still. A different kind of still than the one he used for killing.
This one was hunger wrapped in reverence, sharp and quiet and absolute.
He watched her like a predator tracking its favorite prey—every sway of her hips, every bounce of her step, every effortless laugh she gave the children. His eyes darkened, drinking in every detail with the single-minded intensity of a man who had been deprived of something vital for too many hours.
A low, appreciative growl rumbled through the line before he could stop it. "Oh, santi cieli..." he whispered.
Holy heavens
"What?" she asked, though the breathy amusement in her voice said she already knew.
"Tesoro." His voice dropped to a velvet danger, smooth, lethal, and hungry. "You are… torturing me."
Serenity blinked, shifting her phone to her other hand as she squatted to help Amoruna find the wooden drumstick to the outdoor music wall. "I'm… what?"
"Minchia," he groaned, and she could hear him lick his lips through the phone.
Holy shit.
Fuck me.
That tone always meant one of those.
"You're wearing those leggings."
His voice dipped into a thick, molten possessiveness that curled heat low in her stomach. The one that always made her knees weak, even here in broad daylight with parents and children milling around.
Oh.
Those leggings.
Serenity glanced down at her outfit—leggings painted on like a second skin, tank top hugging every curve. A soft laugh escaped her lips. "Really? You noticed?"
Those were the leggings he once claimed were designed by a rival faction solely to destroy his self-control.
The leggings that had sparked an entire six-minute rant—half reverent, half furious—about how they made her ass look like a sin he wanted to confess in explicit detail.
"Notice?" he growled, raw and appreciative. "Tesoro… you're wearing my favorite."
Serenity laughed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, a movement she knew he loved. The camera caught the entire arc of it, sunlight gilding her hair as it rippled down her back.
He watched it happen in real time and felt a jolt so primal he had to brace a hand on the shipping container beside him.
She wasn't just his wife.
She was a goddess walking among mortals—radiant, confident, breathtaking—utterly unaware of how many hearts she could break simply by existing.
And he… he was the lucky bastard who got to worship at her altar.
Who got to touch her.
Who got to be touched by her.
Who got to claim her—in every way that mattered.
She bit her lower lip as she stood, a tiny tease only he would recognize. "They're comfortable."
"They're illegal," he corrected instantly. "At least, they should be." His voice thickened, dropping into a dark rasp. "Dio… look at you."
Serenity sucked her teeth. "Endy—"
"No, no, do not 'Endy' me right now." His frustration was delicious, jealous, slightly feral. "I have been up all night 'negotiating' with a man who threatened to sink one of my cargo ships. And then I open a camera and find—" he sucked in a breath "—my wife walking through a children's school like temptation personally wrapped in honeycomb."
She could practically feel his stare crawling over her through the camera feed—hot, possessive, reverent—drawing slow, invisible lines along her legs, up her waist, over her chest, down her back.
A shiver slid over her skin.
Behind her, the children shrieked with laughter as Mina tried (and failed) to wrangle four of them into something resembling a straight line.
But all Serenity could hear was Endymion's breath—slow, hungry, worshipful—bleeding through the phone like a man starved.
He groaned again—longer this time.
"Tesoro… you are going to kill me."
His breath hitched—quiet but unmistakable—as she turned slightly, giving him a better view of the leggings that tormented him. The camera followed faithfully, zooming just enough to capture the curve of her hips.
Then, in that low, dangerously soft tone that meant he was half-breathing, half-burning, he asked:
"…Tell me… did you wear those on purpose? Because I'm not there?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks immediately.
Serenity lifted her chin, a wicked little smile tugging at her lips.
"Maybe," she murmured, feigning innocence as she leaned into the wooden post of the swing set. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"I needed you to have a little… incentive to come home sooner."
There was a sound then—a sound she knew intimately.
Not quite a groan.
Not quite a curse.
Something in between.
Like he'd just been punched in the soul by desire.
"Serenity." He said her name like a warning. Or a prayer. Or both. "You think I need incentives?"
She bit back a smile. "Sometimes."
He exhaled shakily, the kind of breath that curled into her ear like smoke.
Then, voice dipping into the darkest, silkiest register he owned, he murmured:
"My only incentive—"
A pause, deliberate.
Commandeering.
