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Enzo stands there in a dark windbreaker, holding a secure satellite phone in his hand. His face is grim, the usual mocking smirk wiped clean from his features.

"Boss," Enzo says quietly, keeping his voice down. "We just got an encrypted dispatch through the secure relay from Moscow."

I lean against the bulkhead, crossing my arms over my chest. "Gemma?"

"Yeah. She made contact with Victor's inner circle," Enzo reports, handing me the small digital display. "She played the helpless little hostage for about twelve hours before she slit the throat of his lead interrogator with an antique nail file. She is currently drinking Victor's top-shelf vodka in his penthouse while negotiating trade terms at knifepoint."

A proud smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "That is my girl. What did she uncover?"

Enzo's expression darkens. "The alliance is real, Don. Victor confirmed that the Scottish church funded the shipment of weapons used against Emilio's convoy three years ago. The bishop you killed wasn't acting alone; he was the American figurehead for an old Catholic banking syndicate based out of Edinburgh. With the bishop dead, the church council in Scotland put out a bounty on Iris. They think if they reclaim Danny O'Connor's daughter, they can force the Irish mob in New York back under their thumb."

My blood turns to liquid ice. The rage that sits permanently in my bones roars to the surface, making my knuckles crack as I ball my hands into fists.

"And Danny?" I demand.

"Tony says Danny is deteriorating fast back in New York," Enzo admits, shaking his head. "The old man's liver is failing from the booze, but he is still babbling to anyone who listens about protecting his Rose. If the Scottish faction makes a move on Danny, New York will turn into a slaughterhouse."

I stare at the display, calculating our moves on a board that has suddenly caught fire on both sides of the Atlantic.

"Tell Tony to lock down Danny's hospital floor," I order, my voice flat, cold, and final. "Nobody gets near the old man without a bullet to the chest. And tell Gemma to keep Victor occupied until I give the word. We dock in Capri in two hours. I'm letting my wife paint in peace for the rest of our honeymoon, and then we return to New York to finish this war once and for all."

Enzo nods respectfully. "Understood, Don. Questa nostra cosa."

"This thing of ours," I repeat, turning back toward the stateroom door.

My wife has spent enough time hiding from shadows. It is time I bring her home to reign over the ashes.

ELEVEN

IRIS

The gentle roll of the yacht anchored in the sheltered cove off the Faraglioni rocks lulls the cabin into a rhythmic, liquid peace.

Through the open portholes, the Mediterranean breathes into the stateroom: cool salt water, wild juniper from the crags above, and the faint, sweet warmth of stone that has baked in the sun all afternoon. The afternoon light enters the cabin as a pale, golden glow that softens into milky gray before reaching my bed.

Sofia is sprawled across a sheepskin rug near the foot of the brass bedstead, her breathing deep and even, snoring softly every few seconds.

I sit cross-legged on the mattress, dressed only in a chemise of ivory silk that reaches mid-thigh. Between my fingers, I slide the scarlet ribbon that has covered my face for three long years.

The fabric is old, worn, and supple from countless washes, and the ends are frayed where my nervous fingers have picked at the threads during panic attacks. For so long, this scrap of silk was my shield. It was the barrier between my ruined, scarred face and the prying, pitying eyes of strangers on Manhattan sidewalks. When I wore it, I could pretend that the world was dark because I chose it to be dark, not because a spray of holy glass had stolen my colors.

A shadow falls across the bed.

The scent arrives before he takes another step: dark roast espresso, Tuscan leather, the faint smoke of a Toscano cigar, and the clean warmth of Romeo's skin.

He stands in the doorway of the stateroom, his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the light from the corridor. He has discarded his suit jacket, wearing only a pair of dark trousers and a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The buttons are undone halfway down his chest, showing the intricate black ink of his family motto and the pale scar where a blade nipped his collarbone years ago.

He holds a silver tray in one hand. On it sits a bowl of dark purple grapes, a plate of thinly sliced prosciutto, and a tall crystal glass filled with ice and sparkling mineral water with a slice of blood orange.

"You're quiet this afternoon, Kitten," he murmurs, stepping into the cabin.

His footsteps make no sound against the thick wool rug. He sets the tray on the low teak nightstand and walks to the side of the bed, his dark eyes tracking every movement of my hands.

"I was thinking about the ribbon," I say softly, holding up the strip of red silk between my thumbs.

Romeo sits on the edge of the mattress, his heavy weight dipping the springs, bringing his warmth close enough that the hair on my bare arms stands up. He reaches out, his large, calloused fingers closing around mine, his thumb gently smoothing over the frayed edges of the fabric.

"You didn't wear it today in Taormina," he says, his voice dropping into that low, reverent timbre that always makes my heart skip a beat. "You wore the sunglasses. You let the sun touch your cheeks."