Chapter 30
I’m furious Elena is with us.
Furious at myself for letting her come.
Furious at her for being so damn stubborn.
Furious at the world for making it necessary.
But when we pull up outside the dive bar where Leonid Kuznetsov is hiding, something in me settles.
Because she’s here.
Because the woman who walked through gunfire and trauma and the hell of her childhood still chose to stand beside me.
Dante is already waiting, leaning against an SUV with arms crossed. He pushes off when he sees us approach—and then stops dead when Elena steps out behind me.
His brows lift. “You brought your wife to a hit, Sandro?”
Before I can snap something back, Dante turns to her—his entire expression shifting softer, warmer.
“Good to see you, Elena Moretti.”
She freezes. He said it deliberately.
Moretti.
Not Volkov.
Not something belonging to her father.
Dante jerks his chin toward the bar. “You’re never going back there, sweetheart. You’re family now.”
Something in Elena’s eyes glimmers—relief, gratitude, something breaking open and finally healing.
And it hits me like a punch:
I’m glad she’s here.
I need her here.
But the next words out of my mouth are still, “You’re staying in the car.”
She glares, but climbs in. Good enough—for now.
Because inside that bar? There will be blood.
The place smells like stale beer and rot.
Leonid doesn’t even look surprised when we step inside.
He glances from me to Dante to Rocco—exhausted, cornered, defeated.
Then he smirks. “Finally,” he says.
We don't answer.
Because there’s no speech here.
No monologue.
No confession.
Just consequences.
The first man charges Dante—mistake.
Dante drops him with a single punch that cracks like a gunshot.
Another lunges for me.
I catch his wrist, twist, and slam his head into the bar top.
Wood splinters.
Blood spatters.
A gun goes off.
Rocco fires back.
The world becomes noise and movement.
A chair crashes.
Someone screams.
Dante tackles a man through a table.
And Leonid—coward that he is—tries to slip out the back.
Not today.
I cut through the chaos, dodging bodies, fists landing against me but barely registering. The only thing I see is Leonid sprinting toward the exit.
A bullet whizzes past my head—from behind him.
Dante shouts, “Sandro! He’s getting away!”
But I don’t speed up. Because I already know how this ends.
Leonid hits the alley behind the bar and skids to a stop—slamming into a wall of my men waiting with guns drawn.
There’s nowhere left for him to run.
He turns—slow, trembling—and the moment his eyes land on me, whatever courage he had drains out of him.
“Alessandro—wait,” he chokes out, palms lifting in surrender. “It wasn’t personal. It was business. I—I didn’t know—”
I step forward, boots crunching over broken glass, the metallic taste of rage thick on my tongue.
“It was business when you put a target on my wife.” My voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes right before the end.
He shakes his head so hard spit flies. “I swear— I didn’t mean for her—”
“You meant every fucking part of it.”
Another step. Another cornered breath from him.
He’s shaking so violently the gun slips from his hand and hits the floor.
“Dante’s men,” he stutters. “Not her. It was never meant to touch her—”
“But it did.” My voice sinks lower. Deadlier. “And now you’ll understand what it means to threaten a Moretti.”
His gaze darts around desperately, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.
Not for him.
“Please,” he whispers. “I can fix this. I—I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear my name again.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s the problem, Leonid.” I raise the gun, sighting him clean between the eyes. “If you walked away from this, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering when you’d crawl out of whatever hole you hid in… and try again.”
His chest heaves.
“I can’t risk that. Not for her. Not for my family. Not for the people I swore to protect.”
The fear in his eyes sharpens.
And then the truth hits him.
There is no mercy left here.
“It was personal,” I finish quietly. “Because she is mine.”
He opens his mouth—maybe for a plea, maybe for a scream—
I pull the trigger.
He drops instantly.
No fanfare.
No ceremony.
No theatrics.
Just a dead coward that came after my wife.
Dante bursts out another door, giving chase to someone escaping across the lot. Rocco follows him.
I head for the SUV where Elena waits.
But then—
A shadow moves behind Dante.
A gun raised.
My heart plummets.
And before I can shout—
A single shot rings out.
Not mine.
Hers.
Elena stands outside the SUV, breath shaking, arm steady, Rocco’s spare gun clutched in both hands.
The moment the man drops, the world stops moving.
Dante turns, stunned. “Elena?”
Rocco freezes mid-stride.
And Elena—my wife, my heart, my goddamn miracle—stands there trembling with the gun still raised, her chest rising and falling like she’s trying to breath underwater.
I reach her first.
The gun slips from her fingers the second my hands close around her.
“Dove—” It comes out hoarse, reverent, terrified.
Her body collapses into mine. She’s shaking so hard I feel it straight through my bones. I cup the back of her head and pull her tight against me, whispering into her hair.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She whispers into my shirt, “I saw him—behind Dante. I had to— I had to—”
I pull her face up with both hands.
“Look at me.”
When she does, her eyes are wide and glassy with shock, but she’s here. Present. Alive.
“You saved him,” I tell her. “You saved Dante’s life.”
Her lip quivers. “I didn’t want you to lose him. Or—lose anyone else.”
Christ. She breaks me.
I kiss her forehead—slow, grounding—before wrapping my arm around her and leading her back toward the SUV.
“Let’s get you home,” I murmur against her temple.
Elena doesn’t let go of me.
Not when I settle her into the back seat.
Not when I slide in beside her.
Not even when the car pulls away from the chaos behind us.
She folds herself into my side, burying her face in my chest like she’s trying to hide from the memory of what she just did.
I hold her as tightly as I can without hurting her—one arm around her back, one hand cradling the side of her face.
Her whisper is so small I almost miss it.
“Alessandro… I don’t want to shoot anyone ever again.”
My throat thickens. “I know, Dove. I know.”
“I don’t want that to be part of my life.”
“It won’t be,” I promise instantly, fiercely. “You’ll never have to do that again.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me.
“But what if someone comes for you? Or what if—”
“No.” I put my hand over her heart. “Listen to me. That isn’t your burden. It’s mine. Mine, Elena. Not yours.”
Her eyes fill. “But today—if I hadn’t been there—”
“Then I would’ve gotten to him first.”
She gives a watery laugh that breaks into a sob.
I tilt her chin up. “You were brave. You were incredible. But that is the only time you will ever have to protect any of us with a gun. I swear to you.”
Her voice cracks. “Promise?”
I lean forward until our foreheads touch, breathing her in, anchoring both of us.
“I promise,” I whisper. “On my life, Dove—you will never have to pull that trigger again. Not while I’m alive to stop it.”
She curls back into me, gripping my shirt in her fist.
And I hold her the entire drive home—even when she finally drifts into exhausted sleep against my chest.
But I won’t let it.
Not ever.
Later that night, Elena lies pressed against me in our bed, her head on my chest, our fingers intertwined.
The lamp casts a warm glow over her face—soft, beautiful, mine.
I run my thumb along her cheek.
She turns into the touch like she was made for my hands.
“I never thought,” I say quietly, “that someone like me would have this.”
She lifts her head slightly. “This?”
“Love,” I say simply. “Yours.”
Her eyes soften.
I continue, voice low and honest in a way I never thought I could be. “I never thought I could love anyone. Never thought anyone could love me—all of me. The good and the violent. The broken and the loyal.”
Her fingers slide up my jaw, gentle. I catch her hand, kiss her palm.
“The best thing I ever did,” I whisper, “was tell Dante that I would marry you.”
Her breath stutters. My hand moves to her heart.
“And the best thing that ever happened to me… was you loving me back.”
She presses her lips to mine—slow, deep, certain.
And for the first time in my life, the world finally feels quiet.