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"Your father insisted on staying up late with the Volkovs." Teresa's hands move swiftly as she prepares a second espresso. "He refused the oxygen tank overnight. Again."

I lean against the counter, the marble edge cold through my shirt. "How bad?"

"Three coughing fits. I had Matteo escort him to bed around two." She slides a plate of fresh cornetti toward me. "He's reviewing contracts in his study now."

"Of course he is."

The espresso burns my tongue as Teresa's eyes rake over me, catching on the loosened collar of my shirt.

Her lips twitch. "Should I have the maids prepare your suite for deep cleaning this morning?"

"No need." I set the empty cup down and Teresa quickly slides the second across the counter. "Though you might want to check on my wife later. She may require your... expertise with covering certain marks."

Teresa's eyebrow arches as she wipes down the already spotless counter. "I see the claiming went well then."

"She's stronger than she looks." I roll my shoulder, remembering the sting of Bianca's nails. "More fire than fear."

"Good." Teresa nods once, sharp and approving. "You need someone who won't break easily." She pauses, dark eyes finding mine. "But remember – even the strongest blade can shatter if struck wrong."

I push away from the counter. "Just make sure she's presentable for dinner."

The side door whispers open on well-oiled hinges. Matteo's reflection appears in the polished steel of the refrigerator, his shoulders tight with tension.

Teresa's spine stiffens. Without a word, she collects her cleaning supplies and exits through the staff door, leaving only the lingering scent of lemon polish behind.

Matteo's footsteps are nearly silent as he approaches, stopping at a precise distance from where I stand. His hazel eyes remain fixed on the marble countertop.

"There was movement last night." His voice barely carries across the space between us.

He slides a manila folder forward across the counter. The paper makes a whisper-soft sound against the stone but I don’t reach for it.

I finish my espresso first, then take a long steady breath and set the porcelain cup down, letting the silence stretch.

Then I open the file.

Eight photographs fan out like a grim deck of fate.

The Brixton warehouse. Eastern wall scorched black with fire accelerant. Bullet holes spiderwebbed through one loading dock door. Security keypad ripped out at the root. Two guards face-down near the chain-link perimeter—alive, but unconscious.

The attack is crude and completely reckless.

But timed perfectly.

Because they choselast night.

They chose my wedding night. When security would be focused on the cathedral, on protecting the family gathered there. When they thought I'd be distracted by claiming my new bride.

"Someone thinks they see weakness."

Matteo's jaw tightens. "They don't see weakness. They see opportunity, sir."

"Explain." I keep my voice flat, controlled.

"Your brothers weren't at their posts last night. Dante left the warehouse district exposed." Matteo's fingers drum once against the counter. "And Nico's crew was pulled to cathedral security without proper replacements."

"On whose authority?"

"That's the interesting part." Matteo meets my gaze. "The order came through proper channels. Signed. Stamped. But when I traced it back—nothing. Ghost protocol."