Romano Estate — Luca's Wing
The smell of cigar smoke lingered in the marble corridor, a thin haze curling lazily toward the golden chandelier. Somewhere down the hall, jazz music played softly, a lazy tune for a lazy morning.
Giovanni Romano hated that sound.
It echoed through the vast estate like rebellion. Every brass note, every drag of smoke, was Luca's way of saying he would live on his own terms, and Giovanni, no matter how powerful, could not stop him.
He pushed open the double doors to his son's wing, stepping into the space that felt less like a room and more like a den of chaos and charm. Dark curtains half-drawn, whiskey bottles glinting under the morning sun, a half-packed suitcase abandoned near the bed.
And there he was ~ Luca Romano ~ sprawled across the couch like a cat in the sun, a half-empty glass of whiskey balanced on his chest, his shirt buttons undone just enough to reveal the kind of body sculpted by both discipline and danger.
