What I thrived in.
Not playing the obedient wife inside a gilded cage, not shrinking within the confines of a mafia boss’s world, but riding straight into danger with my pulse steady and my mind clear.
This—this was freedom.
Chapter 9
ELENA
The twin super bikes snarled to a halt in front of the glass monolith that rose from the Lombardy hillside like a black dagger carved into the night itself.
For a moment, everything seemed to hold its breath.
Behind us, seven matte-black supercars slid into formation with military precision, engines purring instead of roaring now.
Three Lamborghinis.
Two Ferraris.
A McLaren.
And a custom Aston Martin that looked less like a vehicle and more like something engineered for war.
Doors opened in perfect synchronization.
Twenty-eight men of the Third Battalion stepped out into the night.
Black Veil’s elite.
Their presence was immediate—heavy, oppressive, disciplined.
Each of them wore tactical black: slim combat pants reinforced at the knees, compression shirts beneath lightweight ballistic vests, plate carriers strapped tight and loaded with spare magazines.
Suppressed rifles hung low across their chests, cradled like extensions of their bodies rather than weapons.
Balaclavas covered everything below their eyes.
Night-vision goggles rested on their foreheads like dark crowns, ready to descend.
They moved like machines.
Deadly.
No chatter.
No laughter.
No noise beyond the soft crunch of boots against gravel.
Just silence—and the kind of readiness that meant one wrong move could turn this meeting into a massacre.
I swung my leg off the bike and removed my helmet, pulling it free in one smooth motion.
Cool night air rushed against my face.
Sharp.
Clean.
