THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KNEEL BESIDE HIS 85-YEAR-OLD GRANDMOTHER AS SHE STRUGGLED TO BREATHE DURING HIS ENGAGEMENT TOAST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE'S ONLY PRETENDING TO BE SICK,” BEFORE LUCA FOUND THE OLD WOMAN'S EMERGENCY MEDICATION LOCKED INSIDE HIS BRIDE'S HANDBAG.

The art gallery wing on the second floor of the Moretti estate was filled with priceless oil paintings, marble statues, and centuries-old antiques collected by generations of Italian-American patriarchs. At night, bathed in the soft glow of recessed track lighting, it felt less like a museum and more like a quiet sanctuary away from the brutal realities of the underworld outside.

I walked slowly down the long corridor, my footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug beneath my feet. I had slipped away from the dining room for a few minutes of quiet air, needing a moment to let the whirlwind of the last few days settle in my chest.

“Looking for something?”

I didn't jump. I recognized the deep, rich timbre of Luca’s voice instantly. I turned to see him walking toward me from the shadow of a marble pillar, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored trousers.

“Just admiring the history,” I replied, gesturing toward a massive Renaissance-era painting of the Italian coastline hanging on the wall beside us. “It’s strange to think about how many secrets these walls have witnessed over the decades. Vincent, Giovanni, all the men who came before them... they built an empire on blood and silence.”

Luca stopped right beside me, turning his gaze toward the painting before looking down at me. “And they nearly destroyed it from the inside out. Power without honor is just a slow poison. My father and my uncle thought they were untouchable because they ruled through fear. They didn't understand that true power isn't about how many enemies you crush—it’s about who you protect.”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and crisp winter air radiating from him. My breath hitched slightly in my throat.

“And who are you protecting, Luca?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You,” he answered without a single second of hesitation, his dark eyes burning with an absolute, unyielding intensity. “And Nonna. And this house, which is finally going to stand for something legitimate and honorable.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, moving upward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was electric, sending a warm shiver racing down my spine. The air between us grew thick, charged with weeks of unspoken tension, hidden danger, and mutual survival.

“Elena,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, husky register as his gaze flicked down to my lips. “When I thought I lost you during the courtyard chase... when I thought Vincent’s men were going to reach you before I did... I realized something terrifying.”

“What?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“I realized that all the power, all the wealth, and all the control in Chicago meant absolutely nothing if I couldn't protect the woman who brought my family back to life,” he confessed, his hand sliding down to cup the back of my neck, pulling me gently toward him.

When his lips finally met mine, the rest of the world—the syndicate, the federal trials, the dark history of the Moretti family—simply dissolved into nothingness. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was fierce, desperate, and filled with a raw, pent-up passion that had been building since the moment we stood together in the hospital corridor. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring myself against the solid warmth of his chest as the gallery lights flickered softly overhead.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing heavily, Luca rested his forehead gently against mine, a rare, breathtaking smile touching the corners of his mouth.