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Chapter twenty-six

Dominic

T he package has been secured.

TJ’s text sits on my screen like a contract signed in blood. I slide my thumb across it, phone tucked beneath the table where the Commission can’t see. Marco Russo—contained, exactly where I want him. One problem handled. In this business, that just means the next threat gets its turn.

Men think going to war is hard. Try sitting at a table with people who’d slit your throat for showing weakness. These Commission fucks watching me like I’m meat—Fabio, Paolo, Vincenzo—they think I’m still the dog they can order around. They haven’t realized the leash broke a long time ago.

I adjust the cufflinks my mother gave me before she died—small silver pistols with pearl handles—a ritual that grounds me before every significant meeting. The weight of my shoulder holster presses against my ribs, the Beretta nestled inside a constant reminder of what I am and what I’ve done to get here.

I glance at the empty chair to my right, my pulse quickening at the thought of Alessa joining us. Bringing her today breaks every rule I’ve lived by. Never show attachment. Never reveal a weakness. Never let them see what matters to you. The moment you do, you’re giving them a blade and painting a target on your own throat.

My father taught me that lesson with his dying breath, blood bubbling between his lips as he gripped my shoulder, “They’ll use what you love to destroy you, figlio mio.” Yet here I am, about to parade the one thing that could destroy me in front of the most dangerous men in the country.

Twenty years of brutality of building walls so high nobody could climb them, all of it compromised because I can’t keep her at arm’s length like I fucking should.

Somewhere in Maine, Marco Russo is strapped to a chair in a basement with a bag over his head. TJ confirmed they took him at 4:13 this morning. Clean extraction, no witnesses, no trail. All because Alessa gave me the location—information she never should have shared. Information that makes me wonder if she’s starting to see this world the way I do. The thought shouldn’t satisfy me, but it does.

I check the time. Eight minutes until Alessa joins us. Eight minutes until I break the cardinal rule my father taught me as he bled out in my arms in the backseat, outside that warehouse in Boston— ‘ never let them see what matters to you.’ The old man died with his eyes open, hand gripping my collar, blood bubbling between his lips as he forced out his final lesson. I was fifteen. By midnight, I’d ordered my first hit.

“Are your brothers coming, Gianelli?” Fabio Giovani’s voice cuts through my thoughts. The old bastard sits to my left in his yacht club getup—turtleneck, chinos, aviators hiding eyes that have ordered the deaths of entire bloodlines. His fingers drum against his drink like he’s keeping time with a funeral march.

I’ve seen what Fabio does to people who disappoint him. This man ordered his own nephew’s tongue cut out for speaking disrespectfully at Sunday dinner. He’s the kind of old-school monster who believes in examples over mercy. The type who’d sooner exterminate a bloodline than forgive a slight. Yet he sits here, drinking my limoncello like we’re friends.

“No. They’re... occupied.” I maintain eye contact—in our world, looking away is offering your throat. Luca and Matteo are handling their assignments. Enzo is campaigning—getting further from family business with each passing day. My most political brother, with his secrets and his membership in that “club” downtown where politicians go to satisfy the kind of appetites that would destroy their campaigns if exposed. We all have our vices. His just comes with higher stakes.

“Is my daughter?” The question drips venom.

My muscles tense under my suit. Gabriella. Under my protection since the night Fabio tried to sell her to the Grimaldis like she was property. Blood of my blood as far as I’m concerned, even without shared DNA. If Fabio thinks he’s getting to her through me, he’s gravely miscalculated what I’m willing to do to keep my family safe.

I still remember her showing up at my door, soaked from the rain, eyes wild but voice steady: “I’ll put a bullet in my head before I let him use me as a bargaining chip.” I promised her sanctuary. Fabio’s been looking for a way in ever since.

“I invited her but she said she has three surgeries today.” She couldn’t be bothered. The lie slides off my tongue, smooth as the scotch I keep in my office desk. Gabriella would rather cut off her own finger than sit at the same table as her father. The protection I offer isn’t just a shield—it’s a wall built from Fabio’s own brutality, brick by brick.

“Figures,” he scoffs. “That woman doesn’t know how to value family time.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. Show pain to a man like Fabio, and he’ll peel your skin off an inch at a time. “I hardly call this family time.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes as I scan the table.

Paolo Russo has his face buried in his phone, probably trying to clean up whatever shit-show Raffaele’s left behind. The Russo family has been fracturing for years—cracks spreading like ice in spring. If Alessa gets pulled back into that cesspool, I’ll have to burn it to the ground. Simple as that.

Vincenzo Cappone sits across from me, fedora tilted, smoke curling from his lips like he’s auditioning for a gangster film from the 40s. Most dangerous of the Commission heads—the man treats killing like it’s an art form. I still remember the sound of his humming while he carved up that accountant who skimmed from the construction fund. The melody of “That’s Amore” mixing with screams as he peeled the man’s face off. Some men kill because they have to. Vincenzo kills because he likes the way blood feels on his hands.

“How’s that brother of yours, then?” Fabio’s question has edges sharp enough to cut.

