Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Fabio
Marchetti's threat arrives while I'm in my office reviewing acquisition papers. A text message, simple and direct:
Hand over the Eastern deal or lose something precious.
I read it once, set the phone down on my desk, and feel ice crystallize in my veins.
Not fear. Fury. Cold, calculated fury that transforms every resource at my disposal into a weapon.
Every contact, every favor owed, every dirty secret I've collected over the years—all of it aimed at one target now.
Because I know exactly what "something precious" means.
They've been watching. They've seen Sharon. They think they've found my weakness.
They're right. And that makes them dead men walking.
I press the intercom. "Angelo, my office. Now."
Within thirty seconds, my security chief stands before me. I slide the phone across the desk, watch his face harden as he reads the message.
"Marchetti?"
"Who else?" I lean back in my chair, mind already racing through scenarios, countermoves, weak points in the Marchetti organization. "Double Sharon's security detail. No one gets within ten feet of her without my explicit approval. And I want eyes on every Marchetti lieutenant within the hour."
Angelo nods, already texting orders. "What about the Eastern deal?"
"Fuck the deal." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. "I want their entire operation mapped by tonight. Every business front, every safe house, every dirty cop on their payroll. And get me Senator Harris on the phone."
"You planning to go to war over this, boss?"
I look at him, a man who's been by my side through firefights and knife wounds and million-dollar negotiations. A man who's seen me break bones without blinking. He takes an involuntary step back at whatever he sees in my eyes now.
"They threatened my wife," I say simply.
That's all the explanation needed. Angelo nods and leaves to execute my orders.
I call Sharon next, keeping my voice casual as I ask where she is. Shopping, she tells me, at that boutique on the Strip I took her to last week. My heart rate kicks up, but I keep my tone even.
"Stay inside. I'm sending Angelo to bring you home."
"Is everything okay?" She picks up on something in my voice.
"Just a precaution, angel. I'll explain when you're home."
I hang up and immediately call Angelo with her location. He's already dispatching men, but they're seven minutes out. Too long.
Five minutes later, my phone rings—one of Sharon's security detail. "Sir, attempted grab outside the boutique. Two men. We've neutralized the threat. Mrs. DeLuca is shaken but unharmed."
My knuckles go white around the phone. "Put her on."
"Fabio?" Her voice is thin, trembling slightly.
"Are you hurt?" Each word precise, controlled, though my heart is hammering like a jackhammer.
"No, I'm—I'm okay. These men, they tried to—your security people—"
"I'm coming to you. Don't move. Stay with Angelo's men."
I hang up, grab my coat, and bark orders at my driver. The car screams through Vegas traffic, my mind a cold, calculating engine of destruction. Every moment plotting exactly how the Marchetti family will regret this day.
When we pull up to the boutique, police are already there—my police, on my payroll. Two bodies are being loaded into unmarked vans. I couldn't give less of a fuck about them. My eyes search for only one person.
Sharon stands to the side, wrapped in a security guard's jacket, looking small and pale. When she sees me, her face crumples.
I cross the space between us in four long strides and pull her against me, wrapping her in my coat and arms, holding so tight I can feel her heart hammering against my chest—matching mine beat for frantic beat. Not fear—pure, possessive fury that anyone would dare touch what's mine.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "You're safe now."
She's trembling, her fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. "They tried to grab me when I stepped outside. They had a car waiting. If your men hadn't been there—"
"Don't." I pull back just enough to cup her face in my hands. "Don't think about what didn't happen. You're safe. That's all that matters."
Angelo approaches, face grim. "Boss, we need to move. More police on the way—not our people."
I nod, scoop Sharon up, and carry her to the waiting car. She doesn't protest this time, just burrows closer, face pressed against my neck. I can feel her tears, hot against my skin.
In the car, I keep her on my lap, one arm around her, the other hand already dialing. Marchetti is about to learn exactly who the fuck he's dealing with.
"The Edgewater property," I tell my attorney, voice clipped. "Move on it now. And cancel the line of credit to Stellar Gaming. Effective immediately."
Sharon lifts her head. "What's happening?"
"Business," I say simply, then press a kiss to her forehead. "Nothing for you to worry about."
