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I freeze for a moment. I would consider it a betrayal if my sister or best friend ratted her out to my mother.

“She is something,” I say, not wanting to give my mother too much information.

“I would like to meet her.”

“I need you to give her a chance. It’s non-negotiable.”

I am not only asking that as her son, but as the head of the family.

“As you wish.”

One of the staff members brings us two cups of coffee, and my mother watches the picture of us as a family hanging on the wall by the door. It was taken on the same day my father died and my sister got kidnapped.

The shift in one’s life always takes you by surprise. Maybe because we ignore the signs, or maybe because we want things to happen as planned, we think nothing bad can happen on our way to achieve our goals—falsely believing we’re in control.

I remember I was happy on that day, just like I am today. The parallel is uncanny. A shudder runs down my back, chilling me instantly.

I spend a bit more time with my mother then walk around the compound, greeting my men.

I speak to Lorenzo, the head of security. He informs me that things are running smoothly at the compound with no incidents to report.

Looking around, the compound is a fortress with its thick walls, wrought-iron gates and the high fence surrounding it that would stop a tank and shock anyone to death, to the men patrolling day and night.

The only person who doesn’t need an invitation is Mika. All the others would be dead before they even reach the gates.

That knowledge gives me some peace in my blaring-with-threatening-scenarios brain as I pass a few other guards posted in the shadows of the trees, driving down the private road that leads to the main street.

With the twilight fading away, I slow down, wanting to prolong getting home to compose myself. Unease has me in a vice grip, my heart galloping in my chest. My fingers tap at the wheel, and I roll my shoulders to loosen my stiff muscles. Just like I sense her, she senses me, and we have enough to deal with. I can’t appear as a man who is afraid of anything. But only the thought of something happening to Luciana and my family rips me apart.

War or peace. I don’t care what it’s going to be, but finding a peaceful solution to end this would be preferable. I am selfish and want to enjoy my time with her without a bloody war keeping me busy. If not, I won’t mind spilling the Council’s blood to have her. I did it once before even Mika was afraid I would go rogue for good.

Parked in the middle of the road is a black bike—one I instantly recognize. Perched on it is Luciana. I would recognize her figure in damn anything. The black suit molds to her slender curves like a second skin. After she takes off her helmet, she redoes her ponytail, her long hair falling down her back.

I press on the brakes, the car coming to an abrupt stop before I haul myself out. Ten feet separate us.

She tilts her head, giving me a sad smile before she puts her poker face on, her finger tapping the gun at her side.

“What are you doing, Luciana?” I snap, cracking my neck. Fury and turmoil create a deadly concoction that poisons my veins.

She can’t pull this shit. Not now when I have done everything in my power for my family to accept her and put my word at risk.

“What I was always supposed to do,” she says with no inflection, but there’s a small shake in her voice.

“Yes? What exactly? Be my fucking woman?” I snap.

She lifts her gun and points it straight at my chest.

“No, your killer.”

A growl rumbles in my throat. “Come on, Luciana, we went through this… you can’t kill me.”

My heart pounds a frantic beat. Anguish making me weak in the knees. This feels nothing like the other times, and trying to salvage the situation, I remind her of that.

Finality clings to the air, thickening it—suffocating me with every inhale.

A fraction of a second is all it takes for your life to end. Immobilized, I watch all my hopes and plans derail, crashing straight into hell and taking me with them.

She pulls the trigger, and the bullet rips through the air with a resounding death sentence. It’s not the force of the bullethitting me straight in the chest that has me buckling, but her obvious intention.