"Stay down," I snap, my hand firm against the back of her head, keeping her pressed against me as I shift, scanning the room.
My men react instantly, weapons drawn, returning fire with precision, controlled, and lethal.
And then Marco jerks.
The impact hits him before the sound fully registers, his body staggering back, shoulders twisting as the bullet tears through him.
"Daddy!" Valentina screams, her voice breaking as she tries to move.
I tighten my grip on her, holding her in place.
"No."
Because I can't lose her, too.
Not now.
Not like this.
Gunfire cracks. Screams ricochet. The families scatter, old truces forgotten in seconds.
And in the middle of it all is Marco.
The man who just gave me his daughter collapses to the floor.
"I swear you have nine lives."
One shot, clean placement, shoulder, not center mass. Whoever fired it knew precisely where to aim and precisely where not to. This was not an attempt to kill. This was a message, delivered with a bullet, sent to me.
No trace. No vehicle. Just the entry point. A window on the east side, third floor of the adjacent building, and a shell casing left behind like a calling card.
Not an oversight. A signature.
Valentina is with her mother and Sofia in a private room the hospital has given us. When she sees me, she walks out. "Any idea who's behind this?"
"Not yet, but we're on it." She presses her forehead to my shoulder, looks me in the eyes, and says, "Find out what happened and then come back to me."
I have never been more certain that I chose correctly.
I kiss her, hard, and then I go do what I do.
Matteo stands three feet away, arms crossed, watching me with the expression he wears when he already knows what I'm about to confirm and wishes he didn't. Raffaele is outside Marco's hospital room. Elio is by the waiting room door, silent.
I dial the number.
It rings twice.
He picks up.
"Shadow." I keep my voice even. This is not the moment for emotion. Emotion is a liability I cannot afford right now.
The pause on the other end is short.
"Brother." His voice is the same as it always has been, low, precise, stripped of everything that isn't necessary. Dante has never wasted a syllable in his life. "Nice flowers, by the way."
He was watching. Of course he was watching.
"I have declared Marco Marino safe," I declare. Measured. Absolute. "No harm will come to him. That is the word of your Don. Do I make myself clear?"
