She Slapped The Mafia Boss For Disrespecting Her Sister — What He Did Next Shocked The Entire Room

Grace’s hand squeezed mine as we stepped through the gilded entrance of the Westbrook Grand Hotel. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors, and the sound of string quartet music floated through air thick with expensive perfume and older money.

 “My younger sister practically vibrated with excitement beside me, her emerald dress catching every reflection. “I can’t believe we’re actually here,” she whispered, eyes wide as she took in the opulent ballroom. At 22, Grace still had that brighteyed optimism about events like these. Charity gallas where Manhattan’s elite gathered to write checks they’d never miss and congratulate themselves on their generosity.

 I adjusted my camera bag on my shoulder, feeling distinctly out of place in the simple black dress I’d owned for 3 years. You’re the one who got the invitation through your law school connections. I’m just here to take pictures. You’re here because you’re my sister and I love you. Grace corrected, linking her arm through mine.

 And because you need to get out of that tiny apartment and experience life sometimes. I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t entirely wrong. At 28, my existence had narrowed to a comfortable but suffocating routine, freelance photography gigs, instant coffee, and nights spent editing photos and solitude. When Grace had practically begged me to accompany her tonight, something in her voice made refusal impossible. The ballroom swallowed us into its glittering chaos.

 Women in designer gowns worth more than my yearly rent air-kissed each other’s cheeks, while men in perfectly tailored tuxedos discussed business deals over champagne that probably cost more per glass than my weekly grocery budget. Grace drifted toward a group of her law school classmates near the bar, and I let her go, content to observe from the margins.

I raised my camera, framing shots of the elaborate ice sculptures, the way candle light played across expensive jewelry, the practiced smiles that never quite reached anyone’s eyes. Through my viewfinder, life became manageable, reduced to composition and light. That’s when I noticed the shift in the room’s energy. Conversations didn’t stop exactly, but they changed.

 Voices dropped half an octave. Bodies turned subtly toward the entrance. I lowered my camera and followed everyone’s collective gaze. Six men entered through the main doors with the kind of presence that demanded attention without asking for it. They moved as a unit, but one stood at the center, and even from across the crowded ballroom, he commanded the space-like gravity itself bent around him.

 Tall, easily 6’2 or 63, with black hair swept back from a face that could have been carved from stone. dark suit that probably cost more than my car, crisp white shirt, no tie. But it was his eyes that caught me, even at this distance, dark and assessing, scanning the room with the calculated precision of someone who saw everything and forgot nothing.

 A woman near me whispered to her companion, Luca Peligrini. I didn’t know he’d be here. The name meant nothing to me, but the way she said it, like invoking something dangerous, made my skin prickle with awareness. I watched as he and his men moved through the crowd which parted for them with choreographed precision. People greeted him with respectful nods, but no one stopped him.

 No one presumed familiarity. He acknowledged the greetings with bare politeness. His attention focused elsewhere. Focused, I realized with growing unease, in the direction where Grace stood with her classmates. I moved without thinking, weaving through clusters of guests, my camera forgotten against my hip.

 Something about the way those dark eyes had fixed on that part of the room triggered every protective instinct I possessed. Grace was laughing at something one of her friends had said, completely oblivious. Luca Peligrini reached her group before I did. I was close enough now to see him properly.

 the sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar cutting across his chin that suggested a history involving violence. He moved with liquid confidence, positioning himself directly in Grace’s line of sight. The three men standing near her tensed visibly at his approach. Gentlemen, Pelleigrini’s voice was smooth, controlled, with an edge that promised consequences. I didn’t expect to find you here tonight.

 One of the men, babyfaced with sllicked back blonde hair, forced to smile. Mr. Pelleigrini, we were just discussing the legal aid program with these lovely ladies. Grace looked confused, glancing between them with her characteristic inability to sense danger. She had no idea she’d somehow wandered into whatever power play was unfolding.

 Pelleigrini’s gaze shifted to her, cold and dismissive, and something in my chest tightened. “Is that what you were doing?” He turned back to Grace fully now, his expression transforming into something cruel. Let me save you some time, sweetheart. These men aren’t here for charity.

 They’re here looking for connections they can exploit. And a girl like you, pretty face, law degree from a second tier school, desperate to make an impression. You’re exactly the kind of easy target they specialize in. The words landed like physical blows. Grace’s face drained of color, her mouth opening in shock. Around us, people shifted uncomfortably, but no one intervened.

 No one challenged him. Fury ignited in my veins, burning away every rational thought. I pushed through the last few feet, separating us, and my hand connected with his face before I fully registered the decision to move. The crack of palm against skin echoed in the sudden silence that swallowed our section of the ballroom. His head turned slightly from the impact, and I felt the sting radiating through my palm.

 The entire world seemed to stop breathing. Slowly, deliberately, Luca Peligrini turned his face back to look at me. A red mark bloomed across his cheek where I’d struck him. Those dark eyes, brown so deep they were almost black, fixed on mine with an intensity that should have terrified me. around us.

 His men moved slightly, hands disappearing toward what I suddenly understood were concealed weapons. But he raised one hand, stopping them without looking away from me. “Who?” he said quietly, his voice dangerous in its control. “Do you think you are?” “Her sister,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

 “And someone who won’t stand here and watch you humiliate a 22-year-old girl to prove whatever point you’re trying to make.” Something flickered across his expression, too fast to identify. His gaze moved between Grace and me, and I saw him register the resemblance, the shared green eyes and similar bone structure. When he looked back at me, his head tilted slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle that didn’t fit his expectations. Then he moved fast.

 His hand caught my wrist in a grip that didn’t hurt, but absolutely prevented escape. He pulled me closer. Close enough that I could smell expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. His breath was warm against my ear when he spoke. His voice dropping to a register meant only for me.

 You’re coming with me tonight. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request. Before I could respond, before I could process what was happening, his men surrounded us. One of them, older with gray threading through dark hair, murmured something I couldn’t quite catch. Pelleigrini nodded once, and suddenly we were moving toward the exit. Wait, no.

 What are you doing? Grace’s voice rose behind us, panicked. Olivia. I tried to twist around to tell her it would be okay, even though I had no idea if that was true. But the crowd had closed between us. Pelleigrini’s grip on my wrist remained firm, but not painful, as he guided me through the ballroom with that same effortless command that had parted people upon his arrival.

 No one stopped us. No one even tried. Through the entrance, down marble steps into the cool night air that did nothing to clear the confusion from my head. A black SUV with tinted windows waited at the curb. Engine running.

 The door opened and Peligrini’s hand moved from my wrist to the small of my back, applying just enough pressure to guide me inside. Self-preservation finally caught up with adrenaline. I planted my feet, turning to face him. I’m not getting in that car. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, something almost like respect flickered in their depths. Yes, he said simply. you are. You can’t just kidnap people from charity events.

 I’m not kidnapping you. I’m removing you from a dangerous situation. His hand remained steady on my back. Your sister is being taken somewhere safe as we speak. If you want to ensure she stays that way, you’ll get in the car. We’ll talk. Then you’ll decide. Decide what? Whether you trust me enough to let me protect you both.

 He paused and his voice dropped again. intimate despite the absurdity of the situation, or whether you prefer to take your chances with the men who were about to identify your sister as leverage against me. My mind raced, trying to make sense of his words, but nothing about this night followed any logical pattern.

 Behind him, I could see hotel security starting to notice our tableau. Grace was nowhere in sight. Luca Peligrini’s expression remained unreadable. patient, waiting for me to reach the only conclusion this moment allowed. I got in the car. He slid in beside me and the door closed with a quiet final click.

 The vehicle pulled smoothly away from the curb, leaving the glittering illusion of civilized society behind. Only then did I realize I was still wearing my camera, its weight suddenly feeling like the last piece of my normal life, hanging useless against my hip as Manhattan’s lights blurred past the tinted windows. Silence filled the car like a third presence, heavy and expectant, I sat pressed against the leather seat, hyper aware of the man beside me, whose very existence seemed to alter the oxygen in the confined space.

