Chapter 20
Elena stands at the start of the gun range—feet planted, shoulders squared, dark hair pulled up into a high ponytail—and for a moment, I forget how to fucking breathe.
Tight black pants cling to her hips like they were sewn onto her body.
Her emerald green top drapes softly, catching the dim warehouse light every time she moves.
She looks powerful. Elegant. Untouchable.
Like a queen. My queen. And I’m damn glad I didn’t let Rocco teach her.
No man gets this view but me. But that’s not why we’re here.
I drag my eyes away from the long line of her neck—the neck I’ve dreamt about tasting every night since our kiss outside her bedroom—and force myself to focus.
Focus on why she asked for this. Why she insisted.
Because as much as I want her, as badly as my hands ache to touch her—she still doesn’t trust me.
Not fully. She doesn’t believe I can keep her safe on my own.
That’s why she’s standing here, cold steel in her hands, learning to be strong without me.
And I promised myself I’d give her whatever she needed.
What pisses me off is that she’s still the same kind, gentle Elena who sat across from Dante’s dinner table days ago…
yet somehow stronger than she realizes. I was so furious when she first demanded to learn to shoot.
I wanted to drag her home, lock her in her room, and keep the entire world away from her.
But then dinner happened. And she was incredible.
She sat with Isabella like they’d been friends for years, sharing shy smiles that warmed something in my chest I didn’t know I had.
She let Sofia braid her hair—patiently, sweetly—until the little princess declared Elena “very pretty” and refused to let her go.
And the biggest miracle? She stopped flinching when Dante entered the room.
She looked him in the eyes. She answered him when he asked questions.
She didn’t shrink. She didn’t hide. She was still nervous—I felt it in every breath she took near me—but she didn’t retreat behind her mask. Not once.
That night proved something: Elena has fire. She just doesn’t know how to use it yet.
So when she came to me again the next morning and said, “I still want to learn,”
…I didn’t argue. I brought her here. To teach her.
To protect her. To show her she doesn’t need anyone but me.
Even if she doesn’t trust that yet. She’s holding the gun carefully, always mindful, always cautious.
Her fingers tremble slightly, but I pretend not to notice.
Fear doesn’t make her weak. Fear makes her human.
But courage—that’s what she’s showing now.
Courage to stand here. Courage to learn.
Courage to face a world that terrifies her.
“Alessandro?” she asks quietly, not turning around. Her voice is soft but steady. I step up behind her. Close. Not touching her. Not yet.
“Yes, Dove?”
She exhales, shoulders lifting with the breath. “I’m ready.”
She has no idea what that does to me. What she does to me. I swallow hard.
“Alright,” I murmur, voice low, rough. “Let’s begin.
” Because if she wants to learn to protect herself—then it will be my hands that teach her.
Not Rocco. Not any other man. Me. Only me.
Always me. She lifts the gun with both hands, arms slightly locked, posture too stiff.
Her shoulders are tight. Her breath shallow. She’s trying too hard.
“Not like that,” I murmur, stepping behind her.
I place my hands on her hips first—because if I don’t touch her somewhere solid, I might lose my mind.
Her body tenses under my palms, the smallest gasp leaving her lips.
“Feet apart,” I say quietly. “Wider. Good.” I guide her hips just an inch to the left.
“Balance yourself through your center. You’re leaning too much on your toes.
” She adjusts. Beautifully. “Now raise the gun.”
She does. But her grip is too tight. Her shoulders trembling. The first shot rings out—
Miss.
She flinches.
“Again,” I say.
Another shot—
Miss.
Her breath catches.
She tries a third time—
Miss.
Her head drops, embarrassment radiating off her.
I step closer until my chest brushes her back, my hand sliding from her hip to her waist. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” I murmur, leaning into her ear. “You’re just not breathing.”
“I am breathing,” she says softly, a small laugh escaping her.
Christ.
That sound. I run my fingertips up the back of her neck—slow, deliberate—and feel the muscle there twitch violently beneath my touch. She goes still. Too still. Her neck is stiff as stone. I wrap my hand gently around the base of it, thumb brushing her pulse. Her breath stutters.
“Rilassati, mia piccola colomba…” I whisper it directly into her ear.
