Page 5

5

Alessio

The gun feels like a natural extension of my arm as I aim at the target. Six shots in rapid succession, each one finding its mark with deadly precision. The echo of gunfire dies in the private shooting range, leaving only the acrid scent of cordite in its wake.

“Impressive as always, capo ,” says Franco, my weapons supplier, watching from a safe distance.

I don’t acknowledge the compliment. Excellence isn’t praiseworthy; it’s necessary. In my world, anything less than perfection gets you killed.

After cleaning my favorite Beretta, I slide it into my shoulder holster and check my phone. Three missed calls from Vittorio. My right-hand man knows better than to call repeatedly unless it’s urgent.

“What is it?” I ask when he answers my call.

“Calvino wants to see you. Now.” Vittorio’s voice is tight with tension.

My pulse quickens, but my voice remains steady. “Did he say why?”

“No, but he’s at the main estate. His personal driver is waiting for you outside.”

I end the call, my mind racing through possibilities. In the twenty years I’ve spent infiltrating the Calvino organization, I’ve never been summoned directly to Giancarlo’s private residence. I’ve seen him at family functions and business meetings, but always with a buffer of lieutenants and capos between us. Direct access to the man who murdered my mother—the man who thinks his son died in that same hit—is exactly what I’ve been working toward.

Yet something feels off. The timing is too convenient. Just days after I’ve finalized plans to bring down his empire, he calls me in?

I check my weapons—the Beretta, a blade strapped to my ankle—and head out to meet whatever fate awaits.

Giancarlo Calvino’s estate sits on a dozen acres of prime Long Island real estate, a monument to old money and older sins. The mansion is Italian Renaissance style, of course—my father has always been theatrical about his heritage when it suits him.

The driver doesn’t speak as we pass through layers of security. Men I recognize as top-tier soldiers nod respectfully as I pass. They know me as Alessio Gravano, the ghost, the problem solver. The man who became indispensable to the Calvino family through brutal efficiency and unwavering loyalty.

If only they fucking knew.

I’m led through the marble foyer to Giancarlo’s study. The house is quiet, oppressively so, as if the walls themselves know better than to witness what happens within them.

“Alessio, enter.” His voice hasn’t changed in all these years—smooth as aged whiskey, with an undercurrent of venom.

I step into the room where he sits behind an antique desk, looking every bit like the godfather in an impeccably tailored suit. At sixty-five, his hair has gone silver, but his eyes remain sharp and calculating. Those eyes—the same shade of amber as mine, though his are colder, devoid of anything resembling humanity.

Does he see himself in me? Some ghost of recognition that he can’t quite place?

“You requested me, Don Calvino, I say, keeping my tone respectful but not subservient.

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. Drink?”

I take the offered seat but decline the alcohol. “I prefer to keep my mind clear when working, grazie .”

This earns a thin smile. “Smart. That’s what I’ve always appreciated about you, Alessio. You’re careful. Strategic.” He leans back, studying me with those predator’s eyes. “That’s why you’ve risen so quickly in our organization.”

I say nothing, waiting. Giancarlo Calvino doesn’t give compliments without purpose.

“My son is getting married in ten days,” he continues, rotating the heavy crystal tumbler in his hand. “A union with the De Angelis family. Strategic, necessary, but not without... complications.”

“I’ve heard about the arrangement,” I say neutrally, though internally I’m coiled tight. The De Angelis name is familiar—one of the five major families in New York, old Italian money with deep political connections. The kind of alliance that would strengthen Calvino’s position considerably.

“The bride, Isadora De Angelis, is a valuable asset. Young, beautiful, well-connected.” He slides a folder across the desk. “And possibly in danger.”

I open the folder, and the world stops spinning.

Green eyes. Full lips. Dark hair. The woman from the club stares back at me from a professional photograph—poised, elegant, looking nothing like the wild creature who’d wrapped her legs around my waist in a nightclub bathroom.

Chiara. Except her name isn’t Chiara. It’s Isadora De Angelis, daughter of Antonio De Angelis, soon-to-be wife of Luca Calvino.

My half-brother’s fiancée. The woman I fucked against a bathroom wall four nights ago.

