Page 35 of Broken Wolf Heart (Mafia Pack #3)

LEXI

A fter standing up front to shake hands for what feels like hours, Grey and I are the last ones out of the church.

The doors creak closed behind me, a final breath let out by the building like it’s relieved the funeral is over.

Me too. My hands still shake a little from the speech I gave—not because I regret it but because the adrenaline hasn’t stopped buzzing through my veins.

People keep coming up to shake my hand, their expressions tight with grief but softened with something else. Approval? Acceptance? A few even give me half-smiles, like they believe what I said about change, about strength, about a future that looks different than what Franco would’ve allowed.

I clutch Grey’s hand tighter as we linger on the steps of the church, away from the crowd gathering around Vincenzo below.

Up until now, the questions have all been about how he’s coping with the loss of his longtime friend and leader.

Or what he thinks about my proposed changes for healing this city from corruption.

I know because Andy has texted me updates and because those are all questions we fed the press through back channels .

I wasn’t here to witness his answers, but I can guess they’ve all been politician-smooth and egotistical. For once, I don’t even care what bullshit he’s fed them. The real show’s about to start. And for once, I’m not the one in the crosshairs.

Anxious, I scan the crowd and spot Andy near the news van parked at the curb. Our eyes meet, and I give the slightest nod. She says something to a guy standing on the outskirts of the crowd gathered. The cameraman from yesterday’s interview.

He responds and then heads over to where Savannah stands with the other reporters surrounding Vincenzo.

Mia appears at my other side. “Is it happening?” she whispers.

“Wait for it,” I murmur.

Off to the side, half a dozen of my pack enforcers, including Donahue and Camila, stand ready and waiting to take Vincenzo into custody. But not before he’s blindsided with exposure.

Savannah shoulders her way to the front. Her cameraman is rounding the fringes, his camera pointed at her and Vincenzo.

“Mr. Diavolo, can you comment on the financial records I received this morning linking you to illegal arms deals, including arming a rogue pack in the northeast for magical warfare last spring?” Savannah asks.

Before the funeral, Andy delivered a thick file to her that contained all the records necessary to expose Vincenzo for who he really is.

Bank records. Names of the packs he’s sold to.

Dates of the meetings. There’s even a written statement from a hex witch with data on the lethal ingredients in some of his weapons.

At her question, the crowd erupts with shocked demands and urgent questions of their own.

Vincenzo’s surprise is evident on his slack face .

My pulse jumps.

Here we go.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vincenzo says, but they ignore his denials in favor of more questions.

“Can you tell us where you go for the money to fund production of this magnitude?” Savannah presses. “The bank records we obtained show no trail between your accounts and the production costs themselves. So, who paid for these weapons?”

“Did Franco know about this?” another reporter shouts.

“You hear that?” Dutch says under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s the sound of a man whose empire is falling.”

“Shhh,” I whisper, even as a grin tugs at my lips at the sight of Vincenzo’s obvious floundering. I can’t help it. It’s petty. It’s dangerous. It’s everything I’ve been waiting for.

Grey leans in closer, brushing his mouth against my ear. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” I whisper back. “Taking him down without shedding any more blood in the process is all I could hope for.”

He chuckles low in his throat, and I can feel the vibration of it against my side, warm and grounding and all mine. The last time we were in this church, it was to exchange wedding vows. To promise each other a future together. I can only hope this moment leads us closer to that future.

The reporters’ questions reach a fever pitch. Then—finally—one voice cuts through the noise.

“Those documents are forgeries,” Vincenzo says, voice loud and sharp. It’s not so much the denial in his words but the alpha power reverberating through his tone.

Despite the fact that half of them aren’t even his pack, the crowd shuts up.

“This is a smear campaign,” he goes on, cheeks flushing with the only sign of his rage, “An orchestrated attempt to discredit my leadership during a time of grief and transition.”

Smooth. Confident. The voice of a man used to controlling the room.

“They’re not forgeries,” a reporter says. “We’ve verified the accounts with three separate sources.”

I blink, surprised. We knew Savannah would distribute the files to the others, but fact-checking so quickly is impressive.

“Mr. Diavolo, how do you explain the transfers of funds earmarked for community support to shell companies under your wife’s maiden name?” Savannah asks.

My heart lurches at that.

Grey’s mom?

I look over and find Grey stony and tense. “She probably has no idea,” he murmurs.

I search the crowd for Serena, but she’s nowhere to be found. I exhale. Good. Hopefully, she’s already slipped away from him.

“Is it true you used your access to city funds to launder over thirty million dollars in the last decade?” another reporter asks.

My shock deepens. Thirty million?

I didn’t even realize…

The crowd keeps pressing in, more voices, more accusations. Cameras flash. Vincenzo’s voice starts to splinter, his answers growing shorter, clipped with rage.

Grey squeezes my hand. “It’s working.”

I nod, breathless, ready to give the signal to Donahue and Camila to move in.

