Page 57

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, his pupils dilated until almost no white shows in his eyes.

"Paint for me, Iris," he whispers against my lips, setting me gently back onto my feet. "Let me watch you make something real."

I nod, my throat too tight for words.

I turn back to the table, dipping my bare fingers into the bowl with four notches: cadmium red. The oil is thick, gritty with fine sand, and warm against my skin. I turn to the large white canvas on the easel, raise my hands, and drag my fingertips across the linen in a long, sweeping arc of pure, unapologetic fire.

Romeo

The studio door swings open with a sharp, violent bang that shatters the silence.

Sofia leaps to her feet, a vicious, guttural snarl ripping from her throat.

Enzo stands in the doorway, breathing hard, his weapon already drawn in his right hand.

"Boss," Enzo says, his voice tight with raw tension, his eyes darting between me and Iris. "We just got word from New York. It's Danny."

I instantly step in front of Iris, shielding her with my broad frame. "What happened?"

"The Scottish syndicate hit the hospital in Queens twenty minutes ago," Enzo reports grimly. “Tony took out five of their shooters, but Danny caught two bullets in the chest. The old man is in surgery now, Don. They don't expect him to make it through the night."

Her father is dying.

And the war has finally arrived.

The red paint dripping from Iris’s trembling fingers looks too much like blood on the pale limestone tiles.

My chest constricts, a violent knot tightening around my lungs as I watch the color drain from her face. She stands frozen before the easel, her lips parted in silent shock, her shoulders locked rigid. Beneath the dimming light of the Capri afternoon, she looks like porcelain ready to shatter into dust.

"Enzo," I say, my voice dropping to a low, lethal register that makes the room temperature plummet. "Outside. Now."

Enzo does not hesitate. He gives one tight nod, steps backward through the arched doorway, and pulls the heavy oak doors shut until only a crack remains.

I do not look away from Iris. The urge to hunt down every soul involved in shooting Danny O'Connor burns in my veins, but right now, my only priority stands right in front of me.

I close the distance between us, my footsteps silent until I am standing behind her. I slide my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my solid chest. She stiffens for half a second before all the fight leaves her body, her small frame sagging into me with a shuddering gasp.

"He's dying, Romeo," she whispers, her voice hollow, stripped of all the fiery defiance that had colored her cheeks minutes ago. "Danny is dying."

"I know, Kitten," I murmur, resting my chin against the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of lemon blossoms and raw paint in her red curls. "Breathe for me. Just breathe."

"I told him I never wanted to see him again," she rasps, fresh tears slipping over her scarred cheekbones. Her hands lift, hovering uselessly in the air, the thick red oil spattering onto the cuffs of my white shirt. "At the museum. I looked at him and told him he made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. I told him he lost the right to be my father."

"Danny knew why you said it, Iris," I say firmly, refusing to let the guilt consume her. "He failed you for years. He let his debts pile up until the wolves were at your throat. But he took two bullets defending the territory that belongs to your bloodline. He didn't run this time."

I take her right wrist, guiding her trembling hands away from the easel toward the small copper basin in the corner of the studio.

I turn the tap, letting the warm water fill the bowl before adding a dash of linseed oil to cut through the heavy pigment. Taking a linen cloth, I gently take Iris's small hand in mine, wiping away the red oil stroke by stroke. Her skin is cold as ice. The platinum Messina ring on her finger glints under the skylight, heavy with history and violence.

"Look at me, Iris," I command softly.

She turns her head toward the sound of my voice. The cloudy green of her eyes, unfocused yet piercing, stares directly into my soul.

"We leave for Naples in one hour," I state, my tone shifting from comforting lover to the Don who rules this empire. "The private jet is fueling on the tarmac right now. Tony has thirty made men locking down Queens Presbyterian Hospital, and no one enters Danny's wing without getting their brains ventilated on the linoleum."

She swallows hard, her fingers curling around mine in the warm water. "And the Scottish syndicate? Jamie said they allied with Victor."

A cold, feral smile touches my lips. I pull a satellite phone from my pocket with my free hand, tapping the screen to bring up the encrypted dispatch Enzo just handed me.