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I should’ve listened to it. Because when my father opened that door, twelve rounds tore through him before he could even reach for his piece. One of them found his head, painting the wall behind him with what used to be my old man.
With my father’s blood still wet on my face and my hands shaking with rage, I had to stand before the Commission. Had to relive every moment—tell them what happened, watch their faces as they decided whether the son was worth as much as the father.
And now, with Alessa lying broken before me, I’m right back in that place again.
“Alessa.” My voice is sandpaper, a desperate plea for her to fight, to hold on. I cradle her head with one arm and scoop under her legs with the other, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Each step vibrates with contained fury as I carry her through the wreckage. My blood boils. My vision narrows. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
No one touches what’s mine.
Raffaele Russo just signed his own death warrant. He crossed me in my territory, on my turf. By the time I’m done with him, death will seem like mercy. I’ll take him apart piece by piece and make sure he stays conscious for every second of it. His pain won’t just be revenge—it’ll be my fucking masterpiece.
TJ paces beside the car, still barking orders into his earpiece. His back straightens when he sees me approaching with Alessa’s limp body. She’s breathing, I remind myself. Still breathing.
Without a word, he opens the car door, and I slide into the back with her. I position her head in my lap, cradling her like she’s made of glass. She’s so pale. Too pale. Every second feels like it’s pulling her further away from me. Her pulse is weak, and the fear that we might be too late claws at my chest.
I stroke her hair, fighting to keep my shit together. TJ shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s seat.
A month ago, she was living her cushy Manhattan life, chasing bylines and sipping overpriced coffee in her penthouse. Clean. Untouched. No blood under her manicured nails. No bodies buried in her past. She was miles from this shit—from the Commission’s reach, from the stink of death that follows me like a fucking shadow.
Now she’s neck-deep in a war zone she never enlisted for. No armor. No weapons. No calluses on that soft heart of hers. This business eats people alive—I’ve watched it happen—and she’s fresh meat thrown to hungry wolves. Seeing her laid out like this makes me want to tear someone’s spine out through their throat. And a cold thought slices through the rage: Maybe my goddamn button isn’t worth watching her bleed out. Maybe burning Alessa’s world to the ground for my own ambition makes me no better than the animals I put down.
“Did you call Gabriella?” I ask TJ, my voice barely recognizable.
“She’s prepping a private room at the hospital,” TJ answers, eyes meeting mine in the rearview. “I filled her in.”
“Good.” I nod firmly. “Find Raffaele Russo. Bring him to me alive.”
“What about Paolo Russo?”
“I’ll deal with him myself.”
The Commission can wait. None of this was part of the plan. Alessa wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Raffy wasn’t supposed to interfere. I don’t know what Paolo has to say about his cousin’slittle power play, and right now, I don’t give a fuck. All I want is Raffy’s head on a spike.
For bombing my church. For hurting what’s mine. For knowing the one secret that could destroy everything.
I run my fingers through Alessa’s hair again, wondering what god she pissed off to deserve such shitty luck. I want to hunt down everyone who’s ever hurt her and make them beg for death.
I can’t let her under my skin. But I can’t walk away from her either. Not after watching my mother’s corpse go cold on a morgue slab. Not after carrying my father’s blood-soaked body home in pieces.
The Russo name has already been taken from me once. Now it’s coming back to finish the job. And I’ll be damned if I let Alessa become another body that keeps me up at night.
Chapter twenty-three
Alessa
Painexplodesthroughmyskull before I even open my eyes like someone’s taken a jackhammer to my brain, each pulse sending shockwaves down my spine.
“Fuck you, Paolo!”
The male voice cuts through my fog, familiar and raw with rage. Dominic. My eyes fly open to blinding white, and for a second, I think I’ve died. But dead people don’t feel like they’ve been hit by a bus.
“You’re responsible for this. Raffy is your right-hand man. You sent him into my city and he bombs a church. A fucking church. Twelve people died, two of which were children. And Alessa—”
My name in his mouth triggers something primal. Relief floods my system, my body responding before my mind can catch up. My fingers twitch and connect with something warm—his hand, I realize, as his thumb traces circles on my skin.
“Alessa?”
I force my head toward his voice and immediately regret it. White-hot pain rips through my skull like a bullet carving a path through tissue and bone. A strangled sound escapes me, part gasp, part cry.