My chest tightens. “It keeps me safe,” I say quietly. “It always has.”
His expression darkens. “That’s my job,” he says, voice low and possessive. “Dove, keeping you safe is what I’m for.”
My breath breaks. Because he hasn’t called me that since the night outside my room. And hearing it now… hearing it like that… It almost undoes me. But he doesn’t understand.
“It’s not enough,” I whisper. “I don’t want to hide behind a mask anymore. I want to be able to protect myself if I have to. The way Gia does.”
He exhales sharply, anger and disbelief flashing across his face. “No.”
I lift my chin. “I want to learn to shoot.”
“Elena—”
“If you won’t teach me,” I say, stepping back, “I’ll ask Rocco.”
His reaction is instant. “What?” His voice drops to a lethal whisper. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Rocco would help me.”
“No.” He steps closer. “No man will teach you anything like that.”
“Then who will?” I challenge softly.
His eyes burn straight through me. “I will,” he growls. “I’ll teach you. Me. Not Rocco. Not anyone else.”
I swallow. His protectiveness isn’t cruel. It isn’t controlling like my father’s used to be. It’s something else entirely. Something fierce and wild and certain. Something that feels a lot like wanting. He runs a hand down the side of my face, softer now.
“You want to learn?” he murmurs. I nod. “Fine. I’ll teach you. But understand something—” He leans closer, his breath brushing my cheek. “I protect what’s mine.” Heat coils in my belly.
And when he leads me up the steps toward the Don’s house, his hand never leaves the small of my back.
Chapter 20
Elena stands at the start of the gun range—feet planted, shoulders squared, dark hair pulled up into a high ponytail—and for a moment, I forget how to fucking breathe. Tight black pants cling to her hips like they were sewn onto her body. Her emerald green top drapes softly, catching the dim warehouse light every time she moves. She looks powerful. Elegant. Untouchable. Like a queen. My queen. And I’m damn glad I didn’t let Rocco teach her. No man gets this view but me. But that’s not why we’re here.
I drag my eyes away from the long line of her neck—the neck I’ve dreamt about tasting every night since our kiss outside her bedroom—and force myself to focus. Focus on why she asked for this. Why she insisted. Because as much as I want her, as badly as my hands ache to touch her—she still doesn’t trust me. Not fully. She doesn’t believe I can keep her safe on my own. That’swhy she’s standing here, cold steel in her hands, learning to be strong without me. And I promised myself I’d give her whatever she needed.
What pisses me off is that she’s still the same kind, gentle Elena who sat across from Dante’s dinner table days ago… yet somehow stronger than she realizes. I was so furious when she first demanded to learn to shoot. I wanted to drag her home, lock her in her room, and keep the entire world away from her. But then dinner happened. And she was incredible. She sat with Isabella like they’d been friends for years, sharing shy smiles that warmed something in my chest I didn’t know I had. She let Sofia braid her hair—patiently, sweetly—until the little princess declared Elena “very pretty” and refused to let her go. And the biggest miracle? She stopped flinching when Dante entered the room. She looked him in the eyes. She answered him when he asked questions. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t hide. She was still nervous—I felt it in every breath she took near me—but she didn’t retreat behind her mask. Not once.
That night proved something: Elena has fire. She just doesn’t know how to use it yet.
So when she came to me again the next morning and said, “I still want to learn,”
…I didn’t argue. I brought her here. To teach her. To protect her. To show her she doesn’t need anyone but me. Even if she doesn’t trust that yet. She’s holding the gun carefully, always mindful, always cautious. Her fingers tremble slightly, but I pretend not to notice. Fear doesn’t make her weak. Fear makes her human. But courage—that’s what she’s showing now. Courage to stand here. Courage to learn. Courage to face a world that terrifies her.
“Alessandro?” she asks quietly, not turning around. Her voice is soft but steady. I step up behind her. Close. Not touching her. Not yet.
“Yes, Dove?”
She exhales, shoulders lifting with the breath. “I’m ready.”
She has no idea what that does to me. What she does to me. I swallow hard.
“Alright,” I murmur, voice low, rough. “Let’s begin.” Because if she wants to learn to protect herself—then it will be my hands that teach her. Not Rocco. Not any other man. Me. Only me. Always me. She lifts the gun with both hands, arms slightly locked, posture too stiff. Her shoulders are tight. Her breath shallow. She’s trying too hard.
“Not like that,” I murmur, stepping behind her. I place my hands on her hips first—because if I don’t touch her somewhere solid, I might lose my mind. Her body tenses under my palms, the smallest gasp leaving her lips. “Feet apart,” I say quietly. “Wider. Good.” I guide her hips just an inch to the left. “Balance yourself through your center. You’re leaning too much on your toes.” She adjusts. Beautifully. “Now raise the gun.”
She does. But her grip is too tight. Her shoulders trembling. The first shot rings out—
