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Damiano's fingers drum once on his desk—a rare tell of his inner thoughts. "You were the last one I expected this from, Alessio." His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "Fucking women, sure. Getting involved? Never thought I'd see the day."
The words aren't an accusation—just an observation from a man who's known me almost twenty years. A man who's seen me execute his orders without question, who's watched me build walls around myself that no one was supposed to breach.
"I know," I admit. "I agree with you."
The admission hangs between us. In our world admitting vulnerability isn't something we do lightly. But this is Damiano and Enzo—the closest thing to brothers I've ever had. If I can't be honest with them, then who?
Damiano nods once, decision made. "Then we adapt."
Three simple words that carry immense meaning in our world. We adapt. We survive. We protect what's ours.
Damiano stands, signaling the end of our discussion. "Eight o'clock," he repeats.
I rise from my chair, knowing I've been dismissed. There's nothing more to say. We aren't men who need long conversations or emotional reassurances. The bond we share runs deeper than words.
They'll kill for me. I'll kill for them. And now they'll help me protect what's mine.
CHAPTER 25
Iperch on the edge of Alessio's bed, fingering the subtle pattern on his dark blue comforter. The room surprises me—spacious yet minimalist. Everything here serves a purpose. A large wooden dresser. A leather chair in the corner. A desk with nothing but a lamp and a closed laptop.
Half an hour has passed since Ginerva brought me to this room with a gentle hand on my back.
"Make yourself comfortable,cara," she'd said, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. "Can I bring you anything? Tea perhaps?"
The kindness in her voice had caught me off guard. In the years since my mother died, the staff at the Lombardi estate had maintained a professional distance—efficient but cold, likethey'd been instructed to keep their interactions with me to a minimum.
But Ginerva fussed over me, noticing my exhaustion immediately.
I stand up, too restless to remain still, and walk to the window. The Feretti estate sprawls before me—manicured gardens, stone pathways, and in the distance a fountain sparkling the afternoon light. It's beautiful in a way that reminds me of Italian villas from another era.
I move to the dresser, running my fingers lightly over the surface. I don't open any drawers—that would be an invasion of privacy I'm not willing to commit—but I notice a small silver frame tucked behind a watch box. A woman with Alessio's eyes smiles from the photograph. His mother, perhaps?
The door opens behind me and I turn quickly, feeling like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't.
Alessio fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the frame. His eyes latch with mine immediately, intense and unreadable.
Everything between us has changed in the span of days.
Alessio crosses the room to me.
"How did it go?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual despite the nervous flutter in my chest.
"I told them we're together now," he says.
"What?" The word escapes before I can stop it. "When did we agree we're together?"
His expression darkens instantly. The warm brown of his eyes turns cold, almost black. His jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching visibly.
"I said you were mine." His voice drops an octave, rough and dangerous.
Heat floods my cheeks. "But you told me you just have sex with most women. That you don't do relationships."
Alessio steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. He towers over me, not touching but close enough that I feel trapped between his body and the dresser behind me.
"You are not most women." Each word falls like a stone, heavy with meaning.
My pulse bangs in my throat. I'm not sure if it's fear or something else entirely making my skin tingle where his breath touches it.