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Chapter twenty-seven

Alessa

D eath stares me down from the wrong end of a gun barrel, and all I can think about is how the universe’s twisted sense of irony led me here.

The Commission—the organization I’ve spent my life running from—now forms a protective barrier around me, weapons drawn. Dominic stands at the front of this unlikely shield, his broad shoulders tensed as he positions himself between me and the threat. My captor. My protector. The lines between those roles blur more each day, and now isn’t the time to untangle what we’ve become to each other.

I stay as still as possible, terrified that one wrong move, one wrong intake of breath, and Raffaele—my mother’s unhinged cousin—might finally snap and pull the trigger. He doesn’t stand a chance against four armed men, but Dominic is the first person in his line of sight. If Raffaele decides to fire, it’ll be Dominic who takes the bullet. And I’d rather not bet on the former’s aim to find out if it’s true.

The memory of my mother flashes through my mind—her teaching me to shoot, her hands steadying mine as I aimed at paper targets. “Never point unless you intend to fire,” she’d whisper, her breath warm against my ear. “And never fire unless you intend to kill.” The contrast between those cherished lessons and this nightmare makes my chest ache with a hollowness I can’t fill.

“How did you get inside?” Dominic asks, his body shielding me from having eye contact with Raffy. The tension radiating from him makes the air between us feel electrically charged, and despite everything, I find comfort in his protective stance.

“Do you want the long version or the short version?” Raffy asks but laughs out loud before anyone can even say something as he walks closer to the table. His cologne—expensive and overwhelming—mixes with the metallic tang of adrenaline and fear that fills the room. “Who am I kidding? Let’s just say all it took for me was one mole, and I was able to hack through your system. Now, all of your security details are my hostages. And naturally, I’ve got three men standing by, ready to step in if things... take a turn. And by ‘step in’, I mean put a bullet in each one of you.”

All eyes are on Raffy as he rights Dominic’s toppled chair and calmly positions it at the head of the table before settling into it. Something in the casual grace of his movements reminds me of my mother—the same controlled precision, the same economy of motion. A family trait I never wanted to inherit.

He smirks at the men before him, unfazed, as he places his gun on the table—a silent warning that he can grab it in an instant if they dare to do something reckless. And something deep inside me says that if they do, I’ll be the one to bear the brunt of the fallout.

My gaze lingers on the family sigil etched into the gun’s hilt, and I can’t help but wish I’d brought my mother’s pistol with me as well. Maybe that lonesome bullet will serve its purpose if it burns a hole through Raffy’s head. Maybe it’s going to be far more rewarding if I take the shot myself. The violent thought shocks me—this world Dominic inhabits is already changing me, already making me think in terms of survival over morality.

“I can’t believe the gang’s all here.” Raffy shakes his head in disbelief. He licks his lower lip and reaches for Dominic’s cigarillo tin, helping himself to one. Striking a silver Zippo, he lights, inhaling deeply as the tip flares to life. He picks it from his mouth, holding it between two fingers, and exhales, a cloud of smoke puffing out in slow lazy tendrils. “Oh. It’s the good stuff, I see—I quite like it.”

A deep woody aroma with hints of cedar and spice kisses the air as we all watch the intruder take the tin and keep it in the inside pocket of his white blazer. Sweat trickles down my spine, my silk blouse sticking uncomfortably to my back as the tension mounts with each passing second.

“What do you want?” Dominic asks and I squeeze his hand to tell him to tread lightly, that Raffy is a ticking time bomb and none of these men know him well enough to predict what he’s going to do next. The warmth of his skin against mine is my one tether to sanity in this surreal standoff.

Raffy ignores his query as he reaches for the pitcher of lemonade mimosa and refills the glass on his right like he’s some kind of esteemed guest.

“Hello, Alessa, dear,” he smirks, extending his hand toward my face. I flinch, instinctively pulling my head back as his fingers edge closer. The golden rings stacked on each digit glint in the light, matching the gaudy gold chains adorning his wrists, as if he’s desperate to flaunt his excess. I’d bet they’re not even his, to begin with.

His hand smells of expensive tobacco and something darker—gunpowder, maybe. It’s a scent that sends my mind racing back to childhood visits with my mother’s side of the family, moments where tension hung thick in the air as business was discussed in hushed tones behind closed doors.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Dominic hisses, stepping forward with swift precision to block Raffy’s advance, his hand snapping up to slap Raffy’s arm away before it can reach me.

“So territorial.” Raffy doesn’t seem the least bit offended as he pulls back his arm, rubbing the spot where Dominic struck him. Instead, a manic smirk spreads across his face, dark and foreboding. The pit in my stomach churns with unease, an unshakable sense that Raffy’s revenge is inevitable—and it’s only a matter of time before he comes to collect.

“What are you doing here, Raffy?” The staredown between Raffy and me is interrupted when Paolo says sarcastically from the other side of the table. My mother’s cousin rolls his eyes like a damn diva—like we’ve somehow inconvenienced him.

