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I move through the chaos like a predator, every step calculated, every shot precise. A Rossi hitman lunges at me from the shadows, his knife gleaming. I duck, pivot, and drive my gun’s butt into his temple. He crumples before I put a bullet in his chest.

Another emerges, this one faster, aiming for Marco. I don’t hesitate. My shot tears through the night, and the man drops like a stone. Marco turns, his lips twitching in what might pass for a grin.

“Still saving my ass, I see,” he says, reloading his weapon.

“You’re too slow,” I reply, firing off another round.

The tide begins to turn. The Rossis are faltering, their formation breaking as we push forward. Valentina’s face flashes in my mind—her strength, her defiance, her unwavering resolve to stand by me. It fuels me, sharpens my focus.

Then I see him.

In the chaos, a figure emerges, one I recognize instantly—Giovanni Rossi, the family’s youngest son and their most ruthless tactician. He’s orchestrating the chaos, his commands cutting through the noise like a blade.

My target.

I move toward him, every step deliberate. He spots me, his lips curling into a sneer. The bastard thinks he’s won.

“Salvatore!” he shouts, his voice carrying over the din. “You can’t protect them forever. You’ll die here like your father should have.”

The words ignite something primal in me.

With a roar, I charge. His men close ranks, but it’s useless. I’m unstoppable. A bullet grazes my shoulder, pain blooming hot and sharp, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’m on him in seconds, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack.

Giovanni stumbles, blood dripping from his mouth. “You think this ends with me?” he spits. “There will always be more.”

“Not for you.” I press the barrel of my gun to his temple.

He doesn’t beg. I respect him for that. But respect doesn’t stay my hand.

The shot rings out, final and absolute.

By dawn, the estate is silent. Smoke rises from the south lawn, bodies litter the ground, and the faint smell of charred wood lingers in the air. The Salvatore family has prevailed, but the cost was steep.

I stand on the steps of the mansion, Marco at my side. His face is drawn, exhaustion heavy in his features. “It’s over,” he says, his voice rough.

“Not yet,” I reply, my eyes sweeping the devastation. “We send a message. Every Rossi loyalist left breathing will know what happens when they come for my family.”

Marco nods grimly. “Consider it done.”

I turn, and there she is. Valentina, standing in the doorway, her face pale but resolute. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the chaos fades.

She steps forward, her chin held high. “What now?”

“Now?” I take her hand, pulling her close. “Now, we rebuild.”

Her gaze is steady, searching mine. “Together?”

“Always,” I say, the words a vow.

Valentina is at my side, her hand in mine as we stand before our men.

She’s no longer just my wife.

She’s the Salvatore queen.

The silence after war is almost louder than the chaos itself.

Bodies litter the estate grounds, both Rossi and Salvatore alike, their blood seeping into the soil.

Smoke lingers in the air, the acrid scent of gunpowder mingling with the metallic tang of spilled life.

My men are regrouping, the survivors moving like shadows, picking through the wreckage and securing the perimeter.

I stand in the center of it all, my hands still slick with blood, my chest heaving from the fight. Marco approaches, his face grim, though his eyes glint with the satisfaction of survival.

“It’s done,” he says simply, gesturing toward the bodies being loaded into trucks. “The Rossis are finished. Their strongholds will crumble by morning.”

My jaw tightens, but I nod. The victory is hollow. We’ve won, but at a cost. Men I’ve fought beside for years are gone, their loyalty snuffed out like candles in the wind.

“Call the housekeeper,” I say, my voice low but firm. “I need to know Leo’s safe.”

Marco pulls out his phone without hesitation, his usual quip absent as he dials. My fingers curl into fists as I wait, the seconds stretching into eternity.

“Mrs. Lanza,” Marco says after a beat. His voice softens slightly, a rare show of respect. “Is the boy all right?”

He glances at me, nodding. “Yes, we’ll send someone to fetch him tomorrow morning. Keep him close tonight.”

Relief washes over me, but it’s brief. The war is over, but the scars it’s left will take much longer to heal.

By the time the next day rolls around, the estate is already buzzing with activity. Repairs are underway, shattered windows have been replaced, and bullet holes are patched, as if the battle was nothing more than a passing storm.

Valentina is in the dining room when I finish overseeing things—it’s late evening by this time. Her face is pale.

Leo is sitting beside her, his little hands gripping a fork as he digs into his plate of pasta. He looks up when I enter, his face lighting up with a smile that’s brighter than anything I deserve.

“Daddy!” he calls, waving me over.

I walk to the table, ruffling his hair before taking the seat beside him. Valentina’s gaze flickers to mine, her lips parting slightly as if she wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

Dinner is quiet. Leo chatters happily about the toy car he left at the hotel, oblivious to the storm we’ve just weathered. I glance at Valentina again, and this time, she holds my gaze.

After dinner, Leo’s energy finally gives out. His head droops forward, his little hands clutching the edge of the table as sleep claims him.

“I’ve got him,” Dante says, rising from his seat with a wink. He scoops Leo up effortlessly, cradling him in his arms.

As he turns to leave, he throws a glance over his shoulder. “You two lovebirds deserve some privacy.”

Valentina’s cheeks flush, and she looks away, but I don’t miss the faint smile that tugs at her lips as I pull her to me.

Her body softens in my arms, her breath steadying against my chest. I brush my hand gently over her back, letting her know without words that I’m here, that I won’t let her go—not now, not ever.

“Come with me,” I murmur, tilting her chin up so her tear-bright eyes meet mine.

She nods without hesitation, and I lift her effortlessly, cradling her against me. Her arms wrap around my neck as I carry her out of the suite and through the quiet corridors of the estate, to our bedroom.

The dim light catches the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lips, and I can’t resist. Leaning down, I brush my mouth over hers, a kiss that’s soft, deliberate, and filled with all the things I can’t quite put into words.

She sighs into me, her fingers threading into my hair as she pulls me closer.

I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Her breath hitches, her lips parting, but there’s no hesitation in her eyes, only trust and a simmering desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, letting my fingers trail down her cheek, her neck, the line of her collarbone. “Every part of you, Valentina. Every inch.”

Her hands slide up my chest, her touch light but insistent. “Show me,” she whispers, her voice low and filled with a need that matches my own.

“I intend to.”