Page 14

“Alessio, enter.” His voice hasn’t changed in all these years—smooth as aged whiskey, with an undercurrent of venom.

I step into the room where he sits behind an antique desk, looking every bit like the godfather in an impeccably tailored suit. At sixty-five, his hair has gone silver, but his eyes remain sharp and calculating. Those eyes—the same shade of amber as mine, though his are colder, devoid of anything resembling humanity.

Does he see himself in me? Some ghost of recognition that he can’t quite place?

“You requested me, Don Calviño, I say, keeping my tone respectful but not subservient.

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. Drink?”

I take the offered seat but decline the alcohol. “I prefer to keep my mind clear when working,grazie.”

This earns a thin smile. “Smart. That’s what I’ve always appreciated about you, Alessio. You’re careful. Strategic.” He leans back, studying me with those predator’s eyes. “That’s why you’ve risen so quickly in our organization.”

I say nothing, waiting. Giancarlo Calviño doesn’t give compliments without purpose.

“My son is getting married in ten days,” he continues, rotating the heavy crystal tumbler in his hand. “A union with the De Angelis family. Strategic, necessary, but not without... complications.”

“I’ve heard about the arrangement,” I say neutrally, though internally I’m coiled tight. The De Angelis name is familiar—one of the five major families in New York, old Italian money with deep political connections. The kind of alliance that would strengthen Calviño’s position considerably.

“The bride, Isadora De Angelis, is a valuable asset. Young, beautiful, well-connected.” He slides a folder across the desk. “And possibly in danger.”

I open the folder, and the world stops spinning.

Green eyes. Full lips. Dark hair. The woman from the club stares back at me from a professional photograph—poised, elegant, looking nothing like the wild creature who’d wrapped her legs around my waist in a nightclub bathroom.

Chiara. Except her name isn’t Chiara. It’s Isadora De Angelis, daughter of Antonio De Angelis, soon-to-be wife of Luca Calviño.

My half-brother’s fiancée. The woman I fucked against a bathroom wall four nights ago.

My training saves me. Not a flicker of recognition crosses my face as I study the photograph, though my heart hammers against my ribs.

“Antonio De Angelis believes there may be threats against his daughter before the wedding,” Giancarlo continues, oblivious to my internal chaos. “A rival family perhaps, or someone wanting to disrupt our alliance.”

I force myself to look up from the photograph. “And my role in this?”

“I want you to serve as her personal security until the wedding. Full protection detail, 24/7. You’ll coordinate with her existing security team, but you answer to me directly.” He leans forward, those amber eyes boring into mine. “This is not just about protecting a valuable asset, Alessio. This is about family honor. My son’s future wife must arrive at the altar unharmed.”

The irony is almost enough to make me laugh. The son, he acknowledges, and the wife I’ve already had.

“I understand. When do I start?”

“Immediately. You’ll meet her this afternoon at the De Angelis estate. Antonio is expecting you.” He stands, indicating the meeting is over. “Luca will be handling business in Chicago until the weekend. I expect daily reports.”

I rise, tucking the folder under my arm. “Of course, Don Calviño. I’ll ensure her safety.”

As I turn to leave, his voice stops me. “Alessio.”

I look back, careful to keep my expression neutral.

“There’s something about this girl... my son is quite possessive of her. Be professional.”

The warning is clear, and the threat behind it clearer still. If he only knew.

“Always, sir.”

As I leave his presence, I can’t help but give my head a mental shake.

Talk about fucking irony.