“You’re making a mistake,” he says quietly.
“Maybe. But it’s my mistake to make.”
“And when they kill her to hurt you? When they use her as leverage? What then?”
The question hits like a physical blow because it’s the same thing keeping me awake at night. The same nightmare scenario playing on repeat every time I close my eyes. Elena hurt, Elena bleeding, Elena paying the price for my selfishness in wanting to keep her close.
“Then every member of the Russo family dies screaming,” the words are soft, deadly serious. “Their operations burn. Their families scatter. Their name becomes a cautionary tale whispered in the dark. They will learn what it means to take something from Alessandro De Luca.”
Marco studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You love her.”
It’s not a question.
“Go coordinate the strike,” my voice comes out rougher than intended. “We’re done here.”
He leaves without another word, and the silence that follows is deafening. Love. The word feels foreign, dangerous. Love makes men weak, makes them vulnerable, makes them do stupid things like bring women to Christmas markets where snipers can take shots at them.
But when Elena smiled at me in the snow, when she kissed me back like nothing else mattered, when she looked at me afterward and said she wasn’t leaving—
My phone buzzes. A text from Elena:How’s your shoulder? Did you change the bandage like I told you to?
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. She’s been checking on me constantly, worried about infection, about proper wound care, about things that would never occur to someone in my world where bullets are occupational hazards.
Yes, doctor. It’s fine.
Alessandro. Don’t make me come over there and check myself.
Is that a threat or a promise?
Both. Now send me a picture proving you changed it.
The absurdity of it hits me, a mafia boss taking selfies of his bandaged shoulder to appease his worried girlfriend. If the men saw this, they’d never let me live it down.
But instead of being annoyed, warmth spreads through my chest. Someone cares. Not about the power or the money or the fearsome reputation. Someone cares about Alessandro, the man who bleeds and hurts and apparently needs to be reminded to change his bandages.
Another text arrives while considering my response:Also I made you soup. Nonna’s recipe. When can I bring it over?
You made me soup?
Don’t sound so surprised. I can cook when properly motivated. Answer the question - when are you free?
The thought of Elena in my space, my sterile downtown penthouse that’s more fortress than home, makes something in my chest constrict. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see this side of my life, the maps and weapons and evidence of exactly what kind of man resides in this building.
But the selfish part—the part that’s been starving for something real, something soft, wants nothing more than to see her walk through that door with soup she made with her own hands.
Tonight’s bad. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow works. Your place or mine?
Mine. I’ll send you the address.
Fancy penthouse, I’m guessing?
How did you know?
Because you’re you. I bet it’s all glass and steel and expensive art. No plants anywhere.
She knows me too well already.