Filled with heat.
"—is to taste your honey from those honeycombs."
Her knees nearly buckled.
"Endymion," she whispered, scandalized and thrilled and warm all at once.
"I'm not joking," he added, completely unrepentant. "You walk around in those leggings and every thought in my head becomes indecent."
She laughed softly, pressing her palm over her mouth to hide the smile she couldn't control. "You're in public," she reminded him.
"So are you," he countered, voice hungry. "Yet only one of us is suffering."
She turned slightly, watching Mina playing tag with the kids, making sure none of them tripped on the climbing blocks.
"And maybe a few dads..." Serenity teased.
He made a noise.
Something primal.
Something that suggested several men at that school were about to need new insurance policies.
"All of them," he growled. "One walked straight into a post."
She snorted.
"Another tripped over the curb."
Serenity hid another smile.
A beat of heated silence passed, heavy with the kind of tension that made her thighs press together.
He wasn't talking to her anymore—he was staring. Through his camera feed. From miles away.
Serenity glanced behind her, heat rising to her cheeks. The courtyard looked normal enough—parents unloading backpacks, teachers waving. But somewhere, an imperial king was glued to a screen like a lovesick teenager.
"Endymion," she muttered, trying not to laugh. "Focus."
"I am focused. On national security. Because, tesoro, with those leggings, you're making every man at that school a fool."
"Endy—!"
"I am serious," he insisted, voice dark with playful jealousy. "One man already missed the sidewalk by a full foot. If he had walked any slower past you, I would have sent a corrective memo to his wife."
She covered her mouth to hide a laugh. "You're impossible."
"Impossible? No. Vigilant." He clicked something again—zooming, no doubt. "Do me a favor. Mmm. Tilt a little left—yes, just like—"
"Endymion!"
A soft chuckle slipped out of him, the kind he only used with her. "You are gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be unguarded."
"I'm not unguarded," Serenity said gently. "Mina is right behind me."
As if on cue, Mina's image came into view on the feed, and the blonde officer-mother strode across the courtyard with practiced efficiency, one child on her hip, two more trailing behind like ducklings. She lifted her free hand and waved sharply toward Endymion.
Endymion smirked, slow and proud. She knew that expression even without seeing it.
And she knew exactly which camera he'd be accessing.
"Good," he murmured, voice rich with possessive warmth. "She'll keep you safe. But remind her—"
His tone shifted into a lazy threat.
"—that she must also keep all wandering fathers alive. I don't want any accidental casualties because they were… distracted."
Serenity tsked softly, as she gave Amoruna's little hand drum a gentle tap. Amoruna squealed, delighted, while Serenity shook her head in mock disapproval at Endymion.
"You're ridiculous," she said—though her smile betrayed her. "Completely ridiculous."
"Maybe," he conceded, the sound of his amusement low and indulgent. "But I'm your ridiculous king."
Serenity rolled her eyes, but the expression melted almost instantly into something tender.
"My king," she echoed, voice soft and warm and full of affection that hit him like a punch to the chest.
Endymion closed his eyes briefly, letting the words settle deep in his bones, soothing something raw inside him.
Ridiculous or not—
he lived for that.
Right then, the camera caught it.
Two dads—grown men with jobs, responsibilities, and presumably functioning frontal lobes—walked past, glanced at Serenity's honeycomb-covered backside… and lost all motor skills.
One tripped over a planter.
The other veered into a stroller.
Endymion's chuckle was dark, dangerous, and deeply satisfied.
A sound that practically vibrated the line.
Fools.
Idiots.
Peasants.
They had no idea they were staring at his queen—his beloved, adored, worshipped woman—
His.
"What are you laughing at?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Exactly what I predicted," he growled softly. "They shouldn't be looking. They shouldn't even be allowed to think about what's mine."
"Oh, Endy," she sighed in exaggerated drama, hand pressed to her heart. "I'm yours and only yours. You have nothing to worry about."
That sound he made—deep, pleased, grateful—almost made her knees buckle.
"I know," he murmured. "And I am so grateful. Every day, I thank whatever gods still tolerate me that you chose me."
Her heart squeezed, full and bright. "I'm the lucky one, my king."
