I TOOK FOUR BULLETS FOR A MAFIA BOSS’S MOTHER — THEN HE OFFERED ME PROTECTION IN A WAY THAT FELT LIKE A TRAP

By morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the massive grounds of the Moretti estate wrapped in a crisp, icy fog.

I sat in the formal morning room on the ground floor, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the manicured rose gardens where four armed guards walked silent perimeter patrols.

On the glass coffee table in front of me sat a silver tea set and a heavy wooden box.

Nonna Moretti—Sophia—sat across from me in a high-backed velvet armchair. She wore an elegant dark navy dress, her silver hair pinned back perfectly, her aged hands adorned with a massive gold signet ring bearing the Moretti crest.

She looked nothing like the frail old woman I had tackled to the floor three weeks ago. Today, she looked like a monarch reviewing her court.

"Drink your tea, carina," Nonna said gently, gesturing toward the porcelain cup. "You are pale. You do not eat enough."

"I can't eat, Sophia," I said quietly, looking down at my hands. "Marco told me everything last night."

Nonna set her teacup down without making a sound. Her soft brown eyes, usually full of maternal warmth, hardened into polished agate.

"I know," she replied simply. "I told him to show you the room."

I looked up, startled. "You knew? The whole time?"

"The moment you fell across my lap bleeding in that restaurant," Nonna said, her voice dropping into a solemn, heavy register, "I looked into your eyes. You have Isabella's jawline, Elena. You have Lorenzo’s stubborn, impossible glare. I knew who you were before the second bullet hit the floor."

"Then why keep it a secret?" I pleaded, leaning forward, wincing slightly as my shoulder pulled. "Why play this game? If I am a Moretti, why force me into a marriage with Marco?"

Nonna leaned back, her thin lips curving into a sad, knowing smile.

"Because in our world, a bloodline without power is merely a target, my child," she explained softly. "If the family council knew Lorenzo’s daughter was alive, half the capos would have tried to use you as a pawn to claim the southern territories. Others would have sold you to the Falcones to buy peace. But by marrying Marco—the undisputed Don—your bloodline and his power are merged. You are no longer a claim to be contested. You are absolute."

She reached forward and opened the heavy wooden box resting on the table.

Inside lay a sleek, custom black matte semi-automatic pistol, two loaded magazines, and a delicate platinum necklace holding a small silver key.

"What is this?" I asked, backing away slightly.

"This is your life," Nonna said coldly. "Marco is a lion, Elena. He will tear down cities to protect what is his. But a lion cannot fight on two fronts if his queen does not know how to hold a blade."

The double doors of the morning room swung open.

Marco walked in, wearing a sharp charcoal suit, his dark hair damp from the morning shower. He carried a leather briefcase, his eyes immediately sweeping the room before locking onto me.

He noticed the open box on the table, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Mother," Marco said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet room. "She is still healing."

"She is healed enough to hold iron, Marco," Nonna snapped back, standing up with regal grace. "Don Carmine Falcone called an emergency summit of the Five Families for tomorrow night at the Grand Plaza Hotel. He is demanding to see the girl who survived the restaurant attack. He claims she is an unregistered witness."

Marco’s eyes turned to cold gray ice. "He knows who she is."

"Of course he knows," Nonna said, walking toward the door. "He wants her in an open room where he can test your resolve. If you leave her behind, you show fear. If you bring her unprepared, you show weakness."

She stopped by the doorway, turning to look at me over her shoulder.

"Put the key around your neck, Elena," Nonna instructed softly. "And let my son show you how to use the rest."

Once the door clicked shut behind his mother, Marco walked over to the table. He picked up the sleek black handgun, cleared the chamber with a practiced, lethal efficiency, and placed the uncocked weapon gently into my lap.

I stared down at the cold metal resting against my silk dress.

"I don't like guns, Marco," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm a civilian. I spent my life avoiding violence."

Marco dropped to one knee in front of my chair, his large hand coming up to rest over mine on the grip of the pistol. His thumb gently rubbed the back of my hand, his warmth seeping into my cold skin.

"The world you lived in was an illusion, Elena," Marco said quietly, his eyes searching mine with a intensity that made my breath catch. "You thought you were safe because you followed the rules, paid your rent, and kept your head down. But monsters don't care about your rules."

He slowly lifted my hand, guiding my index finger to the side of the frame, away from the trigger.

"I don't expect you to become an executioner," Marco whispered, his face inches from mine, his warm breath fanning across my lips. "I only expect you to survive. Tomorrow night, you walk into the Plaza Hotel on my arm. You wear diamonds, you hold your head high, and you look Carmine Falcone in the eye."

"And if he tries to kill me?" I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs.