CHAPTER ONE
The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the day's tension. The countryside villa has always been our sanctuary—mine and Bianca's. Away from the city, away from the family business, away from the blood and violence that follows the Feretti name like a shadow.
I shut off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. Droplets cascade down my chest, catching on old scars—each one a story of survival.
"Bianca?" I call out, expecting her voice to float back to me.
Nothing.
"Bianca, amore?" I try again, louder this time.
The silence stretches, broken only by water dripping from my hair onto the floor.
Something's not right.
Bianca always answers.Always.
My muscles tense as instinct takes over. I grab another towel and quickly dry off, ears straining for any sound in the house. The quiet feels wrong—heavy and threatening.
I pull on a pair of pants, not bothering with a shirt, and move to the bedside table. The drawer slides open silently, revealing my Beretta. The metal feels cold against my palm, familiar and reassuring.
"Bianca?" I call once more, though I already know she won't answer.
I check the magazine, then chamber a round. The metallic click echoes in the bedroom.
I move through our bedroom with silent precision, my bare feet making no sound on the polished floors. The villa feels different—wrong.
The hallway stretches before me, shadows dancing against the walls from the evening light filtering through half-drawn curtains. I press my back against the wall, Beretta held low but ready.
Then I hear it.
A soft whimper breaks the silence—Bianca's voice, but not the way I ever want to hear it. Not a sound of pleasure or even annoyance. It's fear. Raw and unmistakable.
My blood turns to ice even as rage floods my system. Someone has brought fear into my home. Someone has made my wife cry.
I move faster now, still silent but with deadly purpose. The living room is ahead, just around the corner.Another sound reaches me—a man's voice, low and threatening. Foreign. Not one of my men.
"Please," Bianca begs, her voice breaking. "Please don't?—"
I peer around the corner, keeping most of my body hidden. The scene before me stops my heart for one terrible moment.
Bianca stands in the center of our living room, her face streaked with tears, mascara running down her cheeks. Her hands are raised in a pleading gesture, her body trembling. But what makes my vision blur with fury is the stranger standing behind her.
I step into the living room, Beretta raised, my vision narrowing to the man holding my wife. He's tall, dressed in black, with a face I don't recognize—which means he's not from any of the New York families. Not someone I've crossed paths with before.
"Let her go," I say, my voice deadly calm. The kind of calm that makes my enemies more afraid than when I shout.
He has a gun pressed to Bianca's temple. Her eyes find mine, filled with terror but also relief. My beautiful wife, five months pregnant with our child. My chest constricts with rage so intense it nearly blinds me.
"Damiano," she whispers.
"It's okay, amore," I tell her, never taking my eyes off the intruder. "Everything's going to be fine."
The man tightens his grip on Bianca, using her as a shield. Amateur move. If he were professional, he'd know I can still make the shot.
"Who are you?" I demand, the Beretta steady in my hand. "What do you want?"
His lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm?—"