 Through the tinted windows, the city transformed into streaks of light and shadow. Where is my sister? My voice came out steadier than I felt. You said she’s somewhere safe. I want proof. Luca Peligrini didn’t look at me immediately. Instead, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen twice, and held it toward me. A video feed showed Grace in what looked like a luxury apartment, sitting on a cream sofa, while a woman in professional attire offered her water. Grace looked shaken, but unharmed. That’s a secure location in Brooklyn, he

said. She’s with one of my people. Grace will be informed of the situation shortly. She’s not in danger. I watched the screen for another moment, my heart rate gradually slowing. Grace was alive. She was safe. That had to be enough for now. Informed of what situation exactly? I demanded, handing the phone back.

 You insulted her, dragged me out of a public event, and now we’re speeding through Manhattan toward god knows where. That I saved both your lives tonight. He pocketed the phone and finally turned those intense dark eyes on me. Up close, I could see details I’d missed before.

 Fine lines at the corners of his eyes that suggested he was older than his initial appearance. 34, maybe 35. The scar on his chin was precise, surgical. The men your sister was talking to work for Sergey Volkov, Russian Organized Crime. They were there specifically to identify potential leverage points against me. And you think my sister is leverage? She’s a law student. She didn’t matter, Pelleigrini agreed until 3 weeks ago when she started researching a case for her criminal justice seminar.

A human trafficking operation that was dismantled last year. She doesn’t know it yet, but that operation had connections to Volkov’s network. Her inquiries flagged in certain databases. The words hit me like cold water. Grace had mentioned a research project about legal precedents in organized crime prosecutions.

 I’d barely paid attention, too focused on a photography deadline to register potential danger. You’re saying they targeted her because of a school assignment? I’m saying they identified her as someone connected to information they’d prefer stayed buried. Tonight, they were going to use her proximity to make contact, to establish rapport.

 Within a week, maybe two, they would have approached her with an opportunity, an internship perhaps, something appealing enough that she wouldn’t question it. My mouth went dry, and the insult was the fastest way to make her want to leave immediately without alerting Vulov’s men to my interference.

 If I’d approached politely, they would have known I was protecting her. This way, she looked like an embarrassed young woman fleeing an unpleasant encounter. Forgettable. The logic was cold, calculated, and disturbingly sound, but it didn’t excuse the cruelty. You could have found another way, perhaps. Something almost like regret flickered across his expression, but I had approximately 90 seconds to make a decision before they made direct contact. I chose effectiveness over kindness. The car turned and I felt the change in road

surface that suggested we were leaving Manhattan. My stomach tightened with fresh anxiety. Where are you taking me? Connecticut. I have a property there about 90 minutes from the city. Private, secure, far enough from Volkov’s usual territory that his people will need time to locate it.

 You’re kidnapping me to Connecticut. I’m offering you protection. His tone remained infuriatingly calm. There’s a difference. Legally, I’m not sure there is. Legally. And now his voice took on an edge, sharp as broken glass. You assaulted me in front of approximately 200 witnesses. I could have had you arrested. Instead, I’m ensuring you survive the next 2 weeks.

 2 weeks? The timeline felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short. What happens in 2 weeks? I finish negotiations that will significantly weaken Volkov’s operation. Once the agreements are in place, once the power structure shifts, you and Grace become irrelevant to him. Not worth the risk.

 He shifted slightly, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. Until then, you need to be somewhere he can’t reach you. And you think I’ll just agree to this? No. The single word hung between us. I think you’ll agree to something else entirely. The car slowed, merging onto what felt like a highway based on the smooth acceleration.

 The older man with gray hair drove, his eyes occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror. What else? I asked. though part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Luca shifted fully toward me now. For the next two weeks, you pretend to be my woman, my partner. We attend events together, dinners, meetings.

 You stay at my home, to the outside world. To Vulov and everyone else watching. You’re mine. The word sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. Why? Because it provides cover for Grace’s protection. If Vulkoff believes I’m interested in you romantically, it explains why Grace is in a secure location. Explains my sudden interference.

 He’ll assume I’m motivated by personal interest rather than strategic intervention. It makes you both less suspicious. You want me to pretend to date you to protect my sister. I want you to pretend to be involved with me in a way that makes every other criminal organization in this city believe you’re under my protection. His gaze held mine.

 Grace will be safe in a monitored apartment. You will be with me, visible, playing a role. It’s the best option available. And if I refuse, then I’ll still protect Grace because despite what you apparently think of me, I don’t harm innocent people. But you’ll be on your own, which means Volkov’s people will find you within 48 hours. They’ll use you to get to her, or to me, or both.

Your choice. Through the window, I could see we were definitely out of the city now. trees replacing buildings. You’re telling me I have no choice at all. You have a choice. He leaned back, giving me marginally more space.

 You can trust me enough to accept protection that will keep both of you alive, or you can refuse and take your chances with men who traffic human beings for profit. Silence stretched between us, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt. The driver murmured something in what might have been Italian. Luca responded briefly in the same language, his voice carrying authority. If I agree, I said slowly.

 I want guarantees. I want to see Grace regularly. I want proof she’s safe. And I want your word that this ends in exactly 2 weeks. Agreed. No hesitation. You can visit Grace every few days escorted. Video calls daily if you prefer. And yes, in 2 weeks, assuming the negotiations conclude as expected, you’re both free to return to your normal lives.

 How? A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. I’m very good at making people believe what I want them to believe. The car slowed, turning onto what felt like a private road. Trees pressed close on either side, their branches creating a canopy that blocked the moonlight.

 We’re almost there,” the gay-haired man said from the front seat, speaking English for the first time. His voice carried a Mediterranean accent. Vincent already secured the perimeter. “Good.” Luca’s attention remained on me. “When we arrive, you’ll be shown to a guest suite. Your belongings will be retrieved from your apartment tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow we discuss specifics, our arrangement as if this were a business contract rather than a bizarre convergence of violence and forced proximity. I don’t even know your first name, I said.

 Luca, he extended his hand, formal despite everything. Luca Peligrini. And you are? Olivia Hayes. I took his hand, expecting a brief shake. Instead, his fingers closed around mine with surprising warmth, holding the contact a moment longer than necessary. His thumb brushed across my knuckles. “Olivia.” “N,” he said my name like he was testing its weight.

 “For what it’s worth, I regret the circumstances. But I don’t regret keeping you alive.” Before I could respond, the car emerged from the treeine and a house materialized from the darkness. Except house was inadequate. Three stories of stone and glass lit from within by warm light that spilled across manicured grounds.

 Security lights activated as we approached, illuminating a circular driveway. This was where Luca Peligrini lived. This was where I would be staying for the next 2 weeks. The car stopped and the driver opened the door. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of earth and something floral. Luca exited first, then offered me his hand.

 I stared at it for a moment at this man who disrupted my entire existence in a single evening, who claimed to be saving my life while dragging me into a world I didn’t understand. Then I placed my hand in his and let him help me out of the car. Whatever happened next, whatever this arrangement entailed, I’d agreed to it for Grace to keep her safe.

 That had to be enough. Morning arrived with unwelcome brightness. Sunlight streaming through floor to ceiling windows I hadn’t bothered to cover before collapsing into the massive bed sometime after two. The guest suite was larger than my entire apartment, all cream and silver tones with furniture that probably cost more than I made in 6 months. I’d barely slept, my mind replaying the previous night.

 Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Grace’s face draining of color. Felt the impact of my palm against Luca’s cheek. heard his voice promising possession. A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. Before I could respond, a woman in her 50s with kind eyes stepped inside carrying a tray. Good morning, Miss Hayes. I’m Maria, Mr.

