But it could’ve been so much worse.
Leo’s talking to the guards, coordinating a sweep to ensure none of Kenji’s men remain. Gio’s near the doorway to the entry, already calling contacts to confirm the Yakuza’s escape route. Miko’s still soothing Anika, cradling her against his chest as he quietly takes the lead, organizing the cleanup.
We’ve survived another hit. Barely.
But I know this isn’t the end.
When her work is done, Evi tapes a bandage over Raf’s stitches, and I help him up, clasping his good hand and hauling him off the floor. He flinches as he stands, his other hand going to his side, and I wonder if he really might have that broken rib he gave Miko a hard time about.
My guilt intensifies, and I scowl as Raf gives me a single nod, then strides across the room to relieve Leo of his temporary command.
Evi rises beside me, her hand brushing mine—tentative, grounding. “He’s going to be okay,” she says softly.
I nod, staring at Raf’s pale face, at the blood that’s soaked through his usually pristine suit, the missing sleeve Miko tore away to ensure the wound wasn’t critical. “Yeah.”
But inside, something’s breaking.
The adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by the heavy thud of shame, regret. Every heartbeat is a reminder of what almost happened—what could have happened—because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
Evi studies me quietly, her brow furrowed. “This wasn’t your fault, Sandro.”
I laugh bitterly. “Wasn’t it?”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I turn away, unable to stand still. The energy burning through me has nowhere to go. All my life, I’ve been the fighter. The one who takes the hit so others don’t have to. That’s who I am.
And tonight, I failed at the one thing I was made for.
28
EVI
The last of the guests are long since gone, and I watch from the doorway as the brothers say their goodbyes, Leo and Gio whisking their wives—and Gio’s son—away to their safe, ordinary, violence-free lives. God, how I envy them tonight.
Miko and Anika follow a second later, heading back to the Novikov estate, which feels far safer than this house, after what happened tonight. The Yakuza broke through our defenses so effortlessly. We didn’t even hear them coming—though I’ll admit, I was preoccupied at the time.
I’m still shaking in the aftermath of the violence, a bone-deep chill making the tremor in my hands feel permanent. I can’t stop seeing the blood on the floor, the overturned tables, the chandelier swaying after the gunfire.
I keep reliving the heart-stopping trauma of watching helplessly as the man I love dove into the line of fire without a second thought. He killed with a lethal, animal ferocity that was simultaneously awe-inspiring—and utterly terrifying. I’ve never seen just how dangerous my husband could be before. But aftertonight, I have a new understanding of who Sandro is. He’s more than just a man. He’s a deadly weapon—with a hair trigger.
My eyes stray naturally in his direction, and as if he can sense me watching him, he turns to me as the door closes behind Miko. Raf gives an exhausted wave good night and departs without a word, heading toward his wing of the house.
With a subtle tilt of the head, Sandro gestures for me to lead the way to ours, and I do, my heart beating irregularly in my chest as I pad toward him.
He walks beside me as we climb the stairs, but there’s a distance between us that I don’t know how to bridge. His hand isn’t on my back like it usually is. He isn’t teasing me, or whispering something low and rough in my ear the way he does when we’re alone. He’s silent.
And after how poorly my last attempt to comfort him went, I’m too much of a coward to try again.
The gold light from the sconces paints his face in harsh relief—the bruise forming at his jaw, the muscle that ticks there every time he clenches it. He looks dangerous again—not the crazed beast I witnessed earlier tonight, but more like the man I first met. And I drop my gaze to the floor so he won’t catch me staring.
When we reach our bedroom, he pushes the door open for me, but he doesn’t come in right away. He lingers in the doorway, scanning the hall like he’s expecting another threat to come bursting through it.
I slip out of the heels I collected from the terrace after patching up Raf, wincing as my sore feet touch the rug. “It’s over,” I tell him softly. “They’re gone. Everyone’s safe.”
He doesn’t answer.
I cross to him, laying a hand on his chest. His heart is still hammering beneath my palm, a harsh, erratic rhythm that tells me he’s far from calm—even if his expression’s stoic.
“You did everything you could. No one could’ve predicted what happened tonight.”
