Little Dove

The morning light in Dubai was brutal.

It bled through the towering glass windows like liquid gold, warming the marble floors, glinting off the sleek surfaces of Alessandro’s penthouse. But the luxury, the power — none of it could soften the rawness between us.

I stood by the window, my bare feet cold against the stone, watching the city awaken below me.

Cars crawled along highways.
Yachts glided through the harbor.
Life carried on.

As if the world didn’t know that two mafia heirs had just declared war between silk sheets and whispered lies.

Behind me, I could feel his presence before I heard him. The weight of his gaze, the quiet predatory calm in the way he moved. Alessandro Moretti was never loud in the morning. His silence was deliberate. Calculated. A man used to killing with a look, not a shout.

His voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp.
“You didn’t run.”

I didn’t turn around. “I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”
I heard the faint clink of glass. The pour of dark liquor. It was barely past nine, but in our world, time was a useless rule people like us ignored.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “There’s no version of this where we come out alive.”

“Maybe not.”
He stepped closer, stopping behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. His reflection flickered in the glass — all sharp jawlines, dark eyes, and tattoos peeking beneath his open shirt.

“But if this world is going to kill me,” he murmured, “I want it to be you.”

Those words.

God.

They settled into my bones, dangerous and addictive.
I turned then, leaning back against the window, daring him to look at me and see more than the heir, the spy, the weapon.

His eyes raked over me.
Bare skin, bruises from his mouth and hands blooming like wildflowers in spring.
Mine.
His.
War paint.

“I should hate you,” I whispered.

“Good,” he said darkly, stepping closer. “Hate makes people honest.”

He was inches away now, hand lifting to brush a loose strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle — the same hand that had once killed men with a single squeeze now cradled me like something fragile.

“I don’t want honesty,” I confessed.

I wanted recklessness.
I wanted selfishness.
I wanted him.

“You don’t get to decide what you want anymore, Little Dove,” he murmured. “Not in this world. Not in my bed.”

He leaned in, lips brushing my jaw, the edge of my ear.
A shiver rippled through me.
Every nerve awake, burning, wanting.

“I know what you came for,” he said. “The hard drive, the codes, the contracts. Your family’s revenge. But that was before you let me have you. Before you took my name in the dark, moaning like my good little wife.”

His hand slipped to my throat, tilting my chin up so our eyes locked.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmured, voice low and rough, sending a shiver down my spine. “Take me  like a good little wife.”

The air cracked between us.

Because it wasn’t just lust now.
It was punishment.
A battle neither of us was willing to lose.

I grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric. “You think this makes you safe? That it changes anything?”

“No,” he growled. “But it makes you mine.”

He kissed me then, savage and consuming, his hands mapping my body like he needed to memorize every inch before the world pulled us apart. Every kiss was a claim. Every touch a warning.

And still — I kissed him back.

Because hatred was clean.
This… wasn’t.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.

“You have no idea what you’ve started,” I said.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice like gravel and fire. “I’ll burn the whole goddamn world down for you.”

And for a second — one small, devastating second — I wanted him to.

But a knock on the door shattered the moment.
One of his men stepped inside, tension radiating from his posture.

“Boss,” he said, carefully avoiding my gaze, “we’ve got a problem.”

Alessandro didn’t flinch. “What kind of problem?”

“It’s Romano. He’s in the city.”

My stomach dropped.

Alessandro’s eyes never left mine.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“Well,” he murmured. “Looks like the war’s already here.”