Because, for a moment—just one stolen breath of clarity—I actually think this might be enough.

That maybe we can win this without another bloodbath.

That exposing Vincenzo publicly will fracture his support and give our people room to breathe. That we can rebuild something better.

Something real .

Maybe even something… safe.

But then?—

“Since you’re all so interested in transparency,” Vincenzo snarls, voice louder than before, “Let me share something that’s not yet public knowledge.

I am officially declaring my general, Alvaro Martinez, a missing person.

He hasn’t been seen in seventy-two hours, and all the evidence my pack has uncovered points to foul play. ”

My stomach plummets.

Grey doesn’t move.

“I’ve submitted his cell phone data to my best trackers,” Vincenzo continues.

“The last known location for Alvaro was a warehouse under the jurisdiction of the new alpha, Lexi Giovanni, and her mate, Grey Diavolo. Now, I know our packs live by a code that the strongest survive. But abducting a general and killing him in cold blood is not part of that code. If the evidence proves true, I will have no choice but to retaliate with the full force of my pack.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

And then?—

Flashbulbs.

Gasps.

Shouted questions.

Not aimed at him anymore but at us. Like a wave surging, the sea of reporters suddenly flocks up the steps toward us.

Grey’s grip on my hand goes steel-tight.

“He did not just do that,” Mia hisses.

“Shit,” Dutch mutters.

I look out over the heads of the crowd and find Vincenzo already watching me. Our eyes lock, and his flush of triumph morphs into something darker. Smug. Vengeful.

He knew exactly what he was doing, letting those accusations against him build and build. All so he’d have their full attention when he accused me of murder—the only thing worse than the things we’d said about him.

The adrenaline from our near-win is still thrumming inside me, but now it turns to nausea. Acid claws at my throat.

Because, for a minute there, I’d started to believe victory without a war was possible. Now, I remember what I should have never forgotten: Fighting men like Vincenzo will never be without bloodshed.

Not in this city. Not in this life.

And I might be a fool to wish for it now.

“Start walking,” Grey says, his voice low and insistent beside me.

I do.

He’s right—we can’t afford to linger. Not when Vincenzo’s just painted a bloody target on our backs with perfect media optics. He doesn’t have to prove we did anything. He only has to suggest it.

Let the public do the rest.

Reporters follow us all the way to the limo waiting. They press in around me, shouting questions, snapping pictures, demanding answers. I keep my head down and ignore them, clinging to Grey’s hand like a lifeline.

With Mia and Andy offering cover from behind, we reach the limo and slide into the backseat. Dutch climbs in front with Crow, who drives. Across from me in the backseat, Mia and Andy are both already pulling out their phones as they talk about how to “start spinning the narrative.”

Grey rests a hand on my thigh, grounding me as the car pulls away from the church and back into the city traffic.

I glance over to find him staring out the window, jaw tight, his other hand clenched in a fist against his leg.

His wolf is close. I can feel it in the air between us, simmering just below the surface.

The darkness is there too. I can feel it through our mate bond like a toxic cloud .

But he hasn’t let go of me.

Not once.

And even if everything else feels like it’s slipping, his touch doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His eyes cut to mine. “For what?”

“For believing we could win so easily. For thinking, if I gave the right speech or exposed the right lie, we could come out of this without more blood on the floor.”

His gaze softens, and he shifts to face me more fully. “You were right to hope.”

I shake my head. “Hope’s a liability in this game.”

“No,” he says, fierce now. Andy and Mia both look up from their phones. “Hope is what keeps us from becoming them. I need you not to lose yours.”

The words land harder than I expect. My throat tightens, but I nod.

He curls our fingers together more tightly, like we’re not already fused at the soul.

“You did good today,” he tells me. “That speech? The way they looked at you after? They saw their alpha.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know about that.”

“Grey’s right,” Mia says firmly. “I watched their faces, and they saw the future in you.”

My skepticism must be obvious because Andy chimes in, “Vincenzo’s stunt doesn’t change that either.”

“If they believe I’m capable of killing Alvaro and covering it up…”

“You’re not like him, and they know it,” Mia says. “You think a pack this tired of old blood wants to go back to someone like him?”

I don’t answer.

Because I want to believe them. But I’ve seen what fear and hate can do. I’ve watched it crush people under its heel. Strong people. Survivors like me.

Grey must sense it—because the next thing he says is a whisper, meant only for me, even though Andy and Mia and everyone else can hear every word.

“I love you, Lexi Giovanni. I would tear this city apart for you. And anyone who’s decent only has to be in the same room with you to feel the same.”

My heart stumbles.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. “But I’d rather build it with you instead.”

Tears sting behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I just breathe him in again. His wolf, his fury, his faith in me.

“I love you too,” I whisper. “And I’m not letting him take this from us.”

His fingers flex around mine.

“That’s my girl,” he says.

And even with the war, even with Vincenzo’s accusations rising like smoke behind us—I let myself believe him.

Just for one breath.