Pelleigrini’s housekeeper. I’ve brought breakfast. Her accent was faint. He asked me to inform you that he’ll be working in his office this morning, but expects you for lunch at noon. Expects, not invites. Expects. After showering in a bathroom with heated floors and discovering that someone had unpacked my belongings, I dressed in jeans and a charcoal sweater.

 If Luca expected me to play dress up, he’d be disappointed. The house revealed itself as I explored. A library with leatherbound volumes and rolling ladders. A dining room with a table that could seat 20. A kitchen where Maria directed staff with quiet efficiency.

 I found myself drawn to a room at the back, pulled by natural light spilling through French doors. Inside, my breath caught. Photographs lined the walls. Not generic art pieces, but actual vintage photography. Black and white images from the early 20th century, each perfectly preserved and professionally framed. I recognized a breai, several Dorothia lungs, what might have been an original Anel Adams. You have good taste.

 I spun to find Luca standing in the doorway, dressed more casually than last night in dark slacks and a white button-down with rolled sleeves. The informality made him somehow more dangerous. These are incredible, I said, gesturing to the collection. How did you acquire them? Carefully. He moved into the room, hands in his pockets. I’ve been collecting for about 10 years.

 Most people assume men in my line of work only care about displays of wealth, but I’ve always preferred something with actual cultural value. I turned back to a haunting image of depression era workers. This is a lane original. It should be in a museum, perhaps. But then I couldn’t look at it whenever I wanted.

 He stopped beside me close enough that I could smell his cologne. You understand these? The composition, the light, what the photographer was trying to capture. I’m a photographer. It’s my job to understand. You’re a photographer who sees. He gestured to my camera bag. Maria said, “You’ve been documenting the grounds this morning.

 May I see?” The request surprised me. I hesitated, then pulled out my camera and showed him the morning’s shots. Early light through trees, shadows across stone pathways, frost melting on a window pane. Luca studied each image with genuine attention. You find beauty in transitions, he said finally.

 The moment between night and day, frost and water, shadow and light. I find interest in change, I corrected. Nothing stays static. A philosophical approach to photography, a realistic one. He handed the camera back, our fingers brushing. Grace called this morning. She wanted to make sure you were settling in. The mention of my sister shifted something between us. I need to see her soon. and I keep my promises.

 No defensiveness, just fact. Vincent will drive you to Brooklyn on Wednesday. That gives her time to process everything. Gives us time to establish parameters. About that, I started, but he was already moving toward the door. Lunch first. Then we discussed specifics. The dining room in 30 minutes. You could ask instead of command.

 He paused, turning back. Would you respond better to requests when you’re still deciding whether to trust me? I don’t trust you. I know. Something almost like approval flickered across his face. But you will. Over lunch. Maria serving pasta that smelled incredible. Luca outlined the arrangement. Tomorrow evening, we’re attending a dinner with several of my business associates.

 Italian families, mostly legitimate ventures now, but they’ll be watching. Your role is simple. Be intelligent. Be charming. And let everyone assume we’re involved. How involved? Romantically? Seriously? The kind that explains why I’d act rashly at a public event? His gaze held mine. I’ll touch you. Your hand, your back. Nothing inappropriate, but enough to establish intimacy.

 You’ll need to appear comfortable with it. The memory of his hand on my wrist sent an involuntary shiver through me. What do I tell them about myself? The truth, mostly. photographer, freelance, 28, Grace’s sister. You met me through a mutual connection. We’ve been seeing each other quietly. Keep details vague. And when they ask about your business, you don’t know details.

 Import, export, property development, security consultation. All technically true. You’ve chosen not to ask questions. He paused. Does that bother you? Yes. Honesty seemed safest, but I understand the necessity. Good. He set down his fork. The next two weeks won’t be easy. You’ll be in situations that may feel uncomfortable, but as long as you stay with me. As long as you maintain this pretense, you and Grace are protected. No pressure, then. No.

His mouth curved slightly. No pressure at all. Saturday evening arrived with borrowed jewelry and the burgundy dress from my closet. The restaurant was exclusive, the kind without a sign. Inside, low lighting and quiet conversations created an atmosphere of old money and older secrets. Luca’s hand found the small of my back as we entered, warm through thin fabric. The touch felt steadying.

 Remember, he murmured near my ear. You chose to be here. You chose me. We entered a private room where eight people waited, their conversation stopping. I felt their assessment like physical weight, every eye cataloging my presence. Luca’s fingers spled wider against my back, possessive and protective.

 “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, accent slightly more pronounced. “Ladies, allow me to introduce Olivia Hayes.” The evening blurred into names and faces, careful conversations and subtle power plays. But through it all, Luca remained constant at my side, his hand on my shoulder, his fingers brushing mine.

 Small touches that rewired something fundamental in my understanding of personal space. By the time we returned to the car past midnight, exhaustion had settled into my bones. You did well, Luca said. No one questioned us. Good. I leaned my head against the cool window. I’m not sure I could do that again tomorrow. You won’t have to. Tomorrow you rest. Sunday I spent photographing the grounds.

 Grace called, her voice stronger, telling me the Brooklyn apartment was nice, that the security team was professional but unobtrusive. We talked for an hour about everything except the danger we were in. Monday, Luca was locked in his office on calls. I avoided him, not ready to process how easily his touch had started to feel normal.

 Tuesday morning, I woke with restless energy. Vincent informed me we’d leave for Brooklyn after lunch. I was in the photography gallery reviewing shots when the sound reached me. Sharp cracks, unmistakable gunfire. My blood turned to ice. Footsteps pounded down the hallway. The door burst open and Luca filled the frame.

 No longer the controlled collector, but something harder, dangerous. Get down, he ordered, crossing the room. Now, before I could move, an explosion shattered windows. Glass erupted inward, and I felt myself hit the floor, something heavy covering me. Luca, his body shielding mine, his weight pressing me into the hardwood while chaos erupted overhead. Stay down, he growled against my ear. Don’t move.

More gunfire, shouting in Italian. the sound of vehicles outside. Luca’s hand covered the back of my head, holding me down, while his other hand appeared with a weapon I hadn’t known he was carrying. His entire body was tense, coiled, ready. Then, as quickly as it started, silence fell. Boss, Vincent’s voice from the doorway. Perimeter secure.

 Three vehicles, Volkov’s people, they’re retreating. Luca didn’t move immediately. His breathing was controlled but rapid against my ear, his body still covering mine like a shield. Finally, slowly, he lifted himself enough to look down at me. “Are you hurt?” I shook my head, unable to form words.

 Glass glittered in his dark hair, and a thin cut bled along his jaw, but his eyes were focused entirely on me. “Good.” He stood, offering his hand. Come on, we need to move you to the secure room until Vincent confirms they’re gone. I took his hand and let him pull me up. My legs shook around us. The photography gallery was destroyed. Windows shattered. Vintage images damaged by flying glass and debris.

 Something in my chest tightened looking at the destruction. Luca’s hand found my face, turning my attention from the ruined room to him. This,” he said quietly, intensely, “is why you’re here. This is what I’m protecting you from. And next time, they won’t just be testing our defenses.

” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, and I realized I was trembling. Next time, he said, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. I won’t let them get this close. In that moment, covered in glass and fear, with his hand warm against my face and danger still humming in the air around us, something shifted, I believed him.

 Wednesday arrived with Vincent at my door precisely at 10:00 in the morning, dressed in his usual dark suit, expression unreadable. The drive to Brooklyn took just over an hour. The city gradually swallowing us in its familiar chaos of traffic and noise that felt both comforting and alien after days in Connecticut’s isolated quiet.

 The safe house turned out to be a luxury apartment in Brooklyn Heights with Florida ceiling windows overlooking the East River. Security was subtle but omnipresent, cameras at every angle. A man stationed discreetly in the lobby who nodded to Vincent as we passed. Grace opened the door before I could knock, pulling me into a hug so tight it forced the air from my lungs.

