Chapter 24
I watch Melania drift to sleep against my shoulder, her breathing gradually slowing into a steady rhythm. Her hand lies between us and I cover it with mine. The simple connection grounds me as my mind races.
In the rearview mirror, Enzo's eyes meet mine. The knowing look on his face speaks volumes. He's not stupid—he's seen how I positioned myself between him and Melania, how my hand rests on hers, how she sleeps against me so comfortably. These small gestures reveal what words haven't.
Something has changed between Melania and me. Something I never planned for.
I've known Enzo since we were teenagers. We've been through hell together, saved each other's lives more times than I can count. We don't keep secrets from each other—not the kind that matter. Damiano, Enzo and I operate as a unit, our loyalty absolute. It's how we've survived this long.
Yet here I am, holding Antonio Lombardi's daughter while she sleeps, with marks from my mouth still fresh on her skin under her clothes.
Enzo catches my eye again in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. I give him a barely perceptible shake of my head. Not now.
He nods once, understanding without words. The conversation is coming—we both know it—but it won't happen with Melania beside me and Matteo in the front seat.
Melania wriggles slightly in her sleep, her body seeking more contact with mine. I adjust my position to make her fit better and my chest tightens when she sighs and settles deeper into me.
Damiano will need to know. So will Enzo.
I look down at her sleeping face, softer in unconsciousness than I've ever seen it. The sharp intelligence and wariness that usually animate her features are gone, replaced by a vulnerability that makes my protective instincts flare.
The irony doesn't escape me. I was assigned to be her captor and now I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
The Maserati slows as we approach the wrought iron gates of the Feretti estate. They swing open silently, the familiar sight of the sprawling property brings a sense of relief—this is the closest thing to home I've had for years.
"We're heading straight to Damiano's office for a discussion," Matteo says, glancing back at me.
Enzo parks in front of the main entrance. "Especially about why you're holding Lombardi's daughter like she's made of fucking glass."
I ignore the comment and focus on Melania, who's still asleep against my shoulder. Her face is peaceful, all the sharp edges softened in sleep. I brush a strand of hair from her cheek.
"Melania," I say softly. "We're here."
She stirs, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment there's confusion in those amber depths, then recognition. She straightens immediately, pulling away from me as awareness returns.
"The Feretti estate?" she asks, her voice a purr from sleep.
"Yes."
We exit the car and walk toward the imposing front doors. They open before we reach them, revealing Ginerva's familiar figure. The older woman's eyes startle when she sees Melania but her professional demeanor never falters.
"Welcome back, Mr. Gallo," she says, then nods to Melania. "Miss."
"Ginerva," I say, "this is Melania Lombardi."
If the name surprises her she doesn't show it. She simply offers a warm smile.
"I need to speak with Damiano," I tell Melania. "You can go with Ginerva. She'll get you settled."
Melania's eyes dart between me and the others, uncertainty crossing her features. "How long will you be?"
"Not long," I say, though I have no idea if that's true. "Ginerva will take care of you."
I turn to Ginerva. "Take her to my room, please."
Ginerva's eyebrows lift questioningly but her smile brightens. "Of course, Mr. Gallo. This way, Miss Lombardi."
Melania hesitates, then nods. As she follows Ginerva toward the grand staircase she glances back at me once and the sentiment in her eyes makes my chest tumble.
"So, your room, huh?" Enzo says the moment they're out of earshot.
"Let's go." I say.
I follow Matteo and Enzo down the hallway to Damiano's office, the weight of what I'm about to do pressing down on my shoulders.
The irony isn't lost on me. First Enzo with Sienna, then Noah with Evelyn.
Now me. We've all fallen into the same trap—claiming women who should be untouchable, from people we're supposed to destroy.
Damiano's office door stands open. Inside Noah leans against the wall, arms crossed, while Daniel stands at attention near the window. Their eyes track us as we enter.
Damiano sits behind his massive desk, fingers steepled, face unreadable. He doesn't look surprised to see us. Nothing ever surprises him.
Enzo drops into one of the chairs facing Damiano's desk without invitation. The second chair—my usual spot—waits empty. I take it, my body tense despite the familiar surroundings.
The silence stretches, heavy with expectation. Everyone's waiting for Damiano to speak first, as protocol demands.
Fuck protocol.
"Melania is mine," I say, my voice cutting through the hush like a blade.
The words hang in the air. I don't elaborate, don't qualify. There's nothing else to say.
Damiano's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes bore into mine, searching for something—weakness, perhaps, or uncertainty. He won't find either.
"Fuck," Noah mutters from his position against the wall. "Not another one."
Daniel shifts his weight but remains silent, ever the professional.
Enzo leans back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Told you," he says to Damiano. "Pay up."
Damiano ignores him, still studying me with that penetrating gaze.
I don't look away. I don't explain myself. I've made my declaration and I'll stand by it, regardless of the consequences.
Damiano drums his fingers against the polished mahogany of his desk.
"Noah, Daniel, Matteo. Leave us." His voice is calm but leaves no room for argument.
Noah pushes off the wall with a shake of his head. "Getting fucking predictable around here," he mutters as he passes me.
Daniel follows silently, professional as always. Matteo hesitates at the door, throwing me a concerned glance before Damiano's sharp "Now" sends him on his way.
The door clicks shut, leaving just the three of us—me, Enzo and Damiano. The brothers exchange a look I can't quite decipher.
"You're sure about this?" Damiano asks, leaning forward slightly. "Antonio Lombardi's daughter?"
The question hangs between us. A week ago I would've laughed at the absurdity of it. But now...
I wasn't, I admit to myself. Not until she saved my life.
"I am." I say.
Damiano studies me, his dark eyes missing nothing. We've known each other since we were teenagers. He can read me better than anyone.
"You're sure?" he asks again.
I meet his gaze without hesitation. "I'm sure."
Damiano leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. None of us are men of many words—never have been. It's not how we operate. Our world doesn't reward flowery speeches or emotional declarations.
"Dinner," Damiano finally says, the single word carrying the weight of a command. "Tonight. With her."
I nod once, understanding the implications. It isn't just dinner—it's an assessment, an introduction to the inner circle. Damiano wants to see Melania for himself, to understand what's changed me.
"Eight o'clock," Damiano continues.
I nod again. "She'll be there."
Damiano's fingers drum once on his desk—a rare tell of his inner thoughts. "You were the last one I expected this from, Alessio." His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "Fucking women, sure. Getting involved? Never thought I'd see the day."
The words aren't an accusation—just an observation from a man who's known me almost twenty years. A man who's seen me execute his orders without question, who's watched me build walls around myself that no one was supposed to breach.
"I know," I admit. "I agree with you."
The admission hangs between us. In our world admitting vulnerability isn't something we do lightly. But this is Damiano and Enzo—the closest thing to brothers I've ever had. If I can't be honest with them, then who?
Damiano nods once, decision made. "Then we adapt."
Three simple words that carry immense meaning in our world. We adapt. We survive. We protect what's ours.
Damiano stands, signaling the end of our discussion. "Eight o'clock," he repeats.
I rise from my chair, knowing I've been dismissed. There's nothing more to say. We aren't men who need long conversations or emotional reassurances. The bond we share runs deeper than words.
They'll kill for me. I'll kill for them. And now they'll help me protect what's mine.