Page 35

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the crowded ballroom.

He laughs softly. “I’ve known you too long. You think I can’t see how you look at her?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m doing my job, nothing more.”

“Your job is to guard the future Calviño bride, not fuck her.”

My hand moves before my brain registers the decision, grabbing Vittorio by the collar and pulling him into a shadowed alcove. “Watch your mouth,” I growl, keeping my voice low though every instinct screams for violence.

To his credit, Vittorio doesn’t flinch. “I’m on your side, remember? Always have been.” His eyes—sharp, assessing—search mine. “But I need to know if she’s compromised our operation.”

I release him, smoothing his lapel in a gesture that could be mistaken for friendly to any observers. “The plan remains unchanged.”

“Are you sure about that?” He straightens his tie. “Because the Alessio Gravano I know would never risk twenty years of work for a woman.”

“She’s not just—” I stop myself, realizing I’m proving his point. “The plan. Remains. Unchanged.”

But even as I say the words, I know they’re not entirely true. Something has shifted since Isadora entered my life—first as a nameless encounter in a club bathroom, then as the bride I was assigned to protect, and now as a willing accomplice in my revenge. The singular focus that has driven me for decades now shares space with something unexpected. Something I never allowed myself to want.

A future beyond vengeance.

“If you say so.” Vittorio doesn’t sound convinced. “Just remember what’s at stake. And who’s still suffering while we wait.”

Maria. He means Maria, wasting away in that nursing home, cancer consuming her body while I complete the mission she prepared me for. My hand reflexively touches the pocket where I keep her photograph, the talisman that reminds me why I became Alessio Gravano in the first place.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell him. “Five more days.”

Vittorio nods, slipping back into the crowd as smoothly as he appears. I resume my position along the wall, vigilant eyes tracking potential threats. It’s a role I’ve perfected—the silent sentinel, the dangerous shadow in Giancarlo’s organization. So good at my job that he trusts me with his son’s future bride.

The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so fraught with peril.

Across the room, I notice a shift in the dynamic between Isadora and Luca. His fingers dig into her waist, his smile growing strained as he leans to whisper something in her ear. Her posture stiffens, though her social mask remains firmly in place.

I move without conscious thought, weaving through the crowd with predatory grace. I would tear Luca apart with my bare hands before I allow him to cause any harm to my woman. As I draw closer, I catch fragments of their conversation.

“—embarrassing me in front of the commissioner,” Luca hisses, his grip visibly tightening on her arm.

“I simply asked about his charity work,” Isadora replies, her voice steady despite the pain she must be feeling. “It wasn’t a political statement.”

“Everything is political in our world.” Luca’s face contorts with barely controlled rage. “You know better than to question—”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Calviño?” I interrupt, my voice pitched low enough that only they can hear.

Luca’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing. “Nothing that concerns you, Gravano.”

“Miss De Angelis’s safety concerns me directly,” I counter smoothly. “That includes her well-being at all times.”

Isadora’s eyes find mine, gratitude flickering beneath her composed exterior. Luca notices the exchange, his grip on her arm tightening further.

“You forget your place,” he says, venom dripping from each word. “You work for my father, not for her.”

“My assignment is clear,” I reply, keeping my expression neutral even as rage burns through my veins. “To ensure Miss De Angelis reaches the altar unharmed.”

The double meaning of my words isn’t lost on Isadora. Her lips twitch slightly, the ghost of a smile that only I can recognize.

“Then do your job from a distance,” Luca orders, turning his back dismissively.

I should walk away. The strategic move would be to retreat, to avoid drawing attention to the growing tension between us. But something in me refuses to yield—not when his fingers are on Isadora’s skin. Not when fear flickers beneath her carefully constructed façade.