 Oh my god, Liv. She breathed against my shoulder, using the childhood nickname she only pulled out when emotions ran high. I was so worried. Are you okay? Are you safe? I’m fine. I held her at arms length, studying her face. She looked better than I’d expected. Rested despite everything.

 The circles under her eyes had faded. Are you really honestly? She gestured me inside where a woman in her 30s sat reading on the pristine white sofa. It’s weird, but I’m okay. Everyone’s been really professional. And after they explained everything about the research project and Vulov and the connections I’d accidentally uncovered, I understood why Luca did what he did at the gala.

 She led me toward the kitchen where she poured coffee with the ease of someone who’d already made herself at home. He sent flowers yesterday with an apology card, handwritten, not printed. It was actually kind of sweet. Sweet? I repeated flatly, accepting the mug she offered.

 The man who called you an easy target sent flowers and suddenly he’s sweet. He was protecting me. Grace’s eyes met mine with unsettling maturity. And now he’s protecting both of us. That matters more than hurt feelings, live. She paused, studying my face with uncomfortable perception. You like him? I don’t know him. That’s not what I asked.

 She leaned against the counter, cradling her coffee mug. The way you said his name just now. The way your expression changed when I mentioned the flowers. You like him. The situation is complicated. So, that’s a yes. I wanted to argue, but Grace had always been able to read me better than I could read myself. Instead, I changed the subject.

Tell me about the apartment. Have you been outside at all? Once with two security guys yesterday. They took me to a bookstore three blocks away. Let me browse for an hour. It felt surprisingly normal, except for the armed escorts. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 How long does this last leave? The hiding, the protection, all of it. 2 weeks. Maybe less if Luca’s negotiations finish early. I set down my coffee, reaching across to squeeze her hand. I know it feels endless, but it’s temporary. And then then we go back to our normal lives. You finish law school. I take photos. This becomes a really weird story we don’t tell people at parties.

 Grace set down her coffee, her expression shifting into something more serious. You know that’s not how this works, right? You can’t spend two weeks pretending to be involved with someone like Luca Pelleigrini and just walk away unchanged. This world, these people, they leave marks. I’m not pretending to be involved with him.

 I protested, though the lie tasted wrong. I’m playing a role. There’s a difference. Is there? She reached across and squeezed my hand. Just be careful, okay? I know you’re doing this for me, protecting me like you always do, but don’t lose yourself in the process. We spent 3 hours together after that, talking about everything and nothing. Falling into the comfortable rhythm of sisterhood.

 Grace showed me her research project, the very thing that had triggered this cascade of danger. Pages of legal precedent and case studies that I barely understood but listened to, because it mattered to her. When Vincent appeared in the doorway to indicate our time was up, Grace hugged me again tighter than before. Tell him thank you.

 She whispered against my shoulder for the flowers for keeping us safe and tell him I’m sorry you slapped him, even if he probably deserved it. The drive back to Connecticut passed in companionable silence. Vincent asking only once if the visit had been satisfactory. I assured him it had been.

 Then spent the rest of the journey staring out the window and trying not to think about Grace’s words echoing in my head. You like him. We arrived at the mansion as afternoon light gilded the stone facade in warm tones. Vincent escorted me inside, then disappeared toward whatever security station he commanded. I headed for my room when voices from the partially open door of Luca’s office stopped me mid-stride. The negotiations are proceeding slower than anticipated.

 Luca’s voice tense in a way I hadn’t heard before. Volkov’s lieutenants are pushing back on the territory agreements. They want more concessions. Then we give them less. A voice I didn’t recognize. Male older force their hand and risk open war with Olivia and her sister exposed. Luca’s tone sharpened. Not acceptable. A pause. Then the older voice again softer now.

 You’ve gotten attached. I’ve gotten responsible. There’s a difference, is there? The same question Grace had asked, applied to different context. I should have kept walking, but my feet refuse to move. She’s under my protection, Luca said firmly. That means something. It means she’s leverage if Volkoff figures out she’s more than a convenient fiction.

 Then we make sure he doesn’t figure it out. A chair scraped against floor. Tomorrow night’s dinner with the Castroviani family is crucial if we can secure their alliance. Volkov’s position weakens significantly. Olivia will be with me. And after when the two weeks end and she leaves, silence stretched so long I thought perhaps they’d moved to a different topic. Then Luca spoke again, his voice barely audible.

 Then she leaves. I should have walked away then. Instead, I knocked lightly on the door frame, pushing the door open fully. Luca stood behind his massive desk, looking up as I entered. The other man, older with silver hair and sharp eyes, sat in one of the leather chairs, assessing me with calculating precision.

 Olivia, Luca’s expression shifted, professional mask sliding into place. How was your sister? Better than expected, actually. I stepped inside. She asked me to thank you for the flowers. It was the least I could do after traumatizing her at a charity gala. He gestured to the other man. This is Giovani Castroani. His family controls shipping operations throughout the Northeast.

 Giovanni Olivia Hayes, the photographer, Givani said, standing to shake my hand with old world courtesy. Luca mentioned your work. You have an exhibition in Soho scheduled, I understand. I blinked, surprised. Eventually, it’s still in planning stages. My daughter is a gallery owner in Manhattan, Giovani offered. She might be interested in reviewing your portfolio.

 I don’t need charity networking, I said before I could stop myself. Both men looked at me with surprise. I appreciate the thought truly, but I’d prefer my work stand on its own merit. Giovani’s laugh was unexpected, warm, and genuine. She has spine. Good. Too many people in our circles forget how to say no.

 He turned to Luca with approval. I see why you keep her close. After Giovani departed with promises to continue negotiations at tomorrow’s dinner, Luca and I stood in the suddenly quiet office. Afternoon lights slanting through tall windows. You didn’t have to decline his daughter’s contact, Luca said finally. It wasn’t charity. Your work is genuinely exceptional.

 How would you know? You’ve seen maybe six photos total. I’ve seen enough. He moved from behind his desk, closing the distance between us. And I’ve spent 10 years learning to recognize quality when I encounter it. The compliment settled uncomfortably in my chest, warming spaces I didn’t want warmed. About tomorrow night, I started, needing to shift to safer ground. What do I need to know? The Castroviani family is old money, traditional values.

 His expression grew serious. Giovani’s wife will be there, likely several of his children. They’ll want to see us as a unit, stable and committed. He paused, his gaze holding mine. There will be dancing, dancing. It’s expected at their events. A proper band, a formal dinner, then dancing afterward. You’ll need to be comfortable with me touching you more intimately than we have so far.

 My mouth went dry. Define intimately. My hand on your waist, your hand on my shoulder. Close enough that we’re breathing the same air. He took another step closer, demonstrating, his fingers settling lightly at my waist. Even now, this close. For several songs in front of everyone watching, I should have stepped back.

 Instead, I found myself asking, “Do you even know how to dance?” “I’m Italian.” His mouth curved into something that might have been amusement. I was dancing before I could properly walk. His other hand found mine, positioning it on his shoulder. The question is whether you can follow. I’m not helpless. Prove it. There was no music, no band, just the quiet office and afternoon light and the sudden awareness of every point where our bodies connected. Luca started moving.

 A slow, simple pattern that I followed instinctively. See, he murmured, his voice lower than usual, intimate, not helpless at all. We turned slowly, his hand firm at my waist, guiding without forcing. I could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his body, noticed details I’d been trying to ignore, the way his jaw tightened when he concentrated, the flexcks of lighter brown in his dark eyes, the precise way his fingers pressed against my waist, not possessive, but unmistakably present. “This is just rehearsal,” I

said, more to myself than him. for tomorrow. Just rehearsal,” he agreed. But something in his tone suggested he didn’t believe it any more than I did. We stopped moving, but he didn’t immediately release me. His thumb traced a small circle against my waist. “Whether consciously or unconsciously, I couldn’t tell.” “When you leave,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on mine.

