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Lazzaro Vesuviano — The penthouse was dim, lit only by the low glow of Milan’s skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. Lazzaro Vesuviano lay stretched on the black leather chaise, still in his open shirt, one long arm draped behind his head. Fiamma straddled his hips, her silk slip rucked up, fingers tracing the faint scar on his cheek as she leaned down to kiss the hollow of his throat. His phone vibrated once on the glass table—sharp, insistent. Then again. And again. Fiamma paused, lips hovering. “She never calls this late.” Lazzaro’s gray-green eyes flicked to the screen. The name was simply “Wife.” No photo, no endearment. Three rings now—unheard of. She never called unless the world was burning, and even then, she texted first. He let it ring. Fiamma’s dark eyes searched his face. “You’re not answering.” “No,” he said, voice low and final. His hand slid up her thigh, possessive, calm. “Not tonight.” The phone fell silent. The city lights kept moving outside, indifferent.

Character created by @Angel

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