My training saves me. Not a flicker of recognition crosses my face as I study the photograph, though my heart hammers against my ribs.

“Antonio De Angelis believes there may be threats against his daughter before the wedding,” Giancarlo continues, oblivious to my internal chaos. “A rival family perhaps, or someone wanting to disrupt our alliance.”

I force myself to look up from the photograph. “And my role in this?”

“I want you to serve as her personal security until the wedding. Full protection detail, 24/7. You’ll coordinate with her existing security team, but you answer to me directly.” He leans forward, those amber eyes boring into mine. “This is not just about protecting a valuable asset, Alessio. This is about family honor. My son’s future wife must arrive at the altar unharmed.”

The irony is almost enough to make me laugh. The son, he acknowledges, and the wife I’ve already had.

“I understand. When do I start?”

“Immediately. You’ll meet her this afternoon at the De Angelis estate. Antonio is expecting you.” He stands, indicating the meeting is over. “Luca will be handling business in Chicago until the weekend. I expect daily reports.”

I rise, tucking the folder under my arm. “Of course, Don Calvino. I’ll ensure her safety.”

As I turn to leave, his voice stops me. “Alessio.”

I look back, careful to keep my expression neutral.

“There’s something about this girl... my son is quite possessive of her. Be professional.”

The warning is clear, and the threat behind it clearer still. If he only knew.

“Always, sir.”

As I leave his presence, I can’t help but give my head a mental shake.

Talk about fucking irony.

I have been working my knuckles off for the past two decades in this organization, and have risen in ranks by sheer will. Yet, it is the lady I thought I would never see again that gives me direct access to Calvino. For a flitting moment, the thought of putting a bullet through the old man’s head had crossed my mind, but this is not how I want my revenge. I will have him on his knees pleading for his pathetic life when the time comes, and he will realize that the walls he has spent decades building are not high enough to keep him safe.

The De Angelis estate is smaller than Calvino’s, but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in opulence. Old Italian aristocracy bleeds from every carefully curated detail, from the manicured Italian cypress trees flanking the driveway to the Renaissance art adorning the walls.

Antonio De Angelis meets me in the grand foyer, a man in his mid-fifties with silver at his temples and the calculated charm of someone who’s built an empire on others’ fear.

“Gravano,” he says, extending his hand. “Giancarlo speaks highly of you.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to ensure your daughter’s safety,” I reply, the lie slipping easily from my tongue.

“Yes, well, she’s not particularly happy about the increased security, but with the wedding so close...” He gestures for me to follow him. “She’s in the garden. I’ll introduce you.”

I follow him through the house, cataloging exits, security measures, staff positions—professional habits I can’t switch off even as my mind races with the implications of what’s happening. Of all the women in New York, I had to fuck the one being handed to my half-brother on a silver platter. The cosmic joke isn’t lost on me.

We step onto a stone terrace overlooking an Italian-style garden. And there she is.

Isadora sits on a marble bench near a fountain, a book open in her lap, though she’s not reading. In daylight, she’s even more striking than she was in the dim club lighting—her olive skin glowing in the afternoon sun, dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist that’s nothing like the wild waves I’d tangled my fingers in.

She looks up as we approach, and for a moment, I see only the stranger from the club—the woman who called herself Chiara, who’d whispered filthy desires against my neck as I buried myself inside her.

Then her eyes widen in recognition, and the blood drains from her face.

“Isadora,” her father says, oblivious to the current passing between us, “this is Alessio Gravano. He’ll be heading your security detail until the wedding. Mr. Gravano, my daughter, Isadora.”

Her composure is remarkable. After that initial shock, her expression smooths into polite interest as she extends her hand. “Mr. Gravano. A pleasure.”

When our hands touch, electricity arcs between us. Her fingers tremble slightly, but her gaze is steady, challenging. What are you going to do now? her eyes seem to ask.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss De Angelis,” I respond, my voice giving nothing away. “I look forward to ensuring your safety.”

Antonio nods, satisfied with the introduction. “I’ll leave you to discuss the security arrangements. Isadora, dinner is at seven.”

As her father walks away, tension crackles in the air between us. She waits until he’s out of earshot before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What kind of sick game is this?”