“After the two weeks end, where will you go?” The question caught me off guard. Back to my apartment, back to work, back to normal life. And Grace, same. Back to law school, back to being a regular student. Just like that. As if none of this happened. Isn’t that the plan? I countered. 2 weeks, then freedom. Yes, he said the word like it tasted bitter.

That’s the plan. His hand dropped from my waist. The loss of contact somehow louder than any touch had been. He stepped back. professional distance reasserting itself like a physical barrier. Maria will have an appropriate dress for you tomorrow. Something formal. Dinner starts at 7. He turned back toward his desk.

 Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow will be exhausting. I left the office feeling like I’d just survived something more dangerous than gunfire through windows. That night, sleep eluded me. I lay in the oversized bed staring at shadows on the ceiling and replayed the afternoon, his hand at my waist, his voice dropping into something intimate.

 The way he’d looked at me when asking where I’d go after this ended. Grace’s words echoed. Don’t lose yourself in the process. Too late, I thought. I was already lost. Saturday morning arrived with bird song and unusually warm sunlight. I’d spent Friday preparing for the evening’s crucial dinner.

 Maria fussing over the emerald green gown that had appeared in my closet. But Saturday felt different, quieter. Luca had mentioned business calls most of the morning, leaving me with unexpected freedom. I grabbed my camera and headed outside, drawn to grounds I’d only glimpsed in fragments. The property was more extensive than I’d realized.

 Manicured gardens gave way to wilder sections where trees grew dense enough to create genuine forest. I wandered deeper, following a stone pathway between ancient oaks. My camera capturing shadow and filtered light. That’s when I heard voices drifting ahead. One was Vincent’s distinctive accent. The other I didn’t recognize, younger, with casual familiarity. I should have announced my presence or turned back. Instead, I moved closer.

They stood near a maintenance building, Vincent’s back blocking most of my view, but I could hear them clearly. The operations Pellegrini’s been targeting, they’re not random. The younger voice said, “Vulkoff’s entire network is built on trafficking routes through the port. Luca’s been systematically dismantling them piece by piece for 3 years now.

 And you know this how?” Vincent’s tone carried warning. “Because I’ve been tracking the financial flows. Following money reveals intent.” A pause. He’s not just protecting those women. He’s obsessed with stopping what happened to Sophia. Sophia. The name landed like a stone in still water. His sister’s disappearance is not your concern, Vincent said, voice dropping to something dangerous.

 And if I find out you’ve been discussing family matters with anyone outside this property, we’ll have a very different conversation. I’m just saying if the Hayes woman knew what he was really fighting for, she might understand better. Or she might realize exactly how deep this war goes and decide she wants no part of it. Vincent shifted.

 Either way, it’s not your information to share. Understood. Understood. I backed away slowly, heart hammering. Sophia, his sister, the name Vincent had mentioned in context of disappearance and obsession and 3 years of systematic revenge. I found myself in the library, drawn to the computer terminal. My fingers hovered before typing Sophia Pelleigrini missing.

 The results were sparse, but devastating. A 17-year-old girl last seen leaving her private school in Manhattan 11 years ago. Presumed runaway initially, though the family maintained she’d been taken. No body ever found. Investigation officially still open, but effectively cold.

 The photo showed a girl with Luca’s dark eyes and sharp cheekbones, her smile bright with innocence. Find what you were looking for? I spun. Luca stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, dressed casually in jeans and a black sweater that made him look younger, more vulnerable. I didn’t mean to pry. I started, but he waved it off. It’s not exactly classified.

 Anyone with an internet connection can find the basics. He moved into the room, but didn’t come closer. What you won’t find is that my father died of a heart attack 8 months after she vanished. that my mother still sets a place for Sophia at family dinners, that I was 23 years old when I became head of this family because there was no one else left.

 The words came without emotion, recited like facts rather than felt like wounds. I overheard Vincent earlier, I admitted, talking about how you’ve been targeting Volkov’s operations, specifically how it’s all connected. Ah, he moved past me to the window. So now you know. know what? That I’m not just protecting you and Grace from some random rival. I’m using you.

 Using the situation, using the threat to Grace, using everything as leverage in a war I’ve been fighting since I was 25. He turned back. When I finally found proof that Vulov’s organization was involved in Sophia’s disappearance, the confession hung between us. She was 16, he continued quietly. 16 and brilliant and convinced she could change the world through debate club. She trusted people. It made her easy prey. His hands clenched.

 They took her from outside her school. Grabbed her in broad daylight. By the time we realized she hadn’t run away, the trail was already cold. Did you ever find out what happened? Pieces. Fragments. He looked back out the window. I know she was trafficked through three different locations in the first month.

 I know she fought, escaped twice before they learned to keep her sedated. I know that somewhere between month 3 and month six, she stopped appearing in any intelligence I could gather. He paused. I choose to believe she escaped, that she’s somewhere living a new life. The alternative is something I can’t afford to accept.

 I move toward him without deciding to, drawn by vulnerability in his voice. That’s why you target trafficking operations specifically. Every operation I dismantle is one less organization that can do to someone else’s sister what they did to mine. He turned to face me fully. Every route I close brings me closer to either finding her or accepting that she’s gone.

 And where does that leave us? I asked quietly. Me and Grace caught in your vendetta? I don’t know. The honesty stole my breath. I told myself it was strategic. But watching you with your sister, seeing how you’d risk everything to keep her safe, it reminded me of everything I failed to do for Sophia, and now I find myself wanting to protect you, not because it serves strategy, but because the thought of anything happening to you makes it hard to breathe.

 The words settled between us, heavy with implication. You can’t save your sister by protecting me, I said softly. I know, he took a step closer. But maybe I can keep you from ending up like her. Maybe that has to be enough. His hand lifted, hesitated, then settled gently against my cheek. His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I found myself leaning into the touch. When this is over, he said quietly.

 When you leave and go back to your normal life, I need you to promise me something. What? Don’t forgive me for using you. Don’t convince yourself any of this was noble or justified. His eyes held mine. I’m doing terrible things for what I believe are the right reasons, but that doesn’t make them less terrible. Remember that. Why? Because someone should. His hand dropped.

Because I’ve spent 11 years forgetting how to be anything other than this. And you deserve to remember that better people exist. Before I could respond, he was moving toward the door. We need to leave for the Castro Vani dinner in 6 hours, he said, voice shifting back to professional. Maria will help you prepare.

 And Olivia? He paused in the doorway. Thank you for listening. I haven’t talked about Sophia to anyone outside the family in years. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with sunlight and silence and sudden understanding that nothing about this situation was as simple as I’d wanted to believe. Sunday afternoon arrived heavy with unspoken things.

 I’d barely seen Luca since our conversation, though the dinner with the Castroviani family had gone smoothly. I danced with him as rehearsed, maintained the pretense of intimacy, and all the while felt the ghost of his confession hovering between us. I found him in the photography gallery. Windows had been repaired since Tuesday’s attack.

 He stood before one of the Dorothia Lang images. Back to me. She looks like Sophia, he said without turning. The woman in this photograph, same fierce determination. Sophia had that this absolute certainty that she could fix anything if she just tried hard enough. I moved beside him. Is that why you collected them? Partially. They’re also just beautiful. Honest in a way people stopped being.

 He finally looked at me. You shoot the same way. Honest without artifice. It’s rare. You’re good at deflection. I observed turning conversations away from yourself. 11 years of practice. A ghost of a smile. But you’re right. He turned to face me fully. So here’s unfiltered honesty. I’m falling for you, Olivia.

 Not because it serves my purposes or because you remind me of something I lost. Because you’re brilliant and fierce, and you slapped me in front of 200 people for insulting your sister, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since. The confession hit me like physical force. Luca, I know the timing is terrible.

 The circumstances are impossible. And in a week, you’ll leave. His hand found my face again. That same gentle touch. But for now, for tonight, can we stop pretending? Can we admit that whatever this is between us, it stopped being an act days ago. I should have stepped back, should have maintained boundaries. Instead, I rose on my toes and kissed him.

