Chapter 10
I press my hand harder against my arm, trying to stem the bleeding while maintaining my professional demeanor. The bullet tore through muscle, burning like hell, but I've had worse. What bothers me more is the breach in security—my security.
"The Russians hit Fabio and Anthony at Carmine's," Alessio tells Damiano, his voice tight with controlled rage. "Shot them both in the back of the head while they were eating dinner with their families."
"Jesus Christ," Enzo mutters, running a hand through his hair.
Damiano's face hardens into something dangerous. "Their families?"
"Unharmed," Alessio confirms. "But they made them watch."
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Damiano's eyes go flat and cold—the look that makes even hardened criminals back down.
"I want names," Damiano says quietly. The quieter he gets, the more dangerous he becomes. "Someone gave the Russians our security protocols. Someone told them we were moving tonight."
"Could be anyone with access to the plans," Enzo points out. "That's at least twenty people."
"Then question all twenty," Damiano snaps. "Our system has triple redundancies. It doesn't just fail."
I shift my weight, wincing as fresh pain shoots through my arm. "The breach was too precise. They knew exactly where to cut power, which cameras to avoid."
Footsteps approach from the hallway, and Lucrezia reappears carrying a first aid kit and dragging a chair behind her. Her determination would be almost comical if the situation weren't so serious.
"Sit," she orders, placing the chair in front of me.
I blink, momentarily thrown by her commanding tone. In my world, I give the orders. I protect. I decide. But here's Lucrezia Feretti, five-foot-four and fierce, telling me what to do.
And damn if I don't find it both unsettling and arousing.
"I'm fine standing," I say.
"You're bleeding all over the floor," she counters, opening the first aid kit. "Sit down before you pass out."
Damiano raises an eyebrow, watching our exchange with unexpected interest. "Let her patch you up, Hayes. We need you to be functional."
With no choice but to comply, I lower myself into the chair, keeping my eyes on the doorways. Lucrezia moves in front of me, blocking my view of the room's eastern entrance.
"Your three o'clock," I murmur, and she immediately shifts to my side, understanding my need to maintain visual coverage.
She works efficiently, cutting away my sleeve to expose the wound. Her fingers are cool against my skin, gentle but confident. The contradiction of her touch.
"This needs stitches," she says, cleaning away blood with an antiseptic wipe.
I grit my teeth against the sting. "Just wrap it tight. I'll get it looked at later."
Her eyes flick up to mine, challenging. "Don't be stubborn."
"It's not stubbornness, it's practicality," I counter. "We're in the middle of a security crisis."
She presses the antiseptic harder against the wound, making me hiss. "Oops," she says, not sounding sorry at all.
I narrow my eyes at her. This isn't the traumatized, quiet Lucrezia from the panic room. This is a glimpse of the woman she used to be. The one who never took shit from anyone, including her security detail.
And fuck if I don't want to see more of her.
The thought is completely inappropriate. Especially now, with her brothers ten feet away discussing who might have betrayed the family. Especially with my blood on her hands and Russians potentially planning their next move.
But as she leans closer, her breath warm against my skin while she cleans my wound, all I can think about is how I'd rather be giving her orders than taking them.
Orders that would have her breathless and begging beneath me.
I watch Damiano's face shift from cold rage to concern as he glances toward the staircase. "I need to check on Zoe and the kids," he says, already moving. The Don might be ruthless in business, but when it comes to his family, nothing else matters.
"Go," I tell him. "We've cleared the perimeter. They're secure."
Lucrezia turns to Alessio, her hands still bloody from treating my wound. "Scarlett's hiding in the closet in the gallery room. Can you get her?"
Alessio nods, already pulling his weapon.
"And I need to find Matteo and Hazel," Enzo adds, checking his gun. "They were in the cellar picking up some drinks when this shit started."
Within seconds, they're all gone, leaving Lucrezia and me alone in sudden silence. The tension in the room shifts, no longer about external threats but something else entirely.
She finishes wrapping the bandage around my arm, her fingers working with surprising skill. I've been shot before, patched up by field medics and trauma surgeons alike, but never by someone whose touch makes my skin burn more than the bullet did.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
"First aid course after..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.
I nod, understanding what she doesn't say.
She secures the bandage with medical tape, her face close enough that I can smell her perfume beneath the metallic scent of blood. A strand of hair falls across her face, and before I can think better of it, I reach up with my good arm and tuck it behind her ear.
Her breath catches. Her hands freeze on my arm.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else disappears. There's just Lucrezia, her eyes wide and questioning, her lips slightly parted.