Amoruna toddled toward Serenity with chubby arms lifted in silent demand. Serenity bent—soft, instinctive—to scoop her up, settling the little girl against her hip as Amoruna tucked her star plushie under her chin.
Endymion exhaled softly into the phone.
"God, how I enjoy the view of you," he murmured, voice dipping into that sinful purr that always made her pulse skip.
Serenity rolled her eyes, though the blush blooming up her throat betrayed her. "You're ridiculous. You're checking the cameras on me while I'm literally right here."
"Ridiculous?" he echoed, teasing, hungry. "No, tesoro. I'm watching the most beautiful woman in the world juggle our tiny monsters, and all I can think about—"
His voice lowered, turning molten.
"—is peeling those leggings off you the second I get home."
Her breath hitched—embarrassingly audible.
"Endymion," she hissed, trying to inject scolding into her tone… and failing miserably.
He chuckled, dark and knowing. "You started it."
"I did not," she muttered.
"You wore those leggings knowing I wasn't there to touch you." His voice coiled around her like smoke—possessive, amused, utterly certain of her. "That's cruelty, amore."
She swallowed, heat curling low in her stomach as she adjusted Amoruna on her hip.
"Maybe…" she whispered, lips curving despite herself, "I wanted you to miss me."
Another growl.
Low and hungry and so full of longing she felt it in her spine.
"Oh, tesoro," he purred, "I miss you so much, I might break every rule in my world just to get back to you."
Her breath caught.
The children shrieked with laughter in the background, oblivious.
Life moved on around her—bright, loud, safe.
And Endymion's voice held her like a hand around her heart.
"Come home to me," she whispered.
"I'm trying," he whispered back.
And she heard it—
The truth.
The ache.
The love.
"I'm coming home to you as fast as I can."
Endymion lingered on the feed a moment longer, unwilling to look away. Serenity moved across the courtyard with Amoruna balanced on her hip and Venazio bouncing at her heels.
And there it was—
that sway.
Subtle.
Effortless.
Unthinking.
The kind that lived in her bones and in his memory, the kind that made men stumble and made him feel like a starving beast every single time.
She wasn't trying.
She never had to.
The curve of her back as she adjusted Amoruna, the tilt of her hips as she shifted her weight, the way her hair spilled over one shoulder—she managed chaos with a grace that felt divine, instinctive, impossible.
His woman. His wife. His queen.
He burned the image into his mind, the same way he always did before leaving for a fight. A reminder of what he protected. A reminder of what waited for him.
Finally—finally—he let out a breath, long and low.
Not relief.
Not calm.
But something deeper.
Something like a vow.
In two hours or ten, when this mess was put down and buried, he would be home.
And the moment he crossed that threshold?
He already knew exactly how he'd hold her—
how tightly, how greedily, how long.
She reached the school doors. "We're heading inside now. The kids will be late."
"Stay on the phone with me a moment longer?" His voice softened, turning the edges warm. "I want to hear you. I've been dealing with very unpleasant men all night. Your voice… anchors me."
Serenity pressed the phone closer to her ear, her steps slowing.
"Of course," she whispered. "For as long as you need."
Chapter Text
It was 1:07 a.m. EST when Endymion finally stepped aboard, the muted click of his shoes swallowed by the sound-dampened cabin. The jet accepted him without ceremony, leather and steel closing around his presence like a held breath.
Kunzite was already ahead of him in the aisle, his voice low and controlled as he issued final instructions to two security men sweeping the interior. They moved with practiced precision, handheld scanners gliding along seams of upholstery, overhead bins, the undersides of seats—searching for anything that didn't belong. Their movements were economical, almost reverent, as though the aircraft itself were an extension of Endymion's territory.
Beyond the cabin walls, more men circled the jet on the tarmac. Floodlights cast long, skeletal shadows as they checked wheel wells, fuel ports, access panels, and landing gear with mirrors and thermal scopes. Every surface was catalogued. Every irregularity noted. No detail was too small when Endymion was in transit.
"Clear," one of the interior men murmured into his mic.
Kunzite inclined his head once, absorbing the confirmation without comment. His gaze flicked briefly toward Endymion—an unspoken acknowledgment that the perimeter was holding.