 His response was immediate, one arm wrapping around my waist while his other hand threaded through my hair. The kiss was intense, searching, carrying the weight of everything unspoken. When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine. “Stay with me tonight,” he said quietly.

 “Not in the guest room, not playing a role. Just stay.” “Yes,” I whispered and felt the last of my defenses crumble. Monday morning, I woke in Luca’s bed with sunlight streaming through windows and his arm wrapped around my waist. The night had been intense, emotional, profoundly intimate in ways that transcended physical connection. We’d talked for hours between moments of passion, sharing pieces of ourselves we’d both kept carefully guarded.

 His eyes opened, immediately focusing on me. “Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “You’re thinking too loudly. just processing. I tried for lightness. Apparently, I’m terrible at keeping boundaries. Good. His arm tightened. I’d hate to be the only one failing at that. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. I need to make some calls this morning.

 Stay here. We’ll have breakfast together after 2 hours later. Dressed and caffeinated. I was reviewing photos when my phone rang. Grace’s number. Hey, I answered smiling despite everything. Liv. Her voice was wrong. Tight, controlled, terrified. Liv, listen carefully. There’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Ice flooded my veins. Grace. The phone rustled.

 Changed hands. Then a voice I didn’t recognize. Male accented. Miss Hayes. How lovely to finally speak directly. Who is this? Where’s my sister? Your sister is currently sitting on her very nice sofa looking quite frightened. which is unfortunate really. The voice carried casual cruelty. My name is Sergey Vulov. I believe you’ve heard of me.

 The world tilted. What do you want? I want Luca Peligrini to understand that his little war against my operations has consequences. I want him to feel what it’s like to lose something precious. And I want you to deliver a message. What message? Tell him he has 24 hours. If he wants to see your sister alive again, he’ll meet me at the coordinates I’m sending. He comes alone or she dies.

He brings anyone, she dies. He tries anything clever, she dies. Am I being sufficiently clear? Let me talk to her, I demanded, voice shaking. Let me talk to Grace right now. Another rustle. Then Grace’s voice, small and terrified. Liv, I’m okay. They haven’t hurt me, but there are four of them and Marco.

 He’s one of Luca’s guards. He let them in. Liv, I’m scared. It’s going to be okay. I said, trying to sound certain. I promise. We’re going to get you out. How touching. Vulkoff was back. 24 hours, Miss Hayes. The coordinates are being sent now. The line went dead for several seconds. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then I was running.

 phone clutched in my hand, racing toward Luca’s office. I burst through the door without knocking. Luca looked up, expression shifting instantly to alarm when he saw my face. What happened? Vulkov has grace. The words came out barely above a whisper. He has grace. Marco let them into the apartment. They took her. Luca was already moving, phone in hand, barking orders in rapid Italian.

Vincent appeared within seconds, face grim. How long ago? Luca demanded voice deadly calm. Maybe 5 minutes. He called me Fulkoff himself. He wants you. Said you have 24 hours to meet him. Alone or he kills her. Marco. Vincent’s voice was flat. I’ll find him already dead or gone. Luca said, eyes never leaving mine.

 Focus on location. Get every resource tracking Grace’s phone. the apartment’s security feeds, anything. Vincent disappeared. Luca moved toward me, hands finding my shoulders, grounding me. “Listen to me,” he said, voice intense, commanding. “This is not your fault. Do you understand? This is Vulkoff forcing a confrontation he knew was coming. He took her because of me.

 Because I’m leverage against you.” Tears were hot on my cheeks. “This is exactly what you warned me about.” “No.” His hands framed my face. He took her because he’s desperate and cornered. The Castroviani Alliance destroyed his support base. He’s making a last move and it’s going to be his final mistake.

 You can’t go, I said, understanding his intent. That’s what he wants. Of course he is. Something in Luca’s expression hardened into something lethal. But he’s made a critical error. He thinks I care more about my war than keeping people I love safe. His thumbs brushed away my tears. He’s about to learn exactly what happens when you threaten my family. Luca, I’m going to get her back, Olivia.

 I promise you, I’m going to bring Grace home safe. He pulled me against his chest. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that? I nodded against his shoulder. Over the next hours, the mansion transformed into a war room. Vincent returned with grim news.

 Marco’s body had been found three blocks from the apartment, throat cut, but they’d tracked vehicles that had taken Grace to an abandoned warehouse in Red Hook, Brooklyn. The coordinates Vulkoff had sent matched the location. “It’s a trap,” Vincent said, studying satellite images. “He’s too confident about the location.” “Of course, it’s a trap.

” Luca traced entry points, “But he’s counting on me coming alone, so we won’t.” He said, “If you bring anyone,” I started. He’ll kill her regardless. Luca’s voice was flat. The moment I walk in alone, I’m dead. Then Grace is dead. Then he moves against you. That’s the play. So, we changed the game. He outlined the plan with military precision. Vincent would lead a team to secure the perimeter.

 Luca would enter through the main entrance, but 3 minutes behind him, a second team would breach from the north wall. Fast, violent, overwhelming force. You’re still walking into a killbox, I said quietly. 3 minutes is a long time. His eyes met mine. I’ve survived worse odds. He took my hand. I’ve spent 11 years preparing for this confrontation.

 Every move I’ve made, it’s all been leading to this moment. I’m not going to fail now. By early evening, the team was ready. 14 men, all Vincent’s most trusted. Luca dressed in dark tactical gear, checking weapons with practiced efficiency. I watched from the doorway, memorizing details. The way his hands moved with confidence, the set of his shoulders carrying command.

 The brief moment when his gaze found mine, and something vulnerable flickered before he locked it down. He crossed to me, spoke quietly. If this goes wrong, if I don’t make it back, Vincent has instructions to protect you and Grace. New identities, new city, enough money to disappear completely. You’ll be safe. Don’t. I grabbed his tactical vest.

Don’t talk like you’re not coming back. I plan to. His hand covered mine. But plans change, and you need to know you’re protected either way. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to mine. I love you. I need you to know that. Whatever happens tonight, I love you. The words hit me like physical impact. Luca, you don’t have to say anything.

His lips brushed mine, brief and devastating. Just remember. Then he was moving away toward Vincent and the team toward vehicles waiting toward whatever violence awaited. I stood frozen, watching tail lights disappear and prayed to gods I didn’t believe in that he’d keep his promise. Time crawled.

 I sat in Luca’s office staring at my phone. Maria brought tea. I didn’t drink. My phone buzzed. Text from Vincent in position. 60 seconds. Another eternity. Then breach in 3 2 1. Silence stretched like pulled wire. Finally secured. Grace safe. Coming home. I collapsed back shaking. Grace was safe, but nothing about the message said Luca was okay.

 20 minutes passed before my phone rang. Vincent’s number. Tell me, I said. Grace is unharmed. Minor cuts and bruises, mostly traumatized, but physically okay. We’re on route. ETA 40 minutes. And Luca, a pause that made my heart stop. Injured. He took a bullet during the breach. Left shoulder through and through. He’s conscious and stable, but he needs medical attention.

 How bad? Bad enough. He needs a doctor. Not bad enough. He’s going to die. Vincent’s voice softened. He refused transport to a hospital. Said he promised to bring your sister home and that’s what he’s doing. Stubborn impossible man. 40 minutes. I repeated.

 I spent them preparing the guest room, making sure Maria had medical supplies ready, forcing myself to stay busy. When headlights finally swept across the driveway, I was already running barefoot across gravel. The vehicle stopped and then Grace was there stumbling out, face pale and tear streaked but alive. And I caught her as she collapsed against me. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Liv.

 It’s not your fault,” I held her tight. “None of this is your fault.” Behind her, Luca emerged from the second vehicle. Vincent supporting his weight. Blood soaked through his left sleeve and his face was gray with pain. But his eyes found mine. Told you, he said, voice rough. Brought her home safe.

