Chapter 23
One moment we’re tangled in the sheets, the next—I’m beneath him, his body covering mine, his voice a low rumble against my skin.
His hands worship every new place they discover.
His lips claim me with reverence and fire.
And I let myself fall. Completely. When he finally collapses beside me, breathless and warm, the world feels different. Shifted. Rewritten.
He brushes his fingers over my cheek and murmurs, “Dove,” like it’s the only word he wants to know.
And I think: I am falling in love with my husband.
The thought terrifies me. Excites me. Unravels me.
So when he pushes out of the bed and walks toward the bathroom, I panic.
I slip out of the sheets, grab my nightgown, and hurry down the hall to my room before he comes back and sees…
whatever confused hope and terror is stamped across my face.
Inside my room, I shut the door quietly, pressing my back against it as my pulse races.
I’m not running away. Not really. I just don’t know the rules anymore.
Or what this means. Or what we are now. I turn on the shower and step inside, letting the hot water steady me for a moment.
Maybe I’m being stupid. Maybe he just needed a minute.
Maybe he—
“ELENA!” His voice cracks violently through the house. I freeze mid-rinse.
Then—SLAM.
My closet door. Flung open so hard the hinge thunders.
“What—?” I hurry through the shower, wrap a towel around myself, and step out—Just in time to see Alessandro storm back into my bedroom, eyes blazing, chest rising like he sprinted through the entire house.
My closet door is destroyed. Clothes pushed to the side.
Drawers half out. He looks like a furious, gorgeous storm as he marches toward me. I hold my ground.
“What are you doing?” I ask, breathless.
He doesn’t answer. He plants his palms against the wall on either side of my head—caging me in with heat, muscle, and overwhelming intensity.
“You think,” he growls, voice dark and rough, “that you can wake up in my bed… beneath me… with my hands on you… my mouth on you…and then run to another room like it meant nothing?”
My breath catches. His jaw flexes. His shoulders shake with restrained emotion.
“You’re my wife,” he snaps, but it’s soft—hurt layered under the anger. “And after this morning, we are never sleeping apart again.”
I stare at him, stunned.
He leans closer, eyes burning with a mixture of fury and fear. “I go to the bathroom for one minute,” he says, voice shaking, “and you vanish.”
Warmth floods my chest. He wasn’t angry because I left. He was scared because I wasn’t there when he came back. My heart softens—slow and dangerous. I love him for this. For all of it. For the anger born from wanting me close. He takes a shuddering breath, stepping even closer.
“I’m moving all my shit into this room,” he says. “Today. Right now. We share one bed. One room. One life. You are mine. And I am yours. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
My pulse flutters. My big, burly, furious husband… wrecking my closet because I wasn’t still in bed with him. I reach up and rest my hand gently on his cheek. He stills instantly.
“Okay,” I whisper. His eyes widen—shock, relief, hunger—all at once. I smile. “Okay, Husband.”
I can’t stop smiling. Lunch sits half-finished in front of me, but I’m too distracted—too warm inside—thinking about how my morning went from panic to watching my husband storm around my room like a gorgeous, furious hurricane.
He muttered in Italian the entire time he moved his things into my closet.
Shirts. Suits. Holsters. A drawer full of weapons I don’t dare question.
Every time he’d catch me giggling at him, he’d freeze…
turn slowly…and stalk straight toward me like a predator deciding whether he should punish me or kiss me senseless.
He always chose the latter. Crushing mouth.
Strong hands. Soft growls against my throat.
Every time I laughed again, he kissed me harder.
I’m smiling about the memory now when I feel his eyes on me.
Alessandro sets down his fork and leans back in his chair, gaze pinning me like he can read my thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, voice low. “You’ve been smiling for ten minutes.”
I shrug and take a sip of water, pretending my face isn’t burning. “Just… how hot my husband is.”
He chokes. Actually chokes. Then he growls—a deep, dangerous sound that goes straight to my knees. “You can’t say shit like that,” he warns.
“Why?” I blink innocently.
He runs a hand over his face. “Because I have to leave in two minutes, and if you say something like that again, I’m taking you upstairs and making sure you can’t walk for the rest of the damn day.”
My cheeks flame so hard I’m surprised the tablecloth doesn’t catch fire.
He stands, pulling out his phone. “We have a lead on Simon. I need to head to the warehouse.” An ache settles low in my stomach. He notices instantly. “I’ll call you later about dinner,” he says, voice softer now. “If you go out with Gia, just message me and let me know your plans.”
That’s when it hits me. I look down at my hands.
He pauses. “What’s wrong, Dove?”
“I… I don’t have a phone.”
Silence. Then he blinks. “What?”
“I never had one,” I whisper. “My father doesn't allow it. If I needed to make a call, I would use the house phone. Or since the wedding, Rocco’s.”
Alessandro stares at me like I’ve told him my father kept me in a cage. Then—He flips.
“What the hell do you mean you’re not allowed? Elena, you’re a grown woman.”
“That doesn't matter,” I say quietly. “He said phones were dangerous. That I could talk to people I shouldn’t. That—”
He cuts me off, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle ticking.
“No,” he snaps. “Absolutely not. Not anymore.” He grabs his phone and steps away from the table, punching in a number.
“Rocco,” he growls the second it connects.
“I need you to take Elena to get a phone. Today. Right now. I’m heading to the warehouse.
” Pause. “The best one they have. Everything she wants. And stay with her.” Another pause.
“Yes, Rocco,” he says with a sigh. “I know you’ll keep her safe.
” He lowers the phone and looks at me with a mixture of fury and tenderness.
“You should have told me,” he says, kneeling beside my chair so we’re eye-level.
“You can have anything you want, Dove. Anything.”
My throat tightens. No one has ever said that to me before.
Before he leaves, he cups my chin with his fingers, brushing his thumb across my lips. “My wife doesn’t live without anything,” he murmurs. “Especially not a way to reach me.”
Rocco shows up exactly ten minutes after Alessandro leaves. “Boss said to take you to get a phone,” he announces, holding the door open and giving me a once-over to make sure I'm ready. “You good?”
I nod and grab my purse. He leads me to the SUV, opening the back door for me like always. He doesn’t say much on the drive, but he keeps checking the rearview mirror every few seconds, like he can’t help himself. It’s been like that the last couple of weeks.
Wherever I go, Rocco is two steps behind. Not hovering—just… steady. Present. Watching out for me without making me feel trapped. It’s comforting. Safer than I thought I’d ever feel with someone who isn’t Alessandro.
By the time we pull up to the phone store, I’m actually excited. I’ve never owned a phone before. I feel like I’m about to commit a crime. Rocco pushes the door open for me and steps in first, immediately scanning the room. Habit. Instinct. Protection.
A teenage boy at the counter looks up. Then down. His eyes widen. Then down again—this time at my chest.
I don’t even have time to feel awkward.
Rocco is already in motion. He steps between us so fast the kid jolts backward. “Eyes,” Rocco says flatly. “Up.”
The kid swallows. Hard. “Y-Yes, sir.”
Rocco doesn’t blink. “Try it again.”
The boy forces his gaze up to my face.
“There you go,” Rocco says, still not moving aside. “You can talk to her when you remember how to act right.”
The poor boy nods rapidly. “Y-Yes, sir. What can I help you with?”
Rocco finally steps a little to the side, but stays close enough that if the kid even thinks about looking down again, he’ll lose a limb.
I bite back a smile. “I need a phone,” I say softly.
The kid perks up—too much. “Oh—cool! Anything specific you want?”
I glance at Rocco. He shakes his head, already unimpressed.
“Don’t ask her what she wants,” Rocco says. “Show her the best one. She’s not getting anything cheap.”
The kid nearly stumbles over himself rushing to the display case. “We just got the newest model in yesterday,” he says, pulling out a sleek box. “It comes in black, silver, white, blue, and—”
He hesitates, looking between me and Rocco.
Rocco raises a brow. “You scared of colors, kid?”
“N-No, sir. Pink. It comes in pink.”
