“Dove…” The name leaves me as a whisper, more prayer than word. I brush my fingers up the side of her neck, slow, tracing the soft curve beneath her jaw until my hand cups her cheek.Finally—finally—she looks at me. Tears pool in her eyes, shining in the low light of the hall. And just like that, I’m broken. This—this is the moment I’ve been dreading since the day I agreed to marry her. The moment she realizes what she’s truly married to. The moment she looks at me and sees a monster. I can almost hear the decision forming behind her silence—that she can’t do this. That she can’t stay with me. That she doesn’t want to be married to one of the most dangerous men in this city. And I know I should accept it. But I can’t. It doesn’t matter if she’s scared. It doesn’t matter if she runs.
Elena Moretti is mine. And I will make her want me again. I will make her love me. No matter what it takes.
She is mine.
Then, softly, she speaks. Her voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I was so scared you weren’t coming back.” My throat tightens. She swallows hard, looking up at me through those tears that won’t fall. “I was afraid you were going to leave me,” she whispers.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. And then she’s on her toes—hands in my shirt—pressing her mouth to mine. The kiss is desperate and trembling, but it’s real. And before I can even process it, I’m kissing her back—hard. Full of everything I can’t say. Her body hits the wall, her breath catching against my lips as I cage her in with my hands, needing her closer, needing her alive. But then—I stop.
My forehead rests against hers, our breaths uneven and ragged between us. “Not tonight, Dove,” I murmur, my voice rough with restraint.
She blinks, dazed, lips still parted.
I brush a stray piece of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. “Go take a shower,” I whisper. “Then get some sleep.”
I press a kiss to her forehead before stepping back. And as she turns toward her room, silent and trembling but safe, I make myself a promise:
Whatever it takes—I’ll earn her trust. Her laughter. Her love.
Because she’s mine.
Chapter 19
The moment my bedroom door clicks shut behind me, my legs give out. I press both hands against the wood and try to breathe—in, out, slow, steady—but nothing feels steady. The house is silent. Too silent after the chaos, the gunfire, the shouting, the blood. His blood. No—not his. He said none of it was his. But that doesn’t erase the image burned into my mind: Alessandro standing in that warehouse, shirt soaked red, jaw tight, eyes wild with anger and fear and power. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool door. He came back. That thought hits me so hard I almost sob. He came back.
I didn’t realize how terrified I was until he opened his mouth in that horrible room and said my name. Until I saw him breathe. Until I touched his face and felt warmth instead of cold. I didn’t realize how much that meant to me. I didn’t realize how much he means to me. My throat closes.
I push off the door and walk toward the bathroom, needing something—water, quiet, distance—anything to stop the shaking inside me. The moment the hot water hits my skin, I crumble. I slide down the shower wall, arms wrapped around my knees, and let the steam fog the room while I try to force air back into my lungs. I don’t cry hard. Not loudly. The tears just… fall. Silent. Relentless. Because tonight I saw something I can’t unsee. Not violence. Not death. But the way my heart reacted when I thought Alessandro might not come back. The way my legs nearly buckled. The way I felt like the world was being ripped out from under me. We barely know each other. We barely speak without me stumbling over my own fear. But when he left that restaurant—for the first time in my life—I knew what it felt like to be afraid of losing someone.
Really losing someone. Someone who matters. Someone I…care about. More than I should. More than makes sense. More than I’m ready to admit. I press my palms over my eyes as another wave of tears hits. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s something dangerous blooming inside me. But when he kissed me back outside my room—when he pressed me against the wall and made me feel wanted and claimed and alive—the world went quiet. Everything made sense. I wanted him. Not out of duty. Not because he’s my husband. Because he’s Alessandro. The man who shielded me with his body. The man who looked at me like I wasn’t fragile. The man whose voice softened only for me. The man who told me I was worth everything. I wipe my face with shaking hands. This isn’t fear. Not anymore. This is something I’ve never felt before. Something that terrifies me in a different way.
I’m falling for him.
And I don’t know how to stop.
A week passes. Seven long days since the gunfire. Since the blood. Since the kiss outside my bedroom that still echoes in my bones. Alessandro has barely been home. He’s been hunting for answers—about Simon, about the port, about the men who attacked us.
Every night he returns late, smelling like gun oil and cologne, tension wound tight through his shoulders. Every morning he leaves before breakfast.
He hasn’t touched me beyond gentle kisses on my forehead… or the soft brush of his knuckles down my arm when he walks by. He doesn’t take me to the warehouse anymore, but he asks my advice on deals and shipments. It’s a strange, tender intimacy— being asked what I think by a man who commands a small army. And when he’s home, he lets me curl beside him on the couch while he reviews paperwork, my head on his shoulder, our fingers tangling occasionally like neither of us knows who reached first. But tonight is different.
Tonight we’re having dinner at Dante’s. At the Don’s home. And I’m nervous. Terrified might be more accurate.
Gia helped me pick my outfit—something soft and elegant but not flashy—and she told me I’d love Dante’s fiancée and little Sofia.
But all I remember is the way Dante filled the warehouse with his presence, how his voice cut through every inch of me. I don’t know how to be around people like him. People who command a room by breathing.
As we pull up to Dante’s house, my palms sweat. My heartbeat gallops. My stomach turns. And then it happens. My mask slideson. That quiet, expressionless version of myself that I learned long ago. The version that doesn’t draw attention. That doesn’t provoke anger. That keeps me small and safe.
Alessandro notices the instant he pulls my door open and holding his hand out for mine. His jaw flexes as he watches me. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Not with me.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He steps in front of me, blocking my path to the door. “Elena.” I stiffen at the sound of my name. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Talk to me.”
“Nothing is wrong.” But my voice is hollow.
He shakes his head, eyes sharpening. “I hate that mask. I hate when you slip behind it.” He reaches up and grabs my cheek.