Endymion did not slow his stride as he entered the cabin. He moved down the aisle with unhurried confidence, jacket hanging open, the top buttons of his black shirt undone, revealing the strong cut of his throat and the faint, unmistakable mark of Serenity's mouth from earlier that night. The imprint of her warmth lingered like a benediction he refused to acknowledge—a tether he pretended he didn't feel as it pulled him backward toward home.
The faint scent of night air and gun oil clung to him, the residue of the world he commanded and the violence he kept contained by will alone.
As he passed, the security men straightened instinctively, scanners lowering. No one spoke. No one needed to. His presence was instruction enough.
Kunzite's gaze flicked briefly to Endymion's collar, a smirk ghosting across his mouth before he fell into step just behind him as they moved deeper into the cabin. The doors would seal in moments. Once they did, New York would become distance and memory, and whatever waited in Washington would have his full, undivided attention.
"Seal the doors," Kunzite murmured.
The men moved immediately.
The cabin door closed with a muted hydraulic sigh. Outside, the perimeter team peeled away in practiced synchronization. The jet eased from the hangar, slipped onto the private runway, and the world beyond the windows blurred into streaks of white and red as the engines spooled up.
The jet was secure.
The night was not.
And neither was anyone who had decided to test him.
Endymion took his seat without comment, the leather cool beneath him, the night stretching wide and uncertain ahead.
Inside, the cabin lights dimmed to a low amber glow—Serenity's preferred setting on long flights. Endymion kept them that way now, even as she slipped further away by the minute. It steadied him. Or perhaps he simply needed the illusion of her warmth on a night that felt colder than it should have. The lighting was meant for sleep.
Neither of them would be closing their eyes tonight.
In the softened glow, Kunzite's face held the same cool severity it had carried during the call—controlled, disciplined, but threaded through with something harder. Rage, carefully leashed by loyalty. His long legs were stretched out, files and encrypted tablets spread neatly across the table between their seats.
He watched Endymion with the sharp, practiced stillness of a man who understood his don's moods better than his own. Where Endymion was coiled energy, tightly wound and lethal, Kunzite was a pillar of carved ice. His platinum hair remained immaculate, his charcoal suit absorbing the dim light like storm-dark metal. He had shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves, methodically cleaning a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with a microfiber cloth. The motion was precise and economical—the only tell a faint whitening of his knuckles around the frame.
Across from him, Endymion sat in the wide leather seat, legs slightly spread, forearms loose on the rests. He stared out the window at nothing in particular. The reflection staring back at him was a man carved from granite—jaw set, eyes shadowed and unreadable, a face built for command and for violence.
Only when he finally shifted did the quiet break—the soft sigh of leather against leather. He lifted the tumbler beside him, not to drink, but to anchor himself in the cold weight of the glass in his palm.
He didn't speak until the jet left the ground, until the climb steadied and they were fully committed to a five-hour arc over a sleeping country.
Outside, the sky swallowed them whole.
Inside, the engines hummed—a low, constant growl beneath their feet, like something caged and waiting.
The jet leveled at cruising altitude.
And Endymion, at last, exhaled.
The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. Not gone. Never gone. But tempered—contained where it belonged.
"Kunzite," he said quietly, still staring out into the dark, "prima di iniziare..."
Before starting...
There was a pause. Kunzite's gaze, sharp even in the dim cabin light, met his.
"Yeah?"
"Come state tu e Mina?" Endymion asked. The question was simple. Unadorned. Intentional.
How are you and Mina?
Kunzite's expression softened just slightly—a fraction the warmth of a man away from duty. "Lei sta... bene. È stanca. Testarda. Fa finta di non essere preoccupata per me."
She's… good. Tired. Stubborn. Pretending she isn't worried about me.
Endymion's mouth curved, just slightly.
"Bene," he murmured. "Sono felice di sentirlo."
Good. I'm happy to hear that.
Kunzite inclined his head, voice quiet. "Serenity è stata gentile con lei. Con tutte loro."
Serenity's been good to her. To all of them.
"Sono sicuro che l'abbia fatto," Endymion said. Then, after a beat, "Ha uno spirito che non appartiene a questo mondo..."
I'm sure she has. She has a spirit not meant for our world...
He shifted in his seat, forearms resting on the table now, posture more human than kingly. "Vi ringrazio," he said. No ceremony. No flourish. Just truth. "Per aver permesso a Mina e ai bambini di stare con Serenity e i nostri figli mentre noi siamo via."
