Marchetti's threatarrives while I'm in my office reviewing acquisition papers. A text message, simple and direct:
Hand over the Eastern deal or lose something precious.
I read it once, set the phone down on my desk, and feel ice crystallize in my veins. Not fear. Fury. Cold, calculated fury that transforms every resource at my disposal into a weapon. Every contact, every favor owed, every dirty secret I've collected over the years—all of it aimed at one target now. Because I know exactly what "something precious" means. They've been watching. They've seen Sharon. They think they've found my weakness.
They're right. And that makes them dead men walking.
I press the intercom. "Angelo, my office. Now."
Within thirty seconds, my security chief stands before me. I slide the phone across the desk, watch his face harden as he reads the message.
"Marchetti?"
"Who else?" I lean back in my chair, mind already racing through scenarios, countermoves, weak points in the Marchetti organization. "Double Sharon's security detail. No one gets within ten feet of her without my explicit approval. And I want eyes on every Marchetti lieutenant within the hour."
Angelo nods, already texting orders. "What about the Eastern deal?"
"Fuck the deal." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. "I want their entire operation mapped by tonight. Every business front, every safe house, every dirty cop on their payroll. And get me Senator Harris on the phone."
"You planning to go to war over this, boss?"
I look at him, a man who's been by my side through firefights and knife wounds and million-dollar negotiations. A man who's seen me break bones without blinking. He takes an involuntary step back at whatever he sees in my eyes now.
"They threatened my wife," I say simply.
That's all the explanation needed. Angelo nods and leaves to execute my orders.
I call Sharon next, keeping my voice casual as I ask where she is. Shopping, she tells me, at that boutique on the Strip I took her to last week. My heart rate kicks up, but I keep my tone even.
"Stay inside. I'm sending Angelo to bring you home."
"Is everything okay?" She picks up on something in my voice.
"Just a precaution, angel. I'll explain when you're home."
I hang up and immediately call Angelo with her location. He's already dispatching men, but they're seven minutes out. Too long.
Five minutes later, my phone rings—one of Sharon's security detail. "Sir, attempted grab outside the boutique. Two men. We've neutralized the threat. Mrs. DeLuca is shaken but unharmed."
My knuckles go white around the phone. "Put her on."
"Fabio?" Her voice is thin, trembling slightly.
"Are you hurt?" Each word precise, controlled, though my heart is hammering like a jackhammer.
"No, I'm—I'm okay. These men, they tried to—your security people?—"
"I'm coming to you. Don't move. Stay with Angelo's men."
I hang up, grab my coat, and bark orders at my driver. The car screams through Vegas traffic, my mind a cold, calculating engine of destruction. Every moment plotting exactly how the Marchetti family will regret this day.
When we pull up to the boutique, police are already there—my police, on my payroll. Two bodies are being loaded into unmarked vans. I couldn't give less of a fuck about them. My eyes search for only one person.
Sharon stands to the side, wrapped in a security guard's jacket, looking small and pale. When she sees me, her face crumples.
I cross the space between us in four long strides and pull her against me, wrapping her in my coat and arms, holding so tight I can feel her heart hammering against my chest—matching mine beat for frantic beat. Not fear—pure, possessive fury that anyone would dare touch what's mine.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "You're safe now."