 Then his knees buckled and Vincent was shouting for the doctor and everything devolved into chaos as they got him inside. Grace and I stood in the driveway holding each other while violence and love and sacrifice bled together in the darkness around us. The doctor worked on Luca’s shoulder in the master bedroom while I sat with Grace in her room.

 She’d showered and changed, but her hands still trembled around the mug of tea Maria had prepared. They didn’t hurt you? I asked for the third time, needing confirmation. They didn’t touch me. Grace’s voice was hollow. Volkov kept saying I was valuable merchandise. That damaged goods weren’t useful for negotiations. It was almost worse, being treated like property instead of a person. Her eyes met mine, older somehow.

 Marco was there. I trusted him live. He’d been protecting me for days. And then he just let them in. handed me over like it was nothing. I’m sorry. I pulled her against me. I’m so sorry this happened. It’s not your fault. It’s not even Luca’s fault. She pulled back, wiping her eyes. It’s just what happens in this world.

 People use other people, and violence is always beneath the surface. She looked toward the door. Is he going to be okay? The doctor said the bullet went clean through. Tissue damage, but nothing critical. I tried to sound confident. He’ll recover. He saved my life. Grace’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

When they breached, Vulov tried to use me as a shield. Luca didn’t hesitate. He took the shot that was meant for me. The words hit me like a fist. He what? Vulkoff had a gun to my head, told Luca to drop his weapon or he’d shoot me. And Luca looked right at me and said, “Close your eyes.

” Then he moved so fast, pushed me down, and the bullet that should have hit me caught his shoulder instead. Tears spilled over. He almost died protecting me. And I don’t even know him. Why would he do that? Because he loves your sister, came a voice from the doorway. Vincent stood there looking exhausted. And because he knows what it’s like to lose a sister.

 He won’t let it happen to someone else. Grace and I both stared at him. Sophia,” I said quietly, and Vincent nodded. 11 years ago, she was 16 and someone’s sister, and she was taken. And Luca couldn’t save her. He’s been trying to make up for that failure ever since. Vincent’s expression softened. When he met you, two saw how you protected each other.

 It reminded him of everything he lost. He wasn’t going to let history repeat. Where is he now? I asked, already standing. Doctor’s finishing up. He’s asking for you. Vincent looked at Grace. You should rest. Security’s been tripled. Grace nodded. I squeezed her hand once more, then followed Vincent down the corridor.

 Luca sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, except for fresh bandages wrapping his left shoulder. The doctor was packing up his bag. Luca looked at me. “Out,” he said to the doctor. “Vincent, you too. Give us the room.” They left. Then it was just us. Grace told me what you did, I said, crossing to him. How you pushed her out of the way. How you took the shot yourself. It was tactical.

 His eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine. Moving her created an opening for my team. Don’t. I knelt in front of him. Don’t pretend it was just strategy when we both know you could have died. But I didn’t. His hand found my face. I kept my promise. I brought her home. You also said you loved me right before you walked into a situation where you fully expected to die. My voice cracked.

 Did you mean it? I meant it. No hesitation. I’ve been falling for you since the moment you slapped me. And I love you now with everything I have left that’s capable of love. His hand moved to my neck, pulling me closer. But loving me means living in constant danger. It means nights like tonight. I can’t ask you to accept that.

You’re not asking. I covered his hand. I’m choosing. There’s a difference. Olivia, I love you, too. The words came easily. I love you despite everything I know I should feel. Despite every rational argument against it, I leaned my forehead against his, but maybe I needed to lose who I was to find out who I could be.

 His kiss was gentle, careful of his injury, but no less intense. When we broke apart, both breathing harder. His eyes were darker. The war with Volkoff is over. He said quietly. He’s dead. His lieutenants scattered. The networks he controlled are being dismantled. His hand tightened. But that doesn’t mean the danger disappears. There will always be another rival, another threat. I know.

 And you’re still choosing this. Yes. I pulled back to look at him properly. But I’m also choosing to ask you to change. Not who you are, but what you do. The operations, the wars, the constant cycle. It has to stop somewhere. He was quiet, studying my face. What are you suggesting? I’m suggesting you’ve spent 11 years fighting a war for Sophia. Maybe it’s time to start building something for her instead.

 Something that would make her proud rather than something that avenges her. I don’t know how to do that. The admission cost him. This is all I’ve been for so long. Then learn. I stood, pulling him gently to his feet. The Castroviani Alliance, the legitimate businesses, the resources you have. Use them for something other than destruction. Build schools. Fund programs for trafficking survivors.

Create the world Sophia deserved. You make it sound simple. It won’t be. It’ll probably be harder than anything you’ve done before. I wrapped my arms carefully around his waist. But you won’t be doing it alone. His good arm pulled me close. We stood like that for a long time. Two people holding each other in the aftermath of violence and the uncertain promise of something better.

 3 days after the warehouse, I found Luca in his office, not behind his desk, but standing at the window. “There’s someone here to see us,” I said from the doorway. “Both of us.” He turned, eyebrow raised. federal prosecutors. I moved into the room. Vincent let them in. They’re waiting in the library.

 The prosecutors were professional and direct. They laid out their case. Testimony against three remaining crime families in exchange for immunity for Luca on specific charges. You’d be providing information on financial structures, territorial agreements, operational hierarchies, the male prosecutor explained.

 nothing that would compromise legitimate business interests. In exchange, you receive immunity from prosecution and federal protection during trials, and after. Luca’s voice was carefully neutral. After you’d be free to continue legitimate business operations with federal oversight gradually reduced over 5 years, the female prosecutor leaned forward. Mr.

 Pelleigrini, you’re in a unique position. You’ve been transitioning away from criminal enterprises. this would formalize that transition. You want me to betray families I’ve had alliances with. We want you to help us dismantle organizations that profit from human misery. Her expression was hard.

 The same organizations that took your sister. The room fell silent. Luca’s hand tightened on mine. I need to discuss this with my people, he said finally. And I need guarantees about protection for Olivia and her sister already drafted. Paper slid across. they’d be covered under the same protocols.

 After they left, Luca and I sat in the library, surrounded by vintage photography and impossible decisions. They’re offering you an exit, I said quietly. A way out that doesn’t end in prison or violence. They’re offering me a chance to become an informant, he stood, pacing. The families I’d be testifying against, some have been allies, people who profit from the same trafficking networks that took Sophia. He stopped back to me.

 You think I should take the deal? I think you should consider it. I moved behind him. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s an opportunity to actually change things. To use everything you know to prevent what happened to your sister from happening to anyone else. And if I refuse, then I’ll still love you. I waited until he turned. But I’ll also leave because I can’t watch you destroy yourself fighting a war that has no end.

And I can’t build a life in constant fear. The ultimatum hung between us. That’s not fair, he said quietly. No, I agreed. It’s not. But neither is asking me to accept a life where violence is inevitable. I stepped closer. I’m asking you to choose us. Choose the possibility of something better.

 Choose to believe Sophia would want you to build rather than destroy. His hand covered mine, pressing it against his heartbeat. For a long moment, he was silent. “All right,” he said finally. so quietly I almost missed it. All right, I’ll take their deal. The breath I’d been holding released. You’re sure? No.

 A ghost of a smile. But I’ve never been less sure of anything and more certain it’s the right choice. He pulled me against him. You’re asking me to trust in something I’ve never believed in. That there’s a way forward that doesn’t end in violence. I’m asking you to try. I looked up at him and I’m promising to be there while you figure it out. He kissed me then.

deep and searching and full of promises neither of us was entirely sure we could keep. But we had time now. Time bought with testimony and federal protection and the slow process of building something new. When Vincent found us later, when Grace joined us for dinner and smiled genuinely for the first time since the warehouse, when Maria brought coffee and looked at Luca with approval, it felt like the beginning of something. Not an ending.