You have my thanks. For letting Mina and the children stay with Serenity and our children while we're away.
Kunzite inclined his head again, expression steady. "Non c'è mai stato alcun dubbio."
There was never a question.
"Lo so." Endymion's voice lowered. "Ma volevo che venisse detto."
I know. But I wanted it said.
He leaned back slightly, gaze fixed. "Quando tutto questo sarà finito, quando la situazione si sarà stabilizzata, voglio che tu e Mina vi prendiate del tempo per voi. Solo voi due."
When this is over, when things are stable again, I want you and Mina to take time. Just the two of you."
Kunzite's brow lifted slightly.
"Un viaggio," Endymion continued. "Ovunque tu voglia. Nessuna telefonata. Nessuna interruzione."
A trip. Anywhere you want. No calls. No interruptions.
A pause.
"Mi prenderò cura dei bambini," Endymion added, tone unyielding in its sincerity. "Tutti quanti. I nostri e i vostri. Serenity insisterà per dare una mano, ma questo è un affare tra me e lei."
I'll watch the children. All of them. Ours and yours. Serenity will insist on helping, but that's between me and her.
For the first time that night, Kunzite's composure cracked—not visibly, but enough that Endymion saw it.
"Non è necessario," Kunzite said carefully.
That isn't necessary.
Endymion's gaze sharpened—not with threat, but with certainty. "Per me lo è."
It is to me.
He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other again. "Ti sei interposto tra la mia famiglia e il pericolo innumerevoli volte. Hai offerto loro la tua lealtà, il tuo silenzio e il tuo sangue quando era necessario."
You have stood between my family and danger more times than I can count. You have given them your loyalty, your silence, and your blood when it mattered."
A beat.
"Vorrei ricambiare in qualche modo."
Let me give something back.
Kunzite held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "A Mina piacerebbe."
Mina would like that.
"Lo spero," Endymion said. "Se lo merita. Te lo meriti."
I hope so. She deserves it. You deserve it.
The engines hummed steadily. Stars remained indifferent outside, but for a moment, the weight in the cabin shifted—quiet and human beneath the steel.
For a brief stretch of sky between New York and Washington, the war waited.
And family—chosen and sworn—held.
Then Endymion's expression hardened, the personal giving way to the professional.
The silence between the two men wasn't empty. It was anticipation—tight, electric, edged with threat.
The investigation had begun before Endymion had even been called.
But now, it continued the moment the wheels left the runway.
"Cominciamo," he said. His voice was low—barely more than vibration—but it cut through the cabin's muted hum with the efficiency of a scalpel.
Let's begin.
Kunzite pulled up a document, the tablet's glow briefly sharpening the planes of his face. "Dobbiamo tornare all'inizio."
We need to go back to the beginning.
Endymion gave a curt nod. "Il container è arrivato puntuale?"
Did the container arrive on time?
"SÌ," Kunzite confirmed. "Firmato, sigillato e registrato."
Yes. Signed, sealed, logged.
Endymion exhaled slowly through his nose. So far, nothing abnormal.
Kunzite drew a measured breath and opened the primary file on the low table between them. "Ho parlato con i capi turno. Tutti. Nessuno sa niente."
I spoke with all the shift supervisors. None of them know anything.
Endymion's jaw flexed once. "Non mi mentono."
They wouldn't lie to me.
"No," Kunzite agreed. "Nessuno ne avrebbe il coraggio."
No one would have the courage.
The engines thrummed steadily beneath them. A flight attendant passed quietly, offering hors d'oeuvres. Endymion waved her away without looking. Kunzite mirrored the gesture.
Business first. Always.
Only when the cabin was empty again did Kunzite continue.
"The container was accounted for at 22:14," he said, switching to English then Italian without breaking cadence. "Camere di sicurezza funzionanti. Gli uomini presenti. Tutto normale."
Security cameras are working. The men are present. Everything is normal.
"E poi?"
And then?
Kunzite tapped the screen. "22:47. Container vuoto. Nessuna ripresa. Nessun allarme. Nessun rumore. Nessun tempo sufficiente per un furto."
Empty container. No activity detected. No alarm triggered. No noise. Not enough time for a theft.
