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Chapter two

Alessa

M y morning ritual, five-mile run, overpriced coffee, and scanning reflections in store windows for faces that linger too long behind me. Some things just get wired into you. You don’t grow up Russo without developing a sixth sense for when you’re being watched.

“Thanks, Carmen!” I slide ten dollars in the tip jar, watching the barista-in-training beam as she hands me my steaming coffee.

Her smile’s genuine, uncomplicated—nothing in my world ever is.

“I’m leaving tomorrow and I’m afraid we need to put that docu-series on hold until further notice,” Jennifer, my managing editor, pants through my AirPods. She’s clearly mid-pilates in that basement gym she won’t shut up about. “I’ll bring your work with me so I can read it, okay?”

Of course she’s leaving. Again. Her fourth “emergency vacation” this year while my work gathers digital dust. The perks of having daddy as an executive editor—the rest of us just bend our schedules around her whims.

“That’s fine.” The lie settles heavy in my chest, another small betrayal of myself. Nothing’s fine about watching weeks of research languish while she perfects her tan on some private beach. But I swallow my frustration like I always do. At least my name sells. My last exposé is still riding the bestseller lists and my inbox’s flooded with publishers hungry for the next one. Not that it matters—I still need Jennifer’s stamp of approval.

I push through the café door into the morning chill. New York at 6 AM is already a predator’s playground—suits with hidden agendas, service workers with secrets, everyone wearing their public faces. My black sports crop and biker shorts make me look like just another fitness-obsessed New Yorker, which is exactly the point. Camouflage works in the concrete jungle too.

“You’re such a great friend, Alessa,” Jennifer gushes, oblivious to the irony. “I’ll email you once I’m done.”

“Okay.” The professional mask slips into place—the one that pays my bills and keeps me employed. My father would be proud of how easily I lie these days. “Have fun on your trip.”

I end the call and take a slow sip of coffee, letting its warmth chase away my irritation. Despite Jennifer’s sabotage, I remind myself that each paycheck is one step closer to never needing my father’s money or his protection—the invisible leash he thinks I don’t see. I refuse to be another pawn in his world. After what happened to my mother, the accident, and to me... I can’t even look at him without wondering what else he might be hiding. Someday I’ll have enough to disappear completely, scrub the Russo name from my skin like a stain. Just the thought of it loosens something in my chest that’s been tight since I was twelve.

The Steinway Tower looms ahead, my reflection fragmenting across its glass facade. Inside, luxury wraps around me like an expensive cocoon—high ceilings, marble floors, that soft chandelier glow that whispers old money. The concierge nods with practiced deference as I glide toward the elevator, its brass fixtures gleaming with quiet opulence.

My penthouse—the 6-million-dollar gift my mother left behind with the caveat I couldn’t touch it until my twenty-sixth birthday. Three months living here and I still get lost in the hallways…still flinch when I glimpse my silhouette against the cityscape at night. I try not to think about how many bodies Isabella Russo stepped over to afford these views. La Falciante. The Slicer. They called her aim laser-precise, her hand never wavering. That woman feels like a stranger to me. The mother I remember sang made-up lullabies, braided my hair for church, and read for hours in her green velvet chaise. I was only twelve when she died, too young to reconcile these conflicting versions of the same woman.

The elevator pings softly as it reaches my floor. The doors slide open to reveal my sanctuary—dark hardwood floors bathed in morning light, minimalist furniture arranged with precision, modern art from auctions carefully selected. My laptop sits abandoned on the kitchen’s marble counter beside last night’s golden milk.

I freeze in the foyer, every muscle suddenly rigid.

Something feels wrong. Not a thing is out of place, yet the air feels... disturbed. Like someone’s exhaled where they shouldn’t be.

I’m not alone.

My pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding my system in an instant rush. I set my coffee down silently, reaching beneath the foyer table where my pistol waits in its hidden holster. I hate needing guns in my home, hate how my mother’s world still forces me to live with one finger always near a trigger. But I check the magazine anyway, chambering a round with practiced efficiency.

My breath slows as training takes over—the lessons my mother insisted on before I was even tall enough to reach the counter. I move through the penthouse like a ghost, checking corners first, keeping away from windows, listening for sounds beneath my own heartbeat.

I take the stairs, gun leading the way, my muscles coiled tight with anticipation. Room by room, I clear my home, turning door knobs with silent precision. Each empty space brings momentary relief, followed by mounting dread.

One room left.

My bedroom.

When I reach the door, my heart slams against my ribs. It stands slightly ajar—I know with absolute certainty I closed it this morning.

I press the gun against the wood, nudging it wider. The hinges whisper as darkness spills out. I brace for violence—for movement, gunshots, the end of everything.

But nothing comes.

I step inside, gun first, and freeze at the sight before me.

The bed remains perfectly made, but across the blue sheets lie my most private possessions—documents, photographs, letters—scattered like evidence at a crime scene. Someone has methodically dissected my life, looking for… something.

And there, lounging in my chair as if he belongs, sits a man.

Black ribbed long-sleeves clinging to broad shoulders, an expensive suit, his head cocked with predatory interest. He’s been waiting for me. Recognition hits like a physical blow. Those dark eyes. That cruel, perfect mouth that once claimed mine. The same face that’s haunted my dreams for four years.

My stomach clenches as I aim at him, arms steady despite the electricity crackling through my veins. The memory of his hands on me, his weight pressing me down, clashes violently with the threat he represents now.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice sounds foreign, stripped raw with fury and fear.

