Page 7

MARCO

I shut Chiara’s apartment door quietly, the latch clicking into place behind me, but I know it won’t hold.

The hinges are half off. I stay still in the hallway for a moment, hand resting on the doorknob like I’m not ready to let go just yet.

How can I, when the heat of her is still on my skin—when the night we shared is still bleeding through me? I don’t move. I’m not sure I can.

Walking away should’ve been easy. I’ve done it a hundred times—left a warm bed, a spent body, no second thoughts. But this? This feels like leaving something that’s mine. Like I didn’t just fuck her—I branded her. And somehow, I left a piece of myself behind with her.

That doesn’t sit right with me. That room, her scent, the way she looked at me when I made her come on my tongue—it’s under my skin now. I should be done. I should be cold. But every step away feels wrong, like I’m putting distance between me and something I’m not finished with.

And I don’t leave things unfinished.

I can still hear those soft little whimpers she made when I filled her to her core, still see that gorgeous naked body wreathing beneath me as I caressed all those generous curves, still remember how tight her waist fit between my hands when we fucked.

But it’s not lust that’s keeping me standing here. Okay, maybe just a little. But more than that, it’s caution.

Those men didn’t come knocking for a warning—they came to hurt her.

Maybe worse. And they won’t be the last. The stench of blood’s already seeping into the floorboards of her living room—a silent reminder of how close it got.

She’s still in there, sleeping, probably thinking I’m still beside her.

I should’ve stayed. Should’ve told her what’s coming. But if I had, I would’ve lost focus.

If I stayed, I would have touched her again. Kissed the sleep from her lips, let my hands roam those gorgeous breasts, pulled her beneath me and forgotten the rest of the world. Again. And again. And I can’t afford to forget right now. Not with what I’ve done. Not with what’s still coming.

I curse myself and consider ringing the bell—telling her to head to the café until her door can be fixed, maybe to call someone she trusts. But I’ve got a feeling there’s no one else she can call.

I check my watch. Just past six. My men will be up. And I need a ride—my car’s still parked at the café, and I’m not walking back to get it.

I make the call.

“Boss?” Nicolo, my right hand, picks up on the first ring.

“Nicolo, I need someone to fix a busted door. Quiet, fast. I’m sending the address. I also need a pickup from the same spot.”

“We’ll be there in ten,” he says, no hesitation.

“One more thing,” I add. “There’s someone inside. Still asleep. She doesn’t get disturbed.”

There’s a pause—brief, but telling. He knows this isn’t standard. Still, he doesn’t question it.

“Understood.”

I pocket my phone and give her door one last look before turning away—before I get dragged back into something I can’t walk away from.

As I wait in front of the building for Nicolo to arrive, I lean against the cold brick wall, trying to distract myself by watching the world pass at this hour.

The street is quiet except for a distant garbage truck and the occasional early commuter.

I take a deep breath of city air, trying to clear my head of her scent—vanilla and sex that clung to her skin when I buried my face in it as I came.

Where the hell is Nicolo? I check my watch—ten minutes have already passed. I give it another five, and just as I’m about to call him back, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb and rolls to a smooth stop in front of me.

One man steps out from the passenger side, carrying a toolkit. He gives me a nod. “Where’s the job?”

I gesture toward the building and rattle off the directions.

He nods again and heads inside without another word.

The driver steps out, circles the front, and opens the rear door for me. I slide into the back seat, the leather cool against my back as I turn to face Nicolo.

“You’re up early,” I say as he passes me a coffee.

Nicolo’s face tightens with something more than the usual morning grimness.

“Talk,” I say, my voice hard—sharp like a blade honed for business. Nothing like the rough murmur I used on her skin last night—low, slow, the kind you use when you’ve got something in your hands you don’t want the world touching.

“We got hit. Hard.”

His voice is flat, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away.

He hands me a tablet, and I know before I even look that it’s bad.

The screen lights up with grainy security footage—night vision, timestamped from just a few hours ago.

One of our trucks was parked on a desolate road, its sides riddled with bullet holes like someone had emptied an entire magazine into it without hesitation.

The camera angle shifts, flickering, and I see it—movement in the corner. The driver stumbles out from our truck, already bleeding, already too late. Then he drops. Limp.