Endymion leaned back a fraction. "Trentatré minuti," he murmured. "Troppo pulito."
Thirty-three minutes. Too clean.
Kunzite nodded once. "È chirurgico. Preciso. Come se sapessero esattamente dove guardiamo… e dove non guardiamo."
It's surgical. Precise. As if they know exactly where we're looking... and where we're not looking.
Endymion said nothing. His silence sharpened, becoming something edged and dangerous all on its own.
"E i camion?"
And what about the trucks?
Kunzite's jaw tightened. "Ritardo di quarantasette minuti."
A delay of forty-seven minutes.
"Perché?"
Why?
"Lo stiamo verificando," Kunzite said. "But it wasn't traffic. Or mechanical. The drivers were held up by something no one can explain. No calls. No warnings. Just… nothing."
We are verifying it.
Endymion's fingers tapped the table once. Bone against wood. A single, deliberate sound.
The kind that meant danger.
"The trucks arrive late," Endymion said softly. "And in that exact window—"
"La spedizione scompare," Kunzite finished.
The shipment disappears.
Endymion's eyes narrowed. "Coincidenza?"
Coincidence?
Kunzite released a humorless breath. "Non esistono coincidenze nel nostro mondo."
There are no coincidences in our world.
Silence settled between them, heavy and cold, like snowfall before a storm.
Kunzite's gaze lifted. "There's more."
He slid a second set of images forward—grainy night-vision stills of the docks. Or rather, of absence. A section of port where the shadows seemed too dense, too deliberate.
"Guarda qui," Kunzite said. "Vedi questa zona d'ombra?"
Look here. See this shadowed area?
Endymion studied it. The angle. The distortion. The way the darkness folded where it shouldn't.
"Someone cut the feeds," he concluded.
"Sì," Kunzite agreed. "Ma dall'interno."
Yes. But from the inside.
Endymion's gaze darkened. "Tradimento?"
Betrayal?
For the first time that night, Kunzite hesitated. "Non credo sia un nostro uomo."
I don't think it's one of ours.
Endymion looked up. "Allora chi?"
Then who?
Kunzite met his stare without flinching. "Penso che ci sia qualcuno che conosce i protocolli meglio dei nostri uomini stessi."
I think there's someone who knows the protocols better than our own men do.
Someone who knew the routes.
The schedules.
The blind spots.
Someone who had been testing him for weeks—nudging his empire into disruption with small, calculated humiliations. Enough to demand attention. Enough to provoke.
Someone who wanted to see where he broke.
Endymion's expression didn't change. But his hand curled slowly into a fist against his thigh.
Kunzite watched him closely. "Endymion… this isn't just business."
"No," Endymion said quietly. "È personale."
It's personal.
The engines swallowed the words.
But not the meaning.
Kunzite sat straighter. "Hai qualche sospetto?"
Do you have any suspects?
Endymion's mind flicked—not to his enemies, but to the image of Serenity tucked asleep against their pillows, hair scattered over his side of the bed. The recent intrusions. The way threats had crept too close to her orbit.
He spoke with the kind of icy calm that made even Kunzite's spine tighten.
"Forse."
Perhaps.
Kunzite didn't ask who. He knew that tone too well. He slid open a new file—a list of names, families, factions, crews, syndicates.
"Okay," he said. "Se qualcuno volesse attaccarci, questi sono i gruppi in grado di farlo, o abbastanza stupidi da provarci."
If someone wanted to hit us, these are the groups capable of doing it, or stupid enough to try.
Endymion scanned the list.
The Calabresi.
The Trapanese.
The Denver Bratva.
The Vancouver Triad.
The Seattle Armada.
The Solano Cartel.
The Irish in the Bay.
And a handful of smaller outfits who had more ambition than sense.
Endymion shook his head slowly. "No. Non è nessuno di loro."
No. It's none of them.
Kunzite arched a brow. "You're certain?"
"Sì."
He leaned back, voice steady, analytical, cold.
"Siamo in ottimi rapporti con tutti loro. I calabresi hanno appena rinnovato il contratto di transito. I trapanesi ci sono debitori dopo il mio intervento con Shingo in Giappone l'anno scorso. Il cartello dei Solano non oserebbe mai: hanno bisogno delle nostre rotte costiere più di quanto noi abbiamo bisogno dei loro prodotti."