He straightens, and I adjust my aim, a silent reminder of who controls this moment. He pauses, eyes locked on mine, then lifts his hands in mock surrender—a gesture that reeks of condescension.

“Ciao, Alessandra.”

His voice hits me like a sucker punch, that rich Italian timber sliding over my skin just as it did that night. My body betrays me with a flash of heat—remembering his hands in my hair, his mouth against my throat, the way he made me forget everything but sensation.

No. Focus, Alessa.

“It’s been a while,” he says, smirking like this is some planned reunion rather than a home invasion.

“I said… What the Fuckare you doing here?” I demand again, ignoring how my body remembers his touch.

“Is that the right way to greet an old friend, Alessa?”

“We’re not friends,” I remind him in Italian, the language feeling too intimate on my tongue.

“ Ha ragione ,“ he nods with a smile. “You’re right. Friends don’t fuck.”

Heat floods my cheeks even as ice slides down my spine. I square my shoulders, refusing to show how his crude reminder affects me.

“Stop it and tell me what—”

“I’m doing here. Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, rising from my chair, dismissing my gun like it’s a minor inconvenience. His hands slide into his pockets with casual dominance—a man who doesn’t fear consequences.

I track him with my gun, finger steady near the trigger. One wrong move, and I’ll prove I’m my mother’s daughter after all.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, surveying the chaos. “We got bored waiting for you. I couldn’t help myself.”

I offer no response, noting how his eyes flash with amusement at my silence. He’s enjoying this—the power play, my fear barely contained beneath fury.

“I found this.” He lifts a black and white Polaroid of my mother with a woman I don’t recognize. They’re wearing sundresses and matching hats, wine glasses in hand, a vineyard stretching behind them.

My heart twists at the sight of my favorite photo—proof that Isabella Russo once existed as a woman, not just a legend.

“What of it?” I step closer to my bed, careful to maintain distance as I scan the chaos. All the photos of my mother with this mystery woman have been sorted into a neat pile. Whatever he wants connects to her.

“Do you know this woman?”

“That’s my mother.”

“I know. Isabella Russo. La Falciante.” His casual mention of her code name sends ice through my veins. “I mean the woman she’s with.”

I shake my head, words failing me as the ground shifts beneath me.

“That’s my mother, Sofia. God Bless her soul.”

His mother? My mind races, struggling to process this connection. Our mother’s friends? Is this some elaborate setup?

“Who are you?” I whisper, my hands—trained to remain steady since childhood—now betraying me with the slightest tremor.

“Ouch,” he purrs with mocking hurt. “I’m Dominic, Alessa. Dominic Gianelli.”

The name slams into me like a physical blow. Gianelli. One of the four families. The very world I’ve spent my adult life running from is standing in my bedroom, wearing the face of the man who once made me forget my own name.

“Now, now,” he chides, noticing my shock. “Don’t look so afraid or you’re going to offend me.”

“What do you want?” I straighten my spine, grip tightening on the gun as my arms begin to ache.

“First and foremost, I want the gun you stole from me, little thief.”

“ My mother’s gun,“ she quips. “You waited four years to come for it?”

Mine now.

If I had known he was Gianelli blood, I’d never have let him touch me that night.

“Four years and two months,” he corrects with infuriating precision. “But who’s counting? She gave it to me. Now, where the fuck is it?”

“I’m not giving it to you. It’s mine.”

Dominic scoffs, shaking his head like I’m a child, refusing to share a toy.

“Look, Alessa. I don’t have all day.So, hand over what’s mine, and maybe I won’t have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming. Uh-huh,” he nods as casually as if suggesting lunch.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“Well, not yet,” he answers, amusement evaporating from his eyes.

A growl rumbles from his chest.“Where the fuck is my gun?”

“No. I’m not telling you shit,” I hiss, my teeth clenched. “It’s my mother’s. It’s mine.”

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way... I’m fine with either. Now don’t make me ask again.”

Terror claws up my throat, but stubbornness—my father calls it the Russo curse—locks my jaw. That gun is one of the few connections I have to my mother. To who she really was.

“You’re not getting it, Dominic.”

“Fine,” he sneers, advancing toward me. I retreat instinctively, gun still aimed at his chest. My breath comes in shallow gasps, heart pounding so loud it drowns out all thought.

I need to run. Now.

As I step back toward the hallway’s safety, I collide with something solid and unyielding. Before I can turn, a rough hand clamps over my nose and mouth, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against my face while injecting me with something.

The jolt sends me backward, my head slamming into the guy’s chest. Panic surges, primal and overwhelming.

My finger squeezes the trigger. The deafening blast reverberates through the room.

“Fuck!” Dominic hisses, but his curse fades beneath me as a fog floods my senses.

My head spins, reality blurring at the edges.

“Holy shit, man,” my captor curses, his voice vibrating against my skull.

I thrash against his grip, movements growing wild and desperate. My vision blurs, darkness creeping in from the periphery. The gun slips from my nerveless fingers.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears—slower now, heavier.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My body feels impossibly heavy, then weightless. I’m falling into nothing.

Thud. Thud.

I’m going to die. I’m going to fucking die.

Thud.

My last conscious image is Dominic’s face contorted in pain, crimson blooming across his leg, staining his pants and my pristine white carpet.

Then darkness pulls me under, and I’m gone.