She shivers. Full-body. Uncontrolled. I step back slowly, giving her space. “Now try again.”
She inhales—deep, steady, brave. Then she raises the gun, shoulders loose, jaw set—
BANG.
The bullet hits the target. Not center mass—lower, gut-shot—but enough to drop a man coming for her. A flash of murderous rage surges through me at the thought of anyone trying to hurt her.
But then—She turns toward me. Her eyes wide.A smile spreading across her face—bright, pure, proud.
“I hit it!” she gasps. The world stops. She’s laughing—actual joy—as she looks at me like she wants my approval more than the air she breathes. Everything inside me melts.
I cross the distance in two strides, wrap my arms around her waist, and lift her slightly off the ground before I can think better of it.
“I’m proud of you,” I murmur against her temple. “So damn proud of you, Dove.”
She breathes out a soft sound—half laugh, half relief—and it snaps something inside me.
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not tasting her.
I can’t stand pretending I don’t want her.
I crush my mouth against hers. Hard. Desperate.
Claiming. She gasps into the kiss, fingers curling into my shirt, her body molding to mine like she’s been waiting for this moment—and for one dangerous second—I forget why we came here.
I forget the gun. The lessons. The world outside.
All I know is her. Her lips. Her breath.
Her fire. And the fact that I will never, ever let her go.
Sleep doesn’t come. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment from the past week.
Every expression on Elena’s face. Every question she asked.
Every time she surprised the hell out of me.
Her courage at the restaurant. Her confession outside her room.
Her fire at Dante’s dinner. Her determination to learn to shoot.
Her laugh when she hit the target. Her mouth under mine at the range hours ago.
My new wife…is not the girl I thought I married. She is more. So much more. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under.
And then—I’m nine years old again.
Concrete. Gunpowder. Fear.
My father stands behind me, arms crossed, face twisted with disgust.
“Hurry up,” he snaps. “Don’t stand there like a coward.”
My hands shake around the pistol. It’s too big. Too heavy. I aim at the paper silhouette.
“Shoot!”
I pull the trigger.
Miss.
His hand cracks across the back of my head. “Useless. How do you expect to ever be Don if you can’t shoot a fucking standing target?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Again!”
Another miss. Another hit to the head.
My eyes burn, but I don’t let tears fall. He hates tears.
“Pathetic,” he mutters. “Your cousin Dante would have hit it by now. Maybe he should be Don one day.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. One more try. One more shot. I hit the target. Barely. Low and to the right.
He scoffs. “Still not good enough.”
I flinch as he grabs the back of my neck and drags me deeper into the warehouse.
My feet stumble over broken concrete. We stop in front of a heavy metal door.
When he swings it open, the metallic scent of blood hits me.
A man sits tied to a chair inside—face swollen, shirt torn, blood dripping from his mouth. I freeze.
“Shoot him,” my father orders.
My stomach drops. “N-No. Please—”
“You want to be Don one day? You need to do this.”
“But I don’t—”
“Enough!” he roars, shoving me forward. “Don’t be weak. Don’t be soft. If you can’t pull the trigger, you’re nothing. You’ll never be strong. Never be worthy. Never be Moretti.”
I stare at the man. I don’t know him. I don’t know what he did. But he looks back at me with terror in his eyes. Tears fill mine.
“Papa, please—”
“SHOOT HIM!”
I lift the gun with shaking hands. My vision blurs. The man’s breathing quickens. “Don’t make me do this,” I whisper.
My father steps forward, fists clenched—
“Do it now or I will make sure you never lead a single man in this family—”
“Alessandro.”
The warehouse disappears. The cold. The gun. My father’s rage. Gone.
I shoot upright in bed, chest heaving, every muscle tight.
A hand is on my cheek. Small. Warm. Soft. Her hand. And her voice—sharp, fierce, filled with a strength she doesn’t even realize she has—cuts through the nightmare. “Alessandro.”
My eyes snap open. She’s kneeling beside my bed, hair falling over her shoulder, worry blazing across her face. Instinct takes over. I grab her arm— not hard, but fast—pulling her closer without thinking. Her breath catches. The world thunders in my ears. Her touch. Her voice. Her nearness.