Chapter Six
Alessandro
The war room in my downtown office smells like leather, cigar smoke, and violence waiting to happen.
Marco stands at the head of the table, pointing to surveillance photos spread across the polished mahogany.
Greco’s men, their movements tracked over the past forty-eight hours.
The sniper from the Christmas market, who is dead now, his body dumped in the sound as a message.
The underboss who ordered the hit, currently being held in one of our warehouses.
“Three locations,” Marco says, tapping the photos. “Their main drug operation in Georgetown, the gambling house in Belltown, and Greco’s personal residence in Madison Park.”
“We hit all three,” Dante, my head of security, suggests. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Simultaneous strikes. Send a message they can’t ignore.”
“Too flashy,” Paulo counters. He’s nursing a coffee, looking exhausted. He hasn’t slept since the shooting two nights ago. None of us have. “We go in loud like that, the cops will have to respond. Fed attention is the last thing we need right now.”
“Fed attention is inevitable after what happened at Pike Place,” Luca, my financial guy, points out. “You shot at a civilian Christmas market, boss. It’s going to bring heat regardless.”
The reminder sits heavy in my chest. Elena, thrown to the ground. Elena, covered by my body as bullets flew overhead. Elena, her honey-colored eyes wide with terror while she clutched that ridiculous stuffed penguin.
Elena, who should have run screaming but instead bandaged my wound and told me she was falling for me.
“The shooter’s identity is scrubbed,” Marco says. “No connection to us, no connection to Greco. Far as the cops are concerned, it was random violence. They’re treating it as an isolated incident.”
“For now,” Paulo mutters.
“For now,” Marco agrees. “Which means we have a small window to respond before this escalates further. Boss, what’s the call?”
All eyes turn to me. This is what they expect, cold calculation, ruthless strategy, the kind of decisive action that’s kept the De Luca family on top for three generations. The Shadow making his move.
“We take the drug operation,” my voice comes out flat, emotionless.
The voice of a man who’s done this a hundred times before.
“Tonight. Clean, professional. No bodies left behind, no evidence. We burn their product, destroy their infrastructure, and we make sure every dealer in the city knows what happens when you come after what’s mine. ”
“And Greco himself?” Dante asks.
“Greco gets a message delivered personally. Something he can’t misinterpret.
” The words taste like ash. Violence begetting violence, the endless cycle that’s defined my entire adult life.
“Marco, you handle it. Make it clear, Elena Harper is off limits. Anyone who looks at her wrong, anyone who so much as breathes near her shop, they answer to me.”
Luca raises an eyebrow, but wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“About that,” Marco says carefully. “Boss, we need to talk about the girl.”
“No.”
“You’re not even going to hear me out?”
“There’s nothing to hear. She’s under my protection. That’s final.”
“Alessandro.” Marco drops the formality, which means he’s about to say something he knows won’t go over well. “You need to end this. Whatever is happening between you and Elena Harper, end it. Now. Before this gets any worse.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Everyone else suddenly finds their phones, their papers, the ceiling incredibly interesting. No one makes eye contact.
“Care to explain?” Each word is carefully measured.
“Someone tried to kill you at a Christmas market because you were distracted. Because you were too busy playing normal boyfriend to notice the threat.” Marco’s voice is hard, unyielding.
He’s the only one who can talk to me like this, the privilege of twenty years of friendship.
“Two more seconds of delay and you’d be dead. Because of her.”
“The threat was neutralized—”
“This time. What about next time? Or the time after that?” He leans forward, planting his hands on the table. “You’ve been sloppy, Alessandro. You’re so focused on this woman you’re missing things. Important things. The rest of us see it, even if you don’t.”
Rage flares hot and immediate. “Watch yourself.”
“Someone has to say it. You’re compromised. She’s a liability—”
“She’s not a liability, she’s—” The words die in my throat because how can Marco possibly understand?
How can any of them understand what Elena represents?
Light in a life that’s been nothing but darkness.
Honesty in a world built on lies. Something pure and good that has nothing to do with blood or business or the weight of family expectations crushing down on my shoulders.
“She’s what?” Marco challenges. “Your girlfriend? Your weakness? Your Achilles heel waiting to get exploited?”
“Enough.” The command cracks through the room like a whip. “Elena stays under protection. You will not question this again. Am I clear?”
