Page 7

7

Alessio

Her scent lingers in the car. Floral with an undertone of something distinctly her—something that calls to mind tangled limbs and heated skin against cold bathroom tiles. I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing the memory away as I drive through the gates of the Calvino estate.

Twenty years of planning, of building an identity brick by blood-soaked brick, and now my focus threatens to shatter because of a woman. Not just any woman—the one promised to my half-brother. The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so dangerous.

Vittorio waits for me in the garage, leaning against his sleek black BMW, expression carefully neutral. Only the slight tightening around his eyes betrays his impatience.

“You’re late,” he says as I exit the car. Not an accusation, merely an observation.

“The princess had a dress fitting.” I adjust my suit jacket, schooling my features into professional detachment. “Took longer than expected.”

He studies me with the penetrating gaze that has kept him alive in this business for decades. “And how’s life as a babysitter for the future Calvino bride?”

“Complicated.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

Vittorio’s eyebrow raises a fraction. “Complicated how?”

I deflect with a question of my own. “You have the intel?”

He hesitates for a moment, then reaches into his jacket, pulling out a leather-bound flash drive. “Everything on Giancarlo’s new money laundering operation through the Caribbean. Account numbers, shell companies, the works. The final piece.”

I take the drive, feeling its weight—heavier than its physical presence warrants. With this information, I can finally complete my revenge. Destroy Giancarlo’s empire from within, reveal myself as his true heir, and take everything he values before ending him. Just as he did to my mother.

“And the wedding preparations?” Vittorio asks, too casually.

“On schedule. Nine days until the De Angelis princess becomes a Calvino asset.” My tone is flat, but something must show in my face because Vittorio tilts his head, examining me with renewed interest.

“You seem... invested in your protective duty.”

“I’m always invested in my assignments.”

“Not like this.” His voice drops lower. “I know you, Alessio. Better than most. Something’s different.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Nothing that will interfere with the plan.”

“Good.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Because we’re too close to change course now.”

“Did I say we are changing course?” I raise a questioning eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head.

“And what is the update on Vieri?” He asks.

“It’s still too complicated to figure out, but I am certainly digging deeper.”

As Vittorio drives away, I pocket the flash drive and head toward the main house. Giancarlo insisted I stay on the estate while not actively guarding Isadora—to “coordinate security protocols,” he’d said. In reality, I know it’s to keep me within reach, to demonstrate his dominance. The man who thinks he controls me, unaware that each night spent under his roof brings me one step closer to his destruction.

In my assigned room, I decrypt Vittorio’s files, memorizing account numbers and transaction patterns. The work keeps my mind occupied, away from thoughts of green eyes and defiant smiles. Until my phone rings.

Antonio De Angelis’s name flashes on the screen.

“There’s a minor security situation at the pre-wedding party venue,” he says without preamble. “I need you to accompany Isadora to assess the changes.”

I check my watch, and it’s nearly 7:00 PM. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” His tone brooks no argument. “The planner is waiting for her input, and I won’t have my daughter traversing across the city alone at night.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m driving through Manhattan, Isadora silent beside me in the passenger seat. Her profile is illuminated by passing streetlights—the elegant line of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows, the curve of her lips that I know taste like expensive champagne and forbidden desires.

“You’re staring again,” she says without looking at me.

“I’m assessing potential threats.”

This earns me a sidelong glance. “Am I the threat, Alessio? Or are you?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with meanings neither of us can afford to acknowledge.

“We both know the real threat,” I say finally. “Expectations. Obligations. The cages we’re born into.”

She turns to face me fully now. “Poetic for a hired gun.”

“I am made up of multiple facades, principessa.”

“Stop calling me that.” But there’s less heat in her objection than before.

We arrive at the Plaza Hotel, the gilded entrance glittering with promise. I guide her through the lobby with a hand hovering near the small of her back—close enough to feel her heat without actually touching it. The event coordinator meets us in the grand ballroom, already transformed halfway to a fantasy of cream and gold—a stage set for the merging of two mafia dynasties.

I position myself near the entrance, scanning for threats out of habit while Isadora discusses floral arrangements and lighting designs. Her voice carries across the space, confident and clear. She plays her part perfectly—the excited bride-to-be, the dutiful daughter. Only I seem to notice the tightness around her eyes, the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.

The meeting drags on for nearly an hour before the coordinator excuses herself to retrieve revised seating charts. Isadora wanders toward the tall windows overlooking the city, shoulders sagging slightly now that she’s temporarily freed from performing.

“Two hundred and fifty guests,” she says, her voice barely audible across the room. “Most of whom neither Luca nor I actually care about.”

I move closer, drawn to her like a shadow to its source. “Politics.”

“Politics,” she echoes, tracing a pattern on the cold glass. “Do you know what Luca said when I asked if I could invite my childhood friend from boarding school? ‘If they’re not useful, they’re not welcome.’“

Something protective and possessive surges in my chest. “Luca isn’t known for his sentimentality.”

“Is anyone in our world?” She turns to face me, the moonlight casting her features in silver and shadow. “Are you?”

Before I can answer, glass shatters above us. Instinct takes over—I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around Isadora and pulling her down behind a heavy table as more glass rains into the ballroom.