“No game,” I reply quietly, maintaining a professional distance. “This is as unexpected for me as it is for you.”

Her green eyes flash with anger, fear, and something else—the same heat that drew us together at the club. “You expect me to believe that? You just happen to be assigned as my bodyguard days after we—” She cuts herself off, glancing around to ensure no one is listening.

“I work for the Calvino family,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “I had no idea who you were that night. Just as you apparently had no idea who I was.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “We’re quite the pair of liars, aren’t we?”

“It seems we are.” I step closer, lowering my voice further. “We need to talk privately. Is there somewhere we won’t be overheard?”

She hesitates, then nods. “The greenhouse. This way.”

I follow her through the garden to a glass structure tucked behind a high hedge. Inside, the air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of exotic flowers. She locks the door behind us and turns to face me, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

“Explain,” she demands.

“What do you want me to say? That I orchestrated meeting you that night? That I knew you were engaged to Luca Calvino? I didn’t.”

She studies me, calculating something behind those intelligent eyes. “You really didn’t know who I was?”

“No. Did you know who I was?”

“Of course not.” She turns away, pacing between potted plants. “This is a disaster.”

I observe her movements, the way her body tenses and releases with each step. Even distraught, she moves with innate grace. “We have two options,” I say, keeping my voice clinical. I can reject this assignment, citing a made-up medical emergency, or we can agree that what happened that night stays between us.”

She spins to face me. “And if I ask why you’re really here? Because I don’t believe for a second this is a standard security detail.”

Clever girl. There’s more to Isadora De Angelis than the spoiled mafia princess I’d expected.

“My job is to protect you until you marry Luca. That’s all you need to know.”

“While what? Pretending you haven’t seen me naked? That you haven’t had your mouth between my legs?” Her bluntness is a weapon meant to unbalance me.

Instead, it ignites something primal. I close the distance between us in two strides, stopping just short of touching her. “Careful, principessa ,” I warn, my voice dropping to a growl. “The walls in this house may well have ears.”

Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating as I loom over her. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s what you are, isn’t it? The De Angelis princess, soon to be Calvino’s queen. Being traded for power and influence.” I lean closer, catching the scent of her perfume—something expensive, floral, nothing like the heated musk of her skin I remember from that night. “Tell me, does Luca know you fuck strangers in club bathrooms?”

Her palm connects with my cheek, the slap sharp and sudden. I catch her wrist before she can pull away, holding it firmly but not enough to bruise. Our faces are inches apart, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath.

“Let me go,” she whispers, though she makes no real effort to pull away.

“Remember this moment, Isadora,” I murmur, releasing her wrist slowly. “This heat between us? This anger? It’s dangerous for both of us. We need to control it.”

She steps back, rubbing her wrist, though I know I didn’t hurt her. “Fine. Professional distance. We never met before today.”

“Exactly.” I straighten my jacket, restoring the barrier of formality between us. “Now, we should discuss your actual security arrangements. There are protocols you’ll need to follow.”

She nods, visibly pulling herself together. “Of course. The wedding is in ten days. You’ll be gone after that. We can manage ten days.”

The confidence in her voice doesn’t reach her eyes. We both know this attraction isn’t something that can be switched off like a light.

“Ten days,” I echo. “Now, show me the house layout. I need to assess all entry points and establish secure protocols.”

As she leads me back toward the main house, I maintain a proper distance behind her. But I can’t help noticing the way her dress hugs the curves I’ve had my hands on, the elegant line of her neck where I’d left marks that must have faded by now.

Almost two weeks of constant proximity to the woman who’s unknowingly become a piece in my revenge against Giancarlo. The woman promised to my half-brother. The woman whose taste I can still remember on my tongue.

The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

But I’ve waited twenty years for my revenge. I’ve built an identity, infiltrated my father’s organization, and earned trust and power. I won’t let desire, no matter how consuming, derail my plans.

Isadora De Angelis is just another complication. A beautiful, intoxicating complication that I’ll need to manage carefully.

As we reach the terrace, she glances back at me, and for a moment, I see the fire in her eyes that first drew me to her at the club. The same wildness that had made her whisper “I want you to make me forget everything but this moment” against my lips.

Ten days.

It’s going to be a special kind of hell.