My men snap to attention when they see her. When they see me, knowing they see what’s changed.
And no one speaks.
Good. Because I don’t want this moment broken. For a few hours, I’m intent on putting the world at bay.
I tighten my hold.
The war is still here.
But so is she.
And as I place her into the waiting SUV, my hand lingering at her jaw for one last heartbeat, I know one thing with brutal clarity:
Bellandi wanted to remind me what it costs to possess a fragile treasure. All he’s done is make me certain I will pay any price.
“Home,” I order.
The door shuts.
The engine roars.
And my wife comes with me.
Lucia
Home doesn’t feellike home.
Not after Red Hook and after gunfire and blood and Giovanni’s body in front of mine, shielding me from danger.
Dragoni Estate is silent when we return, too polished, too immaculate, as though the walls have no concept of what nearly happened.
Giovanni shuts the door behind us with a finality that makes my pulse jump, then stands there for a beat, shoulders rising and falling, his face set in that controlled Dragoni stillness that always comes after violence.
When he sets me down in our bedroom, I step closer. “Let me see it.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “You already did.”
“I want to see it again.”
He exhales through his nose, the faintest edge of amusement ghosting across his mouth.
“Bossy.”
“Alive,” I correct. “Sit down.”
“I don’t take orders.”
“You took bullets,” I snap. “Sit.”
That does it.
He moves, slow and deliberate, like he’s indulging me, like he hasn’t spent the last hour carrying me as though letting me touch the ground was unacceptable.
The bathroom is warm, steam already curling as the shower runs, and when I tug his ruined shirt away, my hands shake despite myself.
The wound isn’t catastrophic, but it’s real and livid, and a testament to how fallible even an infallible man like Don Moretti is. And God, the sight of it makes something in my chest tighten until it aches.
Giovanni watches me with an unnerving softness as I clean the wound.
