Amore.The endearment settled over me like a second blanket—warm and unhurried and entirely new. He'd never called me that before.
"After the gravy," I said, "we find the house."
"After the gravy," he agreed. He pulled me closer, and I felt his heart beating steadily against my back. "A week from now, we'll be arguing about paint colors. The most boring, beautiful argument of our lives."
I smiled despite the fear coiling in my stomach. "Promise?"
"Promise."
We sat like that until the sky began to lighten, holding each other and the future we were about to risk everything to claim.
Tomorrow, we'd face Marco one final time.
Tomorrow, we'd steal the evidence that would destroy him.
Tomorrow, we'd either win our freedom or lose everything.
But tonight—tonight we had this moment, this peace, this love we'd built in the spaces between survival.
And whatever came next, we'd face it together.
The way we'd faced everything else.
CHAPTER 9
Alessio
Iwatched my restaurant burn on Domenico's laptop screen. Flames licked the night sky, smoke billowing into darkness. Three body bags lined the street. The smallest was barely four feet long.
Seven years old. A child whose only crime was celebrating her birthday at the wrong goddamn place.
"He wants a war," I said, voice flat. "He'll get one."
Valentina stood at the window, silhouette framed against dawn light. She'd dressed in silence, every movement precise, controlled. The society princess had burned away, leaving something sharper. Dangerous.
"No," she said. "He wants you dead. The war is just collateral."
I closed the laptop, rage a living thing in my chest. "Then he'll die disappointed."
She turned, green eyes cold. "We need to destroy him. Not just kill him. Destroy everything he's built, everything he is."
We'd spent three days planning for this. Valentina had mapped every passage, every patrol route, every blind spot in her father's estate. Domenico had forged catering credentials, arranged extraction vehicles, and positioned backup teams at three points along our exit route.
Now, Marco had given us one more reason to burn it all down. A seven-year-old girl—dead—because her parents chose the wrong restaurant for a birthday dinner.
I closed the laptop and looked at Valentina. She stood at the window with the same cold focus I'd watched her build over the past week—the society princess replaced by something forged in fire and loss.
Terrifying, beautiful woman.
"We go tonight," I said. "As planned."
She nodded. No hesitation. "As planned."
The drive to the DeLuca estate took three hours. We spent it reviewing the plan, checking equipment, and preparing for every contingency. Domenico had inserted us into the catering roster, complete with fake employment histories and references.
Marco's estate rose from manicured grounds like a monument to wealth and power. Three stories of white stone, columns framing the entrance. Gardens immaculate, security discreet but present. Two hundred guests milled about, champagne flutes catching sunlight.
Perfect cover.