Lifeless.

“Driver’s dead. Shot twice in the chest. Didn’t even get a chance to radio it in.”

“Fuck,” I snap, fury and dread cutting through me. My men bust their asses for us. I don’t take it lightly when one goes down.

Even though it happens more often than one thinks.

The next frame shows an empty cargo hold.

“What was stolen?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

“Shipment out of Naples. We lost everything,” he says, quietly now. “The whole damn load’s gone.”

That shipment consisted of contraband worth two million dollars.

“Who the hell was behind this?” I ask, handing Nicolo back the tablet. I clench my fists, feel my knuckles turn white as they seek revenge, but I need someone to deliver it on.

“It was D’Angelo, but that’s not all.” Nicolo hesitates, which isn’t like him. He’s been my right hand since we were teenagers, back when my father first started grooming me to take over. He doesn’t hesitate, not with me.

“I’m listening.”

“The Costas are backing him now.”

My jaw tightens. The Costas. They’re old blood and old money. They came to power and kept it by staying neutral for generations, always content to manage their legitimate businesses and keep their hands clean while families like mine and D’Angelo’s fought for control of everything else.

“Confirmed?” I ask, though I can see the answer in the hard line of his mouth.

“Aldo Costa was seen meeting with D’Angelo last night. Our guy inside says they’ve formed an alliance.”

The car weaves through morning traffic, heading toward the outskirts of the city where our compound sits.

I stare out the window, not seeing the streets passing by, seeing instead the shifting pieces on the board.

The Costas have resources we don’t—political connections, legitimate business fronts, generations of respectability.

D’Angelo has the hunger, the ruthlessness.

Together, they’re a threat I can’t ignore.

“Your father wants to meet,” Nicolo adds, looking up from his phone. “He’s on his way over to yours.”

I nod and turn back to the window, but all I see is her—Chiara.

The way she looked at me last night, wide-eyed and aching, like I was the only thing in her world.

The way her body arched for me—mine, all mine.

She didn’t fake it like the others. No rehearsed moans or pretty lies.

Just raw, breathless sounds pulled straight from her soul.

Sounds I dragged out of her. Sounds that branded themselves into me.

I close my eyes, forcing the image away. One night. That’s all it was supposed to be. All it can be.

Now, I’ve got to get my head back in the game. We have to figure out this business with the attack.

When we pull through the gates of the compound, my father’s car is already in the driveway.

“Does he know what happened?” I ask as we pull up.

“Your father was the first to know.”

“And have we contacted the driver’s family?”

Nicolo’s face darkens. “Tommaso. Been with us five years. Has a kid on the way.”

I nod once. “Make sure his wife gets double the usual payment. And set up a trust for the child. Education, everything.”

“Already done.”

Of course it is. Nicolo knows what I’ll want before I say it half the time. It’s why he’s irreplaceable.

The main house looms ahead—a sprawling stone structure that looks like old money but was built barely thirty years ago, when my father’s business first boomed.

I can feel myself changing as I approach it, shedding the man who spent the night losing himself in a stranger’s bed.

With each step up the marble stairs, I become more fully what I am—heir to the Bianchi empire, my father’s son, a man who makes decisions that end lives.

My father waits in my office, sitting in my chair like it’s still his. In some ways, it always will be.

Aldo Bianchi built something from nothing, turned a small-time loan operation into one of the largest criminal enterprises in the country. Now seventy but strong as an oak, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that can freeze a man’s blood at twenty paces.

“Marco.” He doesn’t stand when I enter, just gestures to the chair across from the desk. My chair, in my office, but I sit where he indicates. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

“You heard,” I say.

“That we lost a man and nearly a shipment worth more than most people make in a lifetime? Yes, I heard.” His accent thickens when he’s angry, the Italian of his youth breaking through the polished English of his business persona.

“This was a message. D’Angelo is letting us know the rules have changed. ”

“I heard they’re with the Costas now.”

He nods, lips pressed into a grim line. “They’ve been looking for an excuse to move against us since that business with their shipping container last year. D’Angelo gave them one.”

I lean back in the chair, jaw tight, keeping what I know to myself—for now.