“Stay down,” I command, drawing my gun from its shoulder holster.

Her breathing comes in short gasps against my neck, her body pressed tight against mine as I shield her. The position triggers a flash of memory—not of our night together, but earlier. Much earlier.

Rain pattering on a car roof. The scent of gunpowder. Maria’s arms around me, her body covering mine as bullets shattered the windows around us.

“Alessio,” Isadora’s voice pulls me back to the present. “What’s happening?”

I scan the room, noting the broken chandelier above us, and the glass scattered across the marble floor. It’s not gunfire, but rather an equipment failure. Still, my body remains coiled tight, heart hammering, gun steady in my hand.

“False alarm,” I say, not yet relaxing my protective hold. “Stay here while I check.”

I rise slowly, surveying the damage. The massive crystal chandelier has partially collapsed, sending shards across the ballroom floor. If Isadora had been standing beneath it...

“Are you hurt?” I ask, turning back to her.

She shakes her head, but I see a thin line of blood on her forearm. Without thinking, I kneel beside her, gently taking her arm to examine the cut.

“It’s nothing,” she insists, but doesn’t pull away.

My thumb brushes across her skin, just below the wound. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. “Nothing is never nothing with you, Isadora.”

Her eyes meet mine, dilated in the dim light. For a suspended moment, there’s nothing else—no vendetta, no arranged marriage, no blood debts between families. Just her breath mingling with mine, the heat of her skin beneath my fingers, the gravitational pull that’s been there since that first night.

The event coordinator’s horrified gasp from the doorway breaks the spell. I pull away, helping Isadora to her feet with professional detachment, though my skin burns where hers touched it.

“Miss De Angelis! Are you alright?” The woman rushes forward, face pale with panic.

“I’m fine,” Isadora answers, her composure returning so quickly it’s as if our moment never happened. “But I think we’re done for tonight.”

In the car, silence stretches between us again, but charged differently now. Her scent—floral perfume mixed with adrenaline—fills the enclosed space. I can feel her watching me, questioning.

“You moved fast,” she says finally. “Like you were expecting something worse than a falling chandelier.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m paid to expect the worst.”

“Is that why you still have one hand on your gun?”

My grip tightens on the weapon, still half-drawn, resting against my thigh. I hadn’t even realized.

“Old habits,” I mutter, forcing myself to release it.

“From what?”

When I don’t answer, she continues, “You know everything about me, Alessio. My schedule, my security concerns, even how I sound when I—” She cuts herself off, color rising in her cheeks. “Yet I know nothing about you except that you work for my fiancé’s father, and you’re very good at violence.”

“That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“Not me.” Her voice softens. “I saw your face when the glass broke. That wasn’t just training. That was memory.”

The insight is too close, too accurate. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. “Drop it, Isadora.”

“Why? Because you’re afraid I might see the real man behind the Capo mask?”

“Because the real man isn’t someone you want to know.” The words come out harsher than intended.

She laughs, the sound brittle. “That’s where you’re wrong. The real man is the only one who interests me.”

I pull up to the De Angelis estate gates, relieved to end this dangerous conversation. The guard waves us through after recognizing the car.

“Your father will want a full report,” I say as we approach the house.

“Then give him one.” She unbuckles her seatbelt but makes no move to exit. “Tell him how his daughter was nearly crushed by falling crystal, but her watchdog saved her. Tell him whatever version makes you comfortable, Alessio.”

She reaches across the console, her fingers brushing my forearm where my sleeve is rolled up, tracing one of my scars. “Just remember that I know there’s more to this story. And sooner or later, I’ll figure it out.”

Her touch burns like a brand, sending heat radiating through my body. I catch her wrist, meaning to push her away, but instead I find myself holding her there, feeling her pulse race beneath my thumb.

“Be careful what you wish for, principessa ,” I warn, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Some truths destroy everything they touch.”

Her eyes darken, lips parting slightly. “Maybe some things need destroying.”

The air between us thickens, charged with something beyond desire—recognition, perhaps. Two people trapped in roles not of their choosing, seeing in each other the potential for something else. Something real.

I release her wrist abruptly. “Good night, Isadora.”

She studies me for a moment longer before exiting the car. I watch her walk toward the house, spine straight, head high—every inch the mafia princess she was born to be.

Only when she’s safely inside do I allow my mask to slip, running a hand over my face as the magnitude of my predicament crashes over me. Twenty years seeking vengeance against Gaincarlo and his happy family, and now I’m protecting his future daughter-in-law. Feeling things for her I have no right to feel.

My phone buzzes—a text from Maria: Visit soon. Important.

The woman who saved me, who raised me, who knows the truth. The only person who calls me by my birth name: Stefano. Not the ghost I’ve become, nor the weapon I’ve forged myself into.

I start the car, heading to her modest apartment in Queens, away from both the Calvino and De Angelis estates. Away from Isadora and the tempest she stirs in me.

But as the city lights blur past, I know with absolute certainty that I’m hurtling toward a choice—vengeance or something I never planned for. Something I’m not sure I deserve.

And nine days is not enough time to decide.