I should pull back. I should do anything except what I'm doing, which is letting my fingers linger against her cheek for a heartbeat too long.
"Thank you," I say finally, dropping my hand.
She blinks, as if coming out of a trance. "Anytime," she whispers.
The word hangs between us, loaded with meaning neither of us should acknowledge. Anytime. As if there could be other moments like this. As if this isn't completely inappropriate and dangerous.
I clear my throat and stand, testing my arm. The bandage is tight but allows movement. Professional. Efficient. Just like I need to be right now.
"We should join the others," I say, reaching for my weapon.
I follow Daniel down the hallway, my heart hammering. What the hell was that? The way his fingers brushed against my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear wasn't the impersonal touch of a security guard. It was... something else.
My hands still tingle where they touched his skin.
I've bandaged cuts before, helped Enzo with a knife wound once, but this felt different.
Daniel's arm was all hard muscle beneath my fingers, his skin hot despite the blood loss.
The bullet had carved a path through his bicep, yet he barely flinched when I cleaned it.
I watch his back as he moves ahead of me. Even injured, there's something mesmerizing about the way he moves. Like a predator, aware of everything around him. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his torn shirt, the material stained dark with his blood.
Daniel Hayes has always been a presence in our household.
With his military buzz cut and those ice-blue eyes that miss nothing, he's intimidating to most people.
I used to find him terrifying when I was younger, always watching, always evaluating.
Now I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the way his mouth rarely smiles but somehow still managed to soften when he looked at me moments ago.
Why does his touch make me feel so unsettled? It's not fear—I've had enough of that to recognize it instantly. This is different. It's like electricity under my skin, making me hyper-aware of every movement, every breath.
"Stay behind me," he says over his shoulder, his voice low and rough.
I nod, though he can't see me.
We reach the main staircase, and I can hear voices from below—Enzo and Matteo, it sounds like. Daniel pauses, his body tense as he listens. The muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt as he raises his gun slightly, ready for anything.
"Clear," he finally says, relaxing marginally.
I realize I've been holding my breath. Not from fear of another attack, but from being so close to him in this narrow hallway. The air feels charged between us, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Daniel," I start, not even sure what I want to say.
He turns, and for a second, his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"We should keep moving," he says, breaking the moment. His voice is all business again, the professional mask sliding back into place.
But I saw beneath it. For just a moment, I saw the man behind the soldier, and it's left me shaken in a way I have never felt before.
I follow Daniel back to the main living area where my family has gathered. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Damiano stands with his back to the fireplace, his face carved from stone. Enzo paces like a caged animal, while Alessio sits with his head in his hands.
Zoe enters the room, her face pale. She's holding her phone so tightly her knuckles have turned white.
"I just spoke with Maria," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fabio's wife."
The room goes silent. Fabio Moretti has—had—worked for our family for fifteen years. He started as a driver for my father and worked his way up to security. He was at my sixteenth birthday party. He brought his kids to our Christmas gatherings.
"How is she?" Damiano asks, his voice rough.
"Destroyed," Zoe says simply. She takes a deep breath. "I also called Anthony's mother. He has been supporting her since his father died."
My stomach twists. Anthony was only twenty-six. He'd joined us three years ago, eager to prove himself. Always smiling, always respectful.
"What did you tell them?" Enzo asks.
She looks at Damiano. "I told them we would take care of everything. Funeral arrangements, expenses. That Maria won't have to worry about money. That Anthony's mother will continue to receive his salary and we'll make sure she has everything she needs."
Damiano nods. "Good. Make sure they know they're still part of this family. Their children will always have a place with us."
"I'll personally visit them tomorrow," Zoe says. "They shouldn't be alone right now."
I watch her, this woman who married into our world and has embraced all of it—the good and the terrible. She understands what family means to us. Not just blood, but loyalty.
"I'll go with you," I say suddenly.
"Are you sure, Lu?" Damiano asks gently. "It will be difficult."
"I know," I say. "But they died because of us. Because someone betrayed us. The least I can do is look their families in the eye and promise them justice."
Daniel shifts beside me. I can feel his gaze on my face, but I don't look at him.
"I'll arrange security," he says, his voice neutral.
"Maria asked about the funeral," Zoe continues. "I told her we would handle everything, but that she could make any special requests."
"Full honors," Damiano says immediately. "They died in service to this family."
Zoe nods. "I'll make sure they understand that we stand with them. Not just financially, but in every way."
The weight of those words settles over the room. This is what it means to be a Feretti. We protect our own, even in death. The families of those who serve us become our family too.