Chapter Forty-Six
Gualtiero
Ella is fast asleep in my arms.
Her back is pressed to my chest, my arm draped over her waist, my palm resting low against the soft curve of her stomach. For a while, I simply lie there and watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing, committing the feel of her to memory.
Then, carefully, I ease my arm from beneath her and shift her onto her back so I can see her properly.
She murmurs something unintelligible but doesn’t wake.
She is so damn beautiful it almost hurts.
Moonlight slips through the curtains, casting pale light across her face, softening her features even further. Her lips are parted slightly, her lashes resting against her cheeks, unaware of the storm quietly tightening around us.
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Her nose scrunches faintly in protest, and despite everything, I smile.
I saw fear on her face twice today.
I hated it.
Hated the way it widened her eyes, the tension in her body. I hated even more the men responsible for putting it there.
I had to get her away from Sicily. Away from the shifting currents beneath the surface. My island is the perfect solution. Only a handful of trusted men know it exists, and every one of them understands what betrayal would cost.
Out there, we are insulated.
No rivals. No chance encounters. No loose ends drifting too close.
It gives us time. Space. A chance to sink deeper into each other without interruption.
She pulled away earlier, though. She tried to be subtle, but I felt it.
After dinner, when she asked about my childhood, something shifted between us. The walls lowered. The air changed. I had her closer than before, not just physically, but in the way that matters.
Then the explosion shattered it.
I watched the calculation begin behind her eyes. The retreat. The quiet reorganization of her emotions, as if she could step back from something that had already taken root.
I could almost see her convincing herself that caution is strength. That distance is wisdom.
It isn’t.
And I will not tolerate distance between us. Not the emotional kind. Not now.
I never intended to tell her about Enzo. That night has lived inside me for years, sealed behind discipline and ambition and the authority I built from its aftermath. It still finds me sometimes in the quiet. The sound of him hitting the ground. The look in his eyes.
But I want Ella to know me. Not the version the world negotiates with. The man beneath it. I want her to understand what shaped me, even if I can only give her fragments for now.
Because the full truth would send her running.
And I am not prepared to watch her walk away.
I need her deeper in this. Deeper with me. I need her heart tied to mine before the ground shifts beneath her feet.
She will be shocked when she learns everything. Anyone would be. But shock fades. Fear adjusts. Love, when it takes root properly, becomes stronger than either.
And she will have a good life by my side.
Protected. Powerful. Untouchable.
I will give her everything. The world if she lets me.
My phone lights up on the bedside table, the glow cutting through the dark.
I glance at it.
A message from my brother.
Mateo: Are you awake and available?
Regrettably, the answer is yes.
If it weren’t for fucking Rocco, I would be buried inside my angel right now instead of watching her sleep.
I lean down and press a slow kiss to Ella’s forehead, lingering for a moment.
Then I slide from the bed and pull the sheets carefully back over her bare shoulder.
She rolls onto her side almost immediately, reaching for the pillow I vacated and pulling it against her chest as if she can feel the absence even in sleep.
The sight draws a quiet smile from me, and the fury that had begun rising again at the memory of tonight cools into something more manageable.
I step into the sitting room, leaving the bedroom door partially open so I can still see her from where I stand. I am not concerned about her overhearing anything. It’s the advantage of her limited Italian.
Though that will change.
Teaching her our language, especially the words reserved for the bedroom, is something I intend to enjoy thoroughly.
I dial Mateo’s number. He answers on the second ring.
“I didn’t expect your call until morning,” he says, already fully alert. “Why aren’t you occupied with your girl? You’ve finally got her to yourself, haven’t you?”
“I do,” I reply evenly. “Her friend left this morning. But Rocco interfered.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Rocco?” Mateo’s tone sharpens. “You’re on the yacht? I thought the plan was to take her to the house.”
It was.
I spoke with my brother before Ella arrived at my office earlier today. He is not yet aware of what happened this afternoon.
“That was the plan,” I say. “It changed. Molinaro had the nerve to call me today.”
A sharp inhale on the other end. “He did what?”
“Yes. A courtesy call, according to him. An opportunity for me to call off the witch hunt.”
Mateo lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s got nerve.”
“He’s bold,” I say evenly. “Or he’s stupid.”
“The latter. But we established that already.”
I lean against the edge of the desk, lowering my voice instinctively even though Ella wouldn’t be able to understand a word