But she's smarter than that. Her eyes search mine. "This is because of me, isn't it? Because of what just happened."
I consider lying, then discard the thought. She deserves better. "The Marchetti family is unhappy about our marriage. They're lashing out."
"The family of the woman you were supposed to marry?"
"Yes."
"So they tried to kidnap me? To what—force an annulment?"
"Something like that." No need to tell her the rest—that kidnapping often ends with shallow graves in the desert. No need to paint those pictures in her mind.
Back at the penthouse, I station extra security, then lead Sharon to our bedroom. She's still shaking slightly, adrenaline crash setting in. I run her a bath, add the lavender oil she likes, help her undress with clinical efficiency. Not the time for desire, no matter how beautiful she looks.
"Will you stay?" she asks as she sinks into the steaming water. "Just…be here?"
"Try to make me leave," I tell her, sitting on the edge of the tub.
While she soaks, I make calls. Set pieces in motion. The Marchetti organization is about to experience systematic dismantling—financial first, then legal, then physical if necessary. By morning, their empire will be in flames.
When Sharon falls asleep that night, exhausted by fear and adrenaline, I slip out of bed and go to my office. Angelo is waiting with updates.
"We've frozen their accounts," he reports. "And the senator came through—federal investigation into their Miami operations launches tomorrow."
"Not good enough." I stare out at the Vegas skyline, the city I own piece by glittering piece. "I want Marchetti himself. Tonight."
Angelo hesitates. "That's crossing a line, boss. Once we go there—"
"They crossed the line when they came for my wife."
Three hours later, I watch via secure video feed as Marchetti is dragged from his home in the middle of the night.
Not by my men—I'm smarter than that—but by federal agents acting on an anonymous tip about terrorist connections.
The terrorism charges won't stick, but they don't need to.
The damage to his reputation, to his political connections, will be irreparable.
By dawn, I've dismantled half their legitimate businesses. By noon, their illegal operations are exposed to rival families eager to move in on weakened territory. By sunset, the Marchetti name is toxic in Vegas—no one will do business with them, loan them money, even serve them in restaurants.
It's not enough. It won't be enough until I know Sharon is safe—completely, permanently safe.
I'm on the phone with my contact in Miami when she appears in the doorway of my office, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my shirts. She takes in the scene—the monitors showing surveillance feeds, Angelo and two other men clustered around a table of documents, the grim set of my jaw.
"Fabio?" Her voice is small, uncertain.
I end the call, cross to her immediately. "You should be resting."
"I woke up and you were gone." Her eyes move past me to the operation center my office has become. "What is all this?"
"Insurance," I tell her, brushing hair from her face. "Making sure what happened today never happens again."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "You're going after them. The Marchettis."
"Yes."
"Will you..." She swallows hard. "Will you hurt them?"
There's fear in her voice. Not of them—of me. Of what I'm capable of. I could lie, soften the truth, but I won't build anything between us on lies.
"If necessary," I say simply. "To protect you? Without hesitation."
She's silent for a long moment, processing this. Then her small hand comes up to rest against my cheek, feather-light.
"Come back to bed," she whispers. "Please. I need you there."
Need. Not want. Not just desire or comfort, but need. The word hits me like a physical blow. I look back at Angelo, who nods slightly.
"We've got this, boss. Go take care of your wife."
I follow her back to our bedroom, strip down to my boxers, and slide in beside her. Immediately, she molds herself against me, head on my chest, arm around my waist.
"I was so scared," she admits, voice muffled against my skin.
"I know, angel."
"Not just of them. Of losing this. Losing you."
My arms tighten around her. "That's never going to happen."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
I hold her until her breathing evens out, until she's warm and heavy with sleep against me.
Only then do I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: I've spent a lifetime building an empire, amassing power, eliminating threats.
But none of it—not one single victory, not one deal closed, not one enemy destroyed—none of it has ever mattered like this woman in my arms.
Every move I've ever made has been leading me here—to her. Every battle fought, every scar earned, every resource gathered—all of it preparation for the only job that truly matters: keeping her safe.
I press my lips to the top of her head and make a silent vow. No one will ever threaten her again. No one will ever make her afraid again.
And if they try? God help them, because I won't.