We're in good standing with all of them. The Calabresi just renewed their transit contract. The Trapanese owe us after I intervened with Shingo in Japan last year. The Solano Cartel wouldn't dare—they need our coastal routes more than we need their product.
He looked up, expression hollow and sharp.
"E gli irlandesi?"
And the Irish?
He almost smirked. "Adorano quel dannato patto che hanno stretto con me. Si taglierebbero la gola piuttosto che infrangerlo."
They worship their damn pact with me. They'd slit their own throats before they broke it.
Kunzite nodded. It was true—the Irish syndicate valued loyalty the way some valued oxygen.
"Allora chi?" Kunzite asked.
Then who?
Endymion's stare drifted to the window—to the darkness below, the ocean stretching in endless black.
"Forse…" he murmured. "è qualcuno di nuovo."
Maybe... it's someone new.
Kunzite stiffened. "Un nuovo giocatore?"
A new player?
Endymion's voice dropped lower.
"Qualcuno con le risorse necessarie. Qualcuno con l'audacia. Qualcuno che sa come far sparire una spedizione sotto i nostri occhi... senza lasciare traccia."
Someone with resources. Someone with audacity. Someone who knows how to disappear a shipment under our noses… and leave no trace.
"Qualcuno che desidera la guerra," Kunzite added.
Someone who wants war.
Endymion nodded once then continued, voice low: "Chiunque sia… vuole farmi perdere l'equilibrio. Vuole farmi guardare a sinistra mentre colpisce a destra."
Whoever it is… they want me off-balance. They want me looking left while they strike right.
"E tu chi sei?" Kunzite asked quietly.
And are you?
Endymion's eyes were obsidian.
"No."
A moment passed.
The jet rode steady through the dark, engines a distant, constant thrum beneath the floor. Outside the windows, stars lay scattered like pins driven into black velvet—distant witnesses that neither judged nor intervened.
Then a soft chime vibrated through the cabin.
Endymion's phone lit in his palm.
One name burned across the screen.
NEPHRITE — SECURE LINE
Endymion accepted the call without hesitation, switching it to speaker. Across from him, Kunzite straightened subtly, tension drawing tight across his shoulders like a pulled wire. This wasn't routine.
Static crackled once, sharp and brief, before Nephrite's voice snapped into clarity—smooth, low, carrying the unmistakable edge of a man who made his living listening to secrets and deciding which ones mattered.
"Boss. Kunzite. I'm patched in from the Manhattan office. I've got updates."
Kunzite slid the tablet across the narrow table toward Endymion, already anticipating the need for visuals. Endymion didn't reach for it. He leaned back instead, shoulders settling, eyes half-lidded—the posture of a predator conserving energy before the strike.
"Go ahead, Nephrite," Endymion said.
Nephrite didn't waste breath.
"First—your shipment didn't just go missing. It was taken. Professionally. Whoever hit the Seattle dock knew exactly what they were targeting, and they knew how to ghost their way out without leaving a ripple."
Kunzite muttered a curse under his breath. "Show us the footage," he said, already angling the tablet so Endymion could see.
"Sending now," Nephrite replied. "Compression's clean. No artifacts. Should hit your device—now."
The tablet chimed softly.
Kunzite tapped the screen. The file opened.
Grainy warehouse footage flickered to life, washing the cabin in cold blue-white light that carved Endymion's features into something sharp and spectral. The camera angle was high, fixed—security placement. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Masked figures moved through the frame with unnerving efficiency. No wasted motion. No hesitation. They flowed between shadows as if the dark itself bent around them. Two of Endymion's men went down before either could fully register the threat—one dropped mid-step, the other silenced before his hand ever reached his weapon.
Kunzite hissed softly. "Too fast," he murmured. "Too coordinated."
Endymion didn't respond. His jaw tightened, eyes tracking every movement with surgical focus—angles, timing, spacing. He cataloged it all.
"Nephrite," he said at last, voice low, "how did they get past the port schedule? My men were rotated forty minutes before arrival. That shift should've been invisible."
"Yeah," Nephrite said. "About that—somebody made sure it wasn't."