 Never that simple, but a beginning. 3 months later, the world looked different in ways both subtle and profound. I stood in the gallery space in Soho, my gallery space, adjusting the placement of a photograph for the third time. The image showed early morning light filtering through Connecticut trees. Shadows and illumination caught in transition.

 It had been taken from Luca’s mansion grounds during those first chaotic days. You’re overthinking it. Grace’s voice came from behind me. She stood in the doorway in jeans and a blazer, looking healthier than she had in months. Therapy had helped. Time had helped more. The placement is perfect. Stop fidgeting.

 It’s my first solo exhibition, I protested. I’m allowed to fidget. Fair enough. She moved into the space, studying the photographs. These are really good, Liv. Not just technically good, but meaningful. They tell a story. They did tell a story. the story of two weeks that had transformed into something permanent, of danger and protection and love found in impossible circumstances.

 Together, the images formed a narrative of change and growth and choosing to build something new. What time is the opening? Grace asked. 7. Luke is supposed to be here by 6:30, but he had meetings with his lawyers that might run late. Grace’s expression softened. The trial stuff? The trial stuff? I nodded. He’s been testifying for 2 months now. It’s exhausting, dredging up everything, but he says it’s necessary.

 It is necessary. Grace squeezed my hand. What he’s doing, it’s dismantling organizations that have hurt so many people, including us. That matters. It did matter. But watching Luca navigate the legal system, seeing him transform from someone who’d operated outside the law to someone working within it had been harder than either of us anticipated.

 The legitimate businesses were thriving, property development and security consultation firms completely above board, but letting go of the rest had required courage I was still learning to appreciate. The gallery door chimed. Vincent entered, looking uncomfortable in civilian clothes. Behind him came Maria, beaming with pride. And then Luca.

 He’d changed over these months. Still commanded any room he entered, still carried that liquid confidence, but something had softened around the edges. The constant vigilance had eased. He looked like someone who’d finally allowed himself to believe in peace.

 Our eyes met across the gallery, and his expression transformed into something warm and genuine, reserved only for me. He crossed the space and pulled me into his arms. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured against my hair. “The prosecutors had additional questions. It ran longer than expected. You’re here now.” I pulled back. “That’s what matters.” His shoulder had healed completely, leaving only a faint scar. Physical recovery had been straightforward.

Emotional recovery, learning to build rather than destroy, had been infinitely more complex. But he’d committed to it with the same intensity he’d once brought to war. The photographs are extraordinary, he said, gaze moving to the walls. Though I may be biased since I recognize most of the locations. Biased or not, I’ll take the compliment. I linked my fingers through his.

 Come on, let me show you the final layout. We moved through the gallery together, my voice explaining compositional choices while he listened with genuine attention. Grace and Vincent trailed behind. Maria claimed a spot near the entrance. This one? Luca stopped before a photograph I’d taken the morning after the warehouse rescue.

 It showed his office in dawn light. Paper scattered. This feels vulnerable in a way I’m not sure I’m comfortable displaying. Good. I squeezed his hand. Vulnerability means it’s honest. And you promised you’d try being honest instead of controlled.

 I’m discovering honest is significantly more uncomfortable, but he smiled when he said it. People began arriving shortly after 7. Gallery owners and critics, photographers I’d admired, friends, strangers, the space filled with conversation and wine. Giovani Castroani appeared with his daughter Bella, the gallery owner who’d reached out months ago. She’d taken genuine interest in my work, and her professional support had been instrumental.

 Your eye for transitional moments is remarkable, Bella said, studying a series of images. You capture the moment between states beautifully. I’ve had a lot of practice with transitions lately. I admitted personal experience informs the work. Luca remained at my side throughout the evening, his presence steady and supportive without being overwhelming.

He spoke when spoken to, asked intelligent questions, and played the role of supportive partner with natural ease. Around 9, a man in his 40s approached us. Professional, inexpensive, casual wear. Mr. Pelleigrini, he said, extending his hand. Tom Mitchell, I’m with the federal prosecutor’s office. Luca’s expression remained neutral. Mr.

 Mitchell, I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight. I came for the art. My wife is a photographer. Mitchell glanced at me. Your work is impressive, Miss Hayes. He turned back to Luca. I also wanted to tell you that your testimony in the Maronei case was instrumental. The jury returned a guilty verdict this afternoon on all counts. Luca’s hand tightened on mine. All counts, he repeated quietly.

All counts. Racketeering, money laundering, human trafficking conspiracy. The evidence you provided was crucial. Mitchell’s expression was serious. I know this hasn’t been easy, but what you’ve done will save lives. already has saved lives. Thank you. Luca’s voice was steady. That means more than you probably realize. Mitchell nodded.

 You’re building something worthwhile here. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Either of you. After he moved away, Luca stood very still. Then he exhaled slowly, tension bleeding away. All counts, he said quietly. That’s three major trafficking networks dismantled in 2 months. Three networks that can’t hurt anyone else, I said.

 Three networks that can’t do to someone else’s sister what they did to Sophia, his arm wrapped around my waist. 3 months ago, I couldn’t have imagined this. Standing in an art gallery, hearing that testimony actually mattered. His voice dropped, believing there was a path forward that didn’t end in violence. And now I looked up at him.

Now I’m starting to believe. His lips brushed my head. You asked me to choose us, to choose building instead of destroying. I’m still learning, but I’m starting to believe it’s possible. Across the room, Grace was talking with Bella about her upcoming internship at a legal aid clinic focused on trafficking survivors. She’d transformed fear into purpose. Vincent stood near the door.

Maria chatted with guests. This strange, unconventional family we’d built from chaos. The evening wore on. Wine flowed. Business cards exchanged, photographs sold. As the crowd thinned around 11:00, Luca pulled me aside. “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. What emerged was a small box that made my heart stutter.

 “Luca, it’s not what you’re thinking.” He opened it to reveal not a ring, but a key, antique and ornate. “Remember the photography gallery at the mansion?” I nodded. There’s space above the library that could be converted into a proper studio. Natural light, room for a dark room, storage for equipment.

 His thumb traced the key. I thought if you wanted it could be yours. Your space to create. No strings, no expectations, just a place that’s entirely yours in a house that’s become ours. The implications hit me. Not just a studio, but a future, a commitment, a life being built together. You’re asking me to move in, I said barely above a whisper.

 I’m offering you a space that’s yours, he corrected gently. Whether full-time or part-time or keep your apartment, too. That’s up to you. But I wanted you to know there’s a place for you always. Not as a guest, but as someone who belongs. I took the key from his palm, felt the weight of it, the promise it represented.

 Yes, I said, meeting his eyes. Yes to the studio. Yes to the space. Yes to building something permanent together. His smile was radiant, unguarded. He pulled me close, kissed me with tenderness that spoke of promises kept and futures yet to unfold. When we broke apart, Grace was watching from across the room with knowing satisfaction.

 She mouthed, “Told you so.” Reminding me of our conversation about not losing myself. She’d been right and wrong. I had lost who I was. the woman who played it safe. But in losing her, I’d found someone stronger, braver, more willing to fight for what mattered. The gallery lights dimmed as closing time approached. Guests filtered out. Vincent helped Maria with her coat.

 Grace collected business cards. Luca and I stood together in the dimming space, surrounded by images of transition and change, holding the key to a future we were building one day at a time. Ready to go home? he asked, voice warm with implications.

 I looked around the gallery once more at the physical manifestation of everything we’d survived and built, then back at the man who disrupted my entire existence 3 months ago. “Yes,” I said, linking my fingers through his. “Let’s go home.” And as we stepped out into the New York night, city lights reflecting off rain slick streets, I realized that sometimes the best stories began not with safety and certainty, but with taking a risk, making a choice, and trusting that whatever came next would be worth the leap.

 3 months ago, I’d slapped a mafia boss at a charity gala. Tonight, I walked beside him into a future we were building together, one honest moment at a time.