“Which one?” I keep my voice light, but my body readies itself. With Fabio, conversations are minefields.

“The one that seems to be head over heels in love with Gabriella.”

Ice floods my veins. As an image of my kid brother flashes in my mind crying over a wounded bird, trying desperately to save it. My brother, the healer with hands gentle enough to mix the most complex compounds yet steady enough to stitch a wound under gunfire. The one who still says grace before meals despite everything we’ve done. The fucking paradox of him. The one who looks at Gabriella like she hung the fucking moon.

If Fabio knew just how deep that went—how Luca would walk into traffic if Gabriella so much as suggested it—he’d have a wire around my brother’s throat before sundown. Family isn’t just blood. It’s knowing exactly which bodies you’d bury without question.

“Thriving.” I shrug, radiating indifference. “And in love? I beg to differ. Those two can’t stand each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Fabio nods, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press. He takes another sip of his drink, no doubt wishing I’d offered something stronger than brunch cocktails. I considered it. But today needs clarity. Today needs them sober enough to understand exactly what I’m about to show them.

“Then what’s all the holdup, Gianelli?” Vincenzo interrupts, tapping ash with childish impatience.

“We’re waiting for someone—“ the words have barely left my mouth when I see her. “Ah, there she is.”

Alessa steps onto the deck, and the air changes.

Sunlight catches in her hair, turning it to fire. She moves with the confidence of someone who knows they’re walking into the lion’s den but brought a whip and chair. Hours ago, I found her hunched over the toilet, nerves tearing her apart from the inside out. I held her hair back, felt the tremors racking her body, and told her she could stay in her room. No one would blame her for avoiding the Commission. She’d wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes like steel: “I’m done hiding from these men.” Gabriella’s meds helped, but it was Alessa’s own spine of titanium that got her on her feet.

Her white top clings in all the right places, those dress pants molded to curves my hands mapped for hours last night. Every click of those beige heels on the deck is like a fucking heartbeat, sending blood straight to my groin. I’ve had her six ways to Sunday, left marks nobody can see, and still want more. It’s the kind of hunger that gets men like me killed. I remember those legs wrapped around me last night, nails drawing blood from my shoulders, teeth sinking into my neck to muffle her screams. The mark is still there, hidden beneath my collar—a brand I shouldn’t want but can’t bring myself to regret.

Her eyes—sharp, calculating, cold as winter—sweep over the Commission without acknowledging them, like they’re furniture rather than the most dangerous men in the country. Then she finds me, and for a breath, a microsecond, I see something softer. Something meant only for me before the armor locks back into place.

The message in her gaze is clear— I’m ready. Let them try.

Pride swells in my chest. This woman who once spat in my face now stands as my equal—prepared to face the monsters who’ve ruled our world from the shadows. I took her from her penthouse at gunpoint to get my fucking button. Now I’m looking at the same woman and thinking about walking away from twenty years of bloodshed. What kind of joke is that? Three weeks ago, I’d have cut off my own hand before giving up my shot at the Commission. Now? Fuck ’em all if they touch her.

She takes the seat beside me, and the balance of power shifts like tectonic plates. The scent of her perfume hits me—vanilla with something darker underneath, like the woman herself. A facade of sweetness over steel. Her presence is my greatest vulnerability and my unexpected strength.

For the first time, I’m not alone at this table. For the first time, I have something that matters more than power.

“What is she doing here?” Vincenzo’s voice could curdle milk. His contempt for women in this business is legendary—probably stemming from his mother leaving him in a trash can as an infant. Not that I’d ever mention it. Some wounds are too useful to ignore.

Alessa doesn’t flinch. She settles into her chair like it’s a throne, utterly unperturbed by the wolves surrounding her. The first time I saw her, I mistook her defiance for stupidity. Now I recognize it as a different kind of strength. I’ve killed without hesitation, but she faces monsters without blinking. It’s a power I’ve come to respect.

I place my hand on the table, inches from hers. Not touching—not yet—but close enough that I could close the distance before Vincenzo’s knife cleared his jacket. The predator in me catalogs every exit, every weapon, every threat in the room. Old habits from years of walking into places where half the people want you dead.

The real war’s starting now. For twenty years, I’ve spilled blood for power, for respect, for my fucking button. I’ve stepped over corpses to get where I am. Now I’m risking it all for her. And I’m throwing it all away for a woman who still flinches when I move too fast.

Dio mi aiuti —God help me—because nothing in my bloody rise to power has prepared me for this.

If I lose this game, it’s not just my corpse they’ll leave in the gutter. It’s Alessa. My brothers. Gabriella. Everyone under my protection. The Gianelli name wiped out like it never existed.

I’ve seen what happens to men who choose a woman over the family. My uncle Tony bled out in his bathtub after falling for an FBI agent’s wife. Carlo Venucci’s body was never found after he tried to leave the life for his goddamn Goomar. This world doesn’t allow weaknesses.

And as the Commission’s eyes zero in on Alessa like vultures spotting fresh meat, I realize I’ve just shown them mine.