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Marco fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the frame. His black hair is disheveled.

His gaze sweeps the room in one clinical assessment, lingering first on me, checking for injuries, then settling on Chiara with a coldness that makes me shiver despite the room’s warmth. His eyes are one of glacial fury, and then I see the gun in his hand, pointed forward, directly at her.

He doesn’t know it’s her. He can’t see through that hood.

“Marco—” I try to explain, to get him to call his men off my sister, but he doesn’t hear me.

“What,” he says, each word precise and deadly quiet, “the fuck is going on here?”

No one answers immediately. The guards look at each other, then at me, and then back at Marco.

“Perimeter breach, sir,” the lead guard finally offers. “We found this intruder in your wife’s bedroom.”

Marco’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble. He steps fully into the room, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

“And how,” he asks, “did an intruder get past sixteen armed men, three guard dogs, and a state-of-the-art security system to end up in my wife’s bedroom?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Marco doesn’t wait for an answer. He raises the gun, the barrel locking on the center of Chiara’s forehead.

“Stop!” I cry out, launching myself forward. “Marco, please!”

His free hand shoots out, catching my wrist before I can reach them. His grip is iron, but careful not to bruise. Even in his rage, he’s mindful of marks on what he considers his property.

“Aria,” he says, my name a warning on his lips. “Step back. This doesn’t concern you.”

But it does. It concerns me more than anything ever has.

“Someone tried to hurt you. And now, I’ll have their last breath as a welcome gift,” he hisses, releasing my grip so fast, I nearly stumble back.

If he shoots her, he loses me. And maybe, just maybe, I want him to know that.

Without thinking, I run and stand in front of his gun, a barrier between my sister and her downfall.

“You’ll have to shoot through me first.”

16

MARCO

The moment Aria’s body slams into my aim, time stops. My finger freezes on the trigger—precision born from survival. The gun feels heavy now, useless against five-foot-four of stubborn blonde defiance. Her chest presses into the barrel; I feel her tremble through the cold steel. My blood turns to ice. One twitch, one mistake, and I would have—I can’t even think it.

“Move,” I growl, but the word comes out strangled. My arm shifts, pulling the weapon away from her fragile body even as I try to sound commanding. “Now, Aria.”

She doesn’t budge. Instead, her chin lifts with that stubborn tilt I’ve come to recognize in the short time she’s been mine. Her beautiful hazel eyes stare up into mine. Meanwhile, the intruder remains half-hidden in shadow behind her.

“I can’t let you do this,” Aria whispers, her voice surprisingly steady for someone standing in front of a loaded gun seconds ago.

My jaw clenches so hard I might crack a tooth. “You don’t give the orders in my house. Even kindness has its limits.”

“It’s Chiara.” The two words punch through me harder than any bullet. “It’s my sister.”

The name hangs between us like smoke. Chiara. The twin who ran. The reason Aria ended up in my possession to begin with.

I lower the gun completely, but can’t hide the tremor of fury shaking my arm. Behind Aria, Chiara steps forward, pulling back her hood with trembling hands. It’s the same face as my wife’s—same height, same delicate features—but her hair is just an inch shorter, her eyes colder. She wears the look of someone who’s been running for too long.

“You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your skull,” I say to Chiara, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes Aria step back in shock.