I can’t help it. A laugh slips out. Rocco glances at me, a tiny grin tugging at his mouth before he schools his expression again.
“I think pink,” I say quietly.
Rocco nods once. “Good choice.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes picking out a case, screen protector, and whatever else Rocco insists I need. When they ring everything up, the kid slides the total across the counter.
Rocco shakes his head. “Nope. Put that on the account Alessandro Moretti has here.”
The kid blanches and I see the fear in his eyes in an instant. “O-oh. Oh. Yes, sir.”
We walk out with a bag full of accessories and the brand-new phone I’m practically vibrating to open.
Rocco unlocks the SUV, then looks down at me.
“You happy?” he asks.
I glance up at him and nod, a real smile spreading across my face. “Yeah,” I breathe. “I really am.”
He gives a single, satisfied nod, then circles around to the driver’s seat.
As he pulls out of the parking lot, I think about how much has changed. How much safer I feel. How much more me I feel. And how, somehow, without forcing it or pushing or prying, Rocco has become someone I trust. Someone solid. Someone who feels like… family.
Rocco drives us out of the parking lot with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift. It feels like any other ride home. Relaxed. Safe. Normal.
I’m scrolling through settings on my brand-new phone, trying to figure out how to change the wallpaper, when—
A black SUV flies into the intersection. Too fast. Too close.
“Roc—” He sees it a millisecond before I say his name.
“Hold on!”
The impact hits us like an explosion. Metal screams. Glass shatters. My body whips sideways so fast I don’t even have time to scream.
The world flips—once, twice—gravity shredding my sense of direction until I don’t know which way is up. The SUV hangs upside down, the interior choked with smoke and the sharp scent of gasoline. My ears ring. My head throbs. Everything feels distant.
Rocco is already moving. He pushes himself toward me across the broken glass and twisted metal, grabbing the back of my head with both hands to steady me.
“Elena. Look at me. You breathing?”
“Y-Yes,” I whisper, though I’m not sure it’s true.
He checks me fast—shoulders, arms, legs—then forces me upright against the mangled seat.
“Good,” he mutters, voice rough but focused. “Stay down. Don’t move unless I tell you.” When he pulls his hands back, they’re covered in blood. It’s smeared across his palms, dripping onto the ceiling—which is now the floor.
My heart lurches.
“Rocco… where is that from?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he digs his phone from his pocket and shoves it into my lap.
“You call Alessandro. Now.”
“But you—” He cuts me off with a growl.
“Call him, Elena.”
His eyes flick toward the broken window—calculating, listening. Something outside shifts. A shadow. A footstep. Rocco curses.
“Down,” he orders, pushing my head toward the ground as he crawls toward the shattered passenger side.
“Rocco—”
“Stay down!” he snaps, and then he squeezes my shoulder once—quick, grounding—before forcing himself through the window.
I hear him drop onto the pavement outside.
Then—GUNSHOTS. Loud. Explosive. Close.
I flinch so hard the phone nearly slips from my hands. My breath stutters. My vision blurs. I force myself to grab the phone, fingers trembling, and somehow manage to hit redial. It rings once. Twice.
“Rocco, I said—”
“Ale—” My voice breaks on his name. “A-Alessandro—”
Silence.
Then—“Elena?” A sound like the world cracking open. “What happened? Where are you? Dove—answer me.”
My breath stutters, eyes filling with tears as another wave of smoke curls into the flipped SUV. My throat tightens. “Someone—someone hit us. The SUV rolled. Rocco—he’s outside—and there are gunshots—Alessandro, I’m scared.”
A low, deadly growl fills the line. Then his breathing—harsh, uneven—like he’s already running.
“Elena, listen to me,” he says, voice shaking with barely contained violence.
“You stay exactly where you are. Do not move. Do not look outside. I’m coming for you.
” There’s another silence. But this one is different.
Dark. Deadly. And then his voice drops into something I’ve never heard from him before—A tone that promises violence.
Death. War. “Stay where you are,” he says, low and lethal. “I’m coming for you. Right. Now.”
I can hear his car start and the world fades to black.