A brief pause followed. Paper rustled faintly on Nephrite's end—the sound of a man surrounded by maps, monitors, and a controlled kind of chaos.
"Someone in Seattle accessed your personnel rotation file an hour before the hit. They didn't steal it. They didn't copy it. They viewed it. Temporarily. Then they wiped the trace."
Kunzite's head snapped up. "An insider?"
"No," Nephrite said immediately. "Too clean. Too aware of my countermeasures. This wasn't a dock worker with a grudge or a mole trying to get clever. Whoever did this had high-level clearance protocols."
Endymion's gaze didn't waver from the screen.
"Mine?"
Static whispered across the line.
"…Or someone who's studied your systems long enough to replicate them."
The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop several degrees.
Kunzite leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice low and venomous. "You're saying someone copied our system."
"I'm saying," Nephrite replied, his voice hardening, "that the encryption signature on the looped footage matches internal MARE Crisium architecture from seven years ago—before you rolled out the deep-layer algorithm."
Kunzite froze.
Endymion didn't.
He inhaled once, slow and controlled, the way a man did when he recognized the shape of an old enemy.
"Seven years," he murmured. "That was the year—"
"When you ended G.E.M.," Nephrite finished.
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Not uncertain.
The kind of silence that meant someone, somewhere, had just made a fatal mistake—and they knew it.
The footage continued to loop silently on the tablet, masked figures moving again and again through Endymion's empire like ghosts.
And now, at last, they had his full attention.
Nephrite chimed in, "I've traced the false routing on the camera loop — there's a location ping in Washington State. Seven years ago, the Russians actually did try to infiltrate your system. They failed… but someone used that old attempt as a blueprint."
Endymion's fingers gripped the armrest. "Someone is trying to resurrect a ghost."
"Exactly," Nephrite said. "I'll send you everything I have by the time you hit the ground."
The call ended. Silence filled the cabin, heavy as smoke.
Kunzite shifted, lifting his glass of water but not drinking. "Sette anni fa," he repeated. "Why bring that back now? Why risk provoking you, of all people?"
Seven years ago.
Endymion looked out the window again, the darkness swallowing the landscape below, and said quietly: "Perché qualcuno pensa che io sia diventato troppo debole."
Because someone thinks I've grown too soft.
"L'hai fatto?" Kunzite asked, knowing full well the answer but wanting to hear it in his own tongue.
Have you?
A long pause.
Then Endymion's expression softened, barely, at the thought of Serenity and their children waiting at home. "Solo con lei. Con loro."
Only with her. With them.
The silence stretched like wire between them.
"Preparati," Endymion murmured, looking out the dark glass at the void ahead. "Quando atterriamo, andiamo dritti al porto. Nessun avviso. Nessuna tregua."
Get ready. When we land, we go straight to the port. No warning. No mercy.
Kunzite nodded once. "Capito."
Understood.
The jet flew on into the night, toward the storm waiting for them on the coast.
And Endymion—predator, husband, king—sat in the dark with a singular truth burning beneath his ribs.
Someone had threatened his empire.
Someone had come too close to Serenity.
And that someone would not see sunrise.
Skyebunny on Chapter 1 Sun 12 Oct 2025 10:52PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 2 Tue 14 Oct 2025 02:51PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 3 Wed 15 Oct 2025 02:41AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 4 Sat 18 Oct 2025 10:16PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 5 Sun 02 Nov 2025 04:17AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 6 Mon 03 Nov 2025 01:47AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 7 Sun 09 Nov 2025 03:40AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 8 Sun 16 Nov 2025 03:20AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 16 Nov 2025 03:45AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 9 Sun 16 Nov 2025 03:45AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 10 Sun 23 Nov 2025 05:21PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 11 Mon 24 Nov 2025 06:33PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 12 Thu 27 Nov 2025 03:58AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 13 Thu 27 Nov 2025 06:10PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 14 Fri 28 Nov 2025 03:45AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 15 Sat 29 Nov 2025 12:40PM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 16 Mon 01 Dec 2025 12:56AM UTC
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MasterRay5 on Chapter 16 Mon 01 Dec 2025 11:36AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 17 Sun 07 Dec 2025 03:48AM UTC
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Skyebunny on Chapter 18 Mon 15 Dec 2025 03:54AM UTC
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