“Ciao, Paolo.” He sounds like he gargled venom this morning before deciding to stop by as he slowly turns to face the head of the Russo clan. “I’m surprised you’re here considering how lazy you’ve gotten over the years. I didn’t even think you’d ride a plane at all.”

“Are you bullshitting me right now, Raffy?” Christ. Even Paolo can’t convince himself about the situation. He’s timid to a fault. “You’re lucky I ever let you live.”

Raffy throws his head back as he laughs hysterically, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The sound scrapes against my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard, making me wince.

“You? Let me live? Please, Paolo. You’ve been sitting as head of this family for years and where did that get you? You sent your sons out unprepared, leading them straight to their graves.” This comes as a surprise to me, considering I’ve made it my mission to steer clear of the Commission entirely. But even I can’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for Paolo for losing his sons like that. “And for the first time in decades, someone amazing like Isabella resurfaces from your clan. And what happened… she died while being under your protection.”

The memory of Dominic’s theory of my father killing Isabella tickles my brain, and I can’t help but wonder what the Commission thinks about it. My heart tightens at the thought, a complex mixture of denial and dread swirling in my chest. If my father really had killed her... No. I can’t travel down that path, not now, not with Raffy’s predatory gaze fixed on me like I’m prey.

“What are you trying to say? That you can do better than me?” Paolo challenges, slamming his hand on the table.

“Let’s just say that if it were me sitting as head of the family, Isabella would still be alive.” Then he grins, a slow, calculated motion as his eyes shift toward me, a predatory gleam lurking in their depths. “And her only living heir wouldn’t be running away from the only family that she’s got left. Isn’t that right, Alessandra?”

“Fuck you, Raffy,” I spit and Dominic nudges my arm as he stays unmoving between me and Raffy. The protective gesture doesn’t go unnoticed—his thumb stroking my wrist in a subtle gesture of reassurance, a silent promise that he won’t let anything happen to me. Despite everything, despite the danger surrounding us, I feel safer with him than I would alone.

“Is that how you thank me?” he spits, his lips twitching. All I can think about is how satisfying it’ll look when someone finally shuts this man up. “After all the shit I’ve been through to help you?”

“Help me with what?”

“With everything!” He yells, and I flinch despite myself, the instinct to cower behind Dominic almost overwhelming. But I keep my back straight, refusing to show Raffy even a flicker of fear, letting him see I’m anything but intimidated. Isabella Russo’s daughter wouldn’t cower before anyone. I’m half terrified, half furious at myself for slipping into that identity so easily, as if my mother’s blood runs stronger than my own choices. “I helped you leave the Cosa Nostra untouched. I helped you get that penthouse for your safety. The Commission didn’t touch you because of me!”

Christ. Is this man fucked in the head?

“I have that penthouse because of my mother. Not you,” I snap, keeping my voice steady despite the anger bubbling under the surface. My fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt, anchoring me through the rage. As far as I’m concerned, Raffy is just a ghost from family parties back when the Russos were in their prime—a nobody when things started to fall apart. “I wouldn’t even know your name if you hadn’t shown up at my apartment all those years ago. So don’t stand here acting like you’ve done anything for me. I worked my ass off for the life I had.” My throat tightens at the last word—had. Because deep down, I know I may never get back to that sense of normalcy again.

“You think the Commission is going to be good to you?” He lets out a hollow laugh, his head thrown back as if amused, but the edge in his voice says otherwise. “They don’t care about you, Alessa. They make you think they do because they need you. Once this is all over, they’re going to treat you like shit before they kill you.”

“The Commission won’t touch her.” All heads turn in the direction of the voice. It’s Fabio, and he looks about done with this shit like everyone else. Gun still pointing towards Raffy, the old man grins. “The Commission’s fight is with Marco. Not her. And at the end of the day, she’s proven herself to be worthy.”

A sick feeling blossoms in the pit of my stomach. Worthy of what? Of carrying the blame for exposing my father’s location and sealing his fate with his possible death? No, I tell myself. Dominic gave me his word. My father wouldn’t die at the hands of the Commission.

I glance at Dominic, searching his eyes for confirmation of that promise. The memory of our bodies wrapped together, his whispered vows against my skin, flashes through my mind. “Trust me,” he’d said, his voice rough with emotion. “I won’t let anything happen to you or your father that you don’t want.” In that moment of vulnerability, I’d believed him completely.

“Alessa is not part of the Commission!” Raffy’s voice grows louder, his tone sharper, each word dripping with fury as he edges closer to losing control.

“She’s not,” Vincenzo echoes. “But she’s currently under our protection. And hurting her would be a declaration of war against four families.”

“No!”

We all jump when Raffy shoots up from his chair, slamming his hand on the table with a resounding crack before snatching up the gun. In one swift motion, he points it directly at me, his eyes blazing with fury and his finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

The world narrows to the black barrel pointing at my chest. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else.