Marco’s jaw works, but he nods. “Crystal.”
“Good. The rest of you, be ready to move by twenty-three hundred hours. Paulo, coordinate with the surveillance team. Dante, weapons and backup. Luca, make sure our legal cover is airtight if this goes sideways.” Each man nods, filing out one by one until it’s only Marco and me left.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says quietly.
“Maybe. But it’s my mistake to make.”
“And when they kill her to hurt you? When they use her as leverage? What then?”
The question hits like a physical blow because it’s the same thing keeping me awake at night. The same nightmare scenario playing on repeat every time I close my eyes. Elena hurt, Elena bleeding, Elena paying the price for my selfishness in wanting to keep her close.
“Then every member of the Russo family dies screaming,” the words are soft, deadly serious. “Their operations burn. Their families scatter. Their name becomes a cautionary tale whispered in the dark. They will learn what it means to take something from Alessandro De Luca.”
Marco studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You love her.”
It’s not a question.
“Go coordinate the strike,” my voice comes out rougher than intended. “We’re done here.”
He leaves without another word, and the silence that follows is deafening. Love. The word feels foreign, dangerous. Love makes men weak, makes them vulnerable, makes them do stupid things like bring women to Christmas markets where snipers can take shots at them.
But when Elena smiled at me in the snow, when she kissed me back like nothing else mattered, when she looked at me afterward and said she wasn’t leaving—
My phone buzzes. A text from Elena: How’s your shoulder? Did you change the bandage like I told you to?
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. She’s been checking on me constantly, worried about infection, about proper wound care, about things that would never occur to someone in my world where bullets are occupational hazards.
Yes, doctor. It’s fine.
Alessandro. Don’t make me come over there and check myself.
Is that a threat or a promise?
Both. Now send me a picture proving you changed it.
The absurdity of it hits me, a mafia boss taking selfies of his bandaged shoulder to appease his worried girlfriend. If the men saw this, they’d never let me live it down.
But instead of being annoyed, warmth spreads through my chest. Someone cares. Not about the power or the money or the fearsome reputation. Someone cares about Alessandro, the man who bleeds and hurts and apparently needs to be reminded to change his bandages.
Another text arrives while considering my response: Also I made you soup. Nonna’s recipe. When can I bring it over?
You made me soup?
Don’t sound so surprised. I can cook when properly motivated. Answer the question - when are you free?
The thought of Elena in my space, my sterile downtown penthouse that’s more fortress than home, makes something in my chest constrict. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see this side of my life, the maps and weapons and evidence of exactly what kind of man resides in this building.
But the selfish part—the part that’s been starving for something real, something soft, wants nothing more than to see her walk through that door with soup she made with her own hands.
Tonight’s bad. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow works. Your place or mine?
Mine. I’ll send you the address.
Fancy penthouse, I’m guessing?
How did you know?
Because you’re you. I bet it’s all glass and steel and expensive art. No plants anywhere.
She knows me too well already.
There might be one plant.
Liar. I’ll bring you one tomorrow. Every home needs something living in it.
Something living. Like her. Like the way she breathes life into every space she occupies, turning a flower shop into magic, my car into a confessional, the Christmas market into something out of a dream.
Before composing a response, a knock interrupts. Dante pokes his head in. “Boss? There’s a delivery for you. Guy says it’s urgent.”
“What kind of delivery?”
“Flowers.”
Every muscle in my body goes taut. “From where?”
“No shop name. Guy’s a courier service, says he was paid cash to drop it off.” Dante’s hand rests on his weapon. “You want me to scan it first?”
“Yes. Full sweep. Don’t bring it up until you’re certain it’s clean.”
He disappears, and the warmth from Elena’s texts evaporates, replaced by cold dread. Flowers. An anonymous delivery. Nothing about this feels right.
Ten minutes later, Dante returns carrying a potted poinsettia. Not the cheerful red and green variety sold at grocery stores—this one is deep crimson, almost black, with leaves that look like they’ve been dipped in blood.
“Scanned clean,” Dante reports, setting it on my desk like it might explode anyway. “No bugs, no explosives, no biological agents. Just a plant.”
“And the courier?”
“Long gone. Paid cash, no description, no way to trace.”