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A shout cuts through the music. It's sharp and jarring. Glass shatters somewhere near the bar, and the crowd gasps, heads turning. One of Gallo's men, the one from the terrace, pulls a gun, his face twisted with intent. Panic erupts, screams piercing the air as guests scatter. But I’m already moving, my own weapon drawn from the holster beneath my jacket, my men closing in like wolves.
“Down!” I bark, shoving a guest out of the way as the first shot rings out. The bullet grazes the chandelier, sending a shower of crystal to the floor. My blood sings with adrenaline, my focus narrowing to the chaos. The men are everywhere, their guns flashing in the dim light, but my team is ready. Luca takes down the shooter at the terrace with a clean shot to the shoulder, whileMatteo tackles another near the bar, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch.
“Fina?” I shout across to Matteo, my voice frantic.
“Safely tucked away,” he replies, taking on a man from Stefano’s group.
Relief surges through me at knowing she won't be caught in this crossfire. I turn just in time to spot Roberto Gallo’s advisor, Damian near the stage. His face pale, his eyes darting as he realizes his plan is unraveling. He’s not fighting, just barking orders, trying to rally his men. Coward.
I charge toward him, dodging a stray bullet that whistles past my ear. One of his goons steps into my path, his fist swinging, but I sidestep, slamming the butt of my gun into his temple. He drops like a stone.
The room is a battlefield now, tables overturned, guests cowering behind them. My men are holding their own, their training kicking in, but both Gallos and Vitales are desperate, their attacks sloppy but relentless. I take cover behind a pillar, my breath steady, my gun trained on Stefano. He’s trying to slip toward the side exit, his lieutenants covering him. Not today.
I fire, the shot clipping one of his men in the leg. He screams, collapsing, and Stefano freezes, his eyes locking on mine. There’s fear there now, raw and real. I step out, my gun steady, my voice low. “Call them off, Stefano. Now.”
He hesitates, his jaw working, but another shot from Luca—taking down a Gallo near the bar—forces his hand. “Enough!” he shouts, his voice hoarse. “Stand down!”
The men from the two groups falter, their weapons lowering, and my team moves in, disarming them with ruthless efficiency. Within minutes, the fight is over, the surviving men on their knees, hands behind their heads. My men cuff them, dragging them toward the exit where our vehicles wait to take them into custody. Stefano's face is a mask of fury, but he knows he’s lost. I’ll deal with him later.
I lower my gun, my chest heaving, the adrenaline still spiking through me. The room is a wreck, broken glass and overturned furniture everywhere, but we’ve won. I’ve won. My men are already calming the guests, ushering them out, spinning a story about a drunken brawl gone wrong. The truth will stay buried, as it always does.
Then I feel it—a sharp sting in my arm. I glance down, frowning at the tear in my sleeve, the blood seeping through. A bullet grazed me, nothing serious, but the sight of it sends a jolt through me. I hadn’t even noticed in the heat of the fight.
“Enzo!” Serafina’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent. She’s beside me before I can blink, her hands on my arm, her eyes wide with something I can’t name. Worry? Fear? “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” I snap, jerking my arm free. “What the fuck are you doing here? You were supposed to stay hidden. You could’vegotten shot.” My voice cracks, betraying the terror clawing at me. I scan her, frantic, searching for blood, for any sign a bullet caught her. The thought makes my pulse hammer, my chest tight.
“Nonsense,” she fires back, her voice fierce but trembling. “I can handle myself. But you—you’re bleeding.” Her defiance doesn’t hide the shake in her hands as they hover near my arm, her worry spilling out, raw and unguarded.
I want to shove her away, to growl that I don’t need her fussing. My blood’s still a wildfire, my nerves frayed from the fight, from the memory of her lips in that club three nights ago—hot, desperate, claiming me like she’d burn the world to ash for me. Her touch now is a spark to gasoline, threatening to consume me. “I’m fine,” I say, but it’s a lie, and her scent—jasmine laced with something wilder—chokes my senses, unraveling my control.
She doesn’t back off. Of course she doesn’t. Her jaw locks, that stubborn fire flaring in her eyes, and she grabs my arm again, her fingers digging in, unyielding. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Let me see it.”
I open my mouth to tell her to get lost, but her touch is a brand, searing through the storm in my head. I’m too raw, too wired, and she’s too close, her breath warm, her gaze pinning me like she sees every fracture in my walls. “Serafina,” I warn, my voice a low growl, but it’s weak, and she knows she’s got me.
“Shut up,” she hisses, her voice a whip. She tears a strip from her dress, the fabric splitting with a sharp, angry rip. She presses it to the wound, her hands steady despite the tremor in her fingers, and I hiss at the sting, the pain grounding me even as it fuels the heat between us. Her eyes flick to mine, and the world collapses—just her, me, the press of her hands, the chaos of the ballroom fading to a distant hum.
It’s too much. The fight, the blood, her—it’s a flood, and I’m sinking. My hands move on instinct, cupping her face, my thumbs tracing the sharp edge of her jaw. I kiss her, and it’s no gentle brush, no fleeting spark. It’s a detonation, raw and ravenous, my lips crashing into hers like I can pour every shred of my fear, my rage, my hunger into her. She gasps, a soft, startled sound that vibrates against my mouth, but then she’s kissing me back, her hands fisting my shirt, yanking me closer like she’s terrified I’ll slip away.
Her lips are molten, fierce and unrelenting, tasting of wine and defiance, and I’m drowning. Her tongue tangles with mine, bold, demanding, a clash that sets my blood ablaze. I growl, low and primal, deepening the kiss, my fingers knotting in her hair, scattering the pins. Her curls spill over my hands, soft and wild, and I tug, tilting her head to claim her deeper. Her worry pulses through the kiss, in the desperate clutch of her fingers on my shoulders, the way she presses herself against me, like she’s anchoring me to life. She’s scared for me, and it’s there in every frantic brush of her lips.
My hands slide to her waist, pulling her flush against me, her body fire against mine. Her nails dig into my nape, a sharp sting that makes me hiss, and she seizes the moment, her tonguesweeping into my mouth, claiming me with a ferocity that steals my air. Her teeth graze my lip, sparking pain and pleasure, and I retaliate, sucking her lower lip, savoring her shudder.
The kiss is a battlefield, her worry clashing with my need, and we’re still lost in it, lips locked, bodies pressed tight, the world burned away.
14
Serafina
Enzo’s lips crash into mine in a searing, desperate kiss that ignites my blood. His tongue dives deep, tangling with mine. It's hot. It's demanding, and I kiss him back, just as fierce, just as reckless. My hands fist his shirt, my nails biting into his chest as my hands roam all over him, feeling him, assuring myself that he's right here with me.
I saw his blood tonight. For a moment there, I thought the bullet had done much more damage than purported. So, it's with all the fear my heart's managed to conjure for him, his safety—raw, choking—that fuels me, blending with his hunger. The unspoken terror of the night drives me and I pour it all into the kiss. It's all of me, unfiltered.
My mind deadens to everything else. The ballroom’s wreckage, splintered tables and shattered glass, fades away. It narrows to just this moment, with Enzo.
His hands grip my face roughly as his fingers press my jaw, angling me closer. I moan loudly, my nails scraping his neck, sparking a low growl that vibrates against my mouth. My gown’s silk clings to my flushed skin. It's too tight. I want it off. I want him on me, in me. I want him so desperately, I can feel the physical ache.
His body is hard, his cock thick, pressing against my hip through his pants. I arch into him boldly, my pussy aching, wet, needy. This man right here's my enemy, my husband, my everything right now, and it's my right to lay a claim to him—all of him.