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“How did you become Alessio Gravano?”

“Necessity. Maria raised me as Stefano Romano until I was fifteen. Then I learned the truth.” He releases my hand, standing abruptly. “I created Alessio Gravano from nothing. Built his reputation piece by piece. Made him someone Giancarlo Calviño would want in his organization.”

“You’ve been planning this for twenty years,” I say, awed by the dedication, the single-minded focus.

“Every day.” He moves to the window, staring at the street below. “Learning his operation. Gaining his trust. Finding his weaknesses. Building my own network of loyal men. All so that when I finally reveal myself, he’ll have nowhere to run.”

I join him at the window, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “What happens after?”

He turns to me, surprise flickering across his features. “After?”

“After you get your revenge. What then?”

Something shifts in his expression—uncertainty replacing the cold determination. “I never thought about after.”

The admission breaks my heart in ways I can’t fully understand. This man has lived for a single purpose so long that a future beyond it is unimaginable.

“Maria asked you the same question, didn’t she?” I guess. “At the nursing home.”

He nods, looking away. “She wants me to have a life after vengeance.”

“And will you?”

His eyes return to mine, searching. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you decide to do with everything I’ve shown you.”

The weight of his trust hits me fully then. He’s placed his entire operation, twenty years of planning, his very life in my hands. I could destroy him with a single phone call to my father or to Giancarlo himself.

“Why me?” I ask, the question that’s been burning since he appeared in my bedroom before dawn. “Why trust me with this?”

“Because you deserve to know what you’re marrying into.” He steps closer, his proximity sending electricity across my skin. “And because you’re the only variable I didn’t account for.”

“I don’t understand.”

His hand rises to my face, knuckles brushing my cheek in a touch so gentle it makes my breath catch. “You weren’t part of the plan, Isadora. Meeting you that night, wanting you... none of it was calculated.”

The confession hangs between us, charged with all the unspoken desire we’ve been suppressing since the moment he walked into my garden as my appointed protector.

I close my eyes briefly, letting myself lean into his touch. “I’m glad I searched your jacket.”

“And you found more than you should.” Not an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

“Yes.”

His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, leaving fire in its wake. “Reckless of me.”

“No,” I counter. “You weren’t careless. I was looking for answers. I was looking for...” I hesitate, then decide on honesty. “For reasons to explain why I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His pupils dilate, darkening those amber eyes. “And did you find them?”

“I found more questions. About who you really are. About what I really want.”

In the heartbeat that follows, something snaps between us—the tenuous restraint we’ve maintained since discovering each other’s identities. His mouth claims mine with the same devastating hunger from that night in the club, his hands tangling in my hair as he backs me against the wall.

I meet his passion with my own, weeks of denied desire crashing through carefully constructed barriers. My fingers clutch his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath the expensive fabric. He tastes of coffee and danger and something uniquely him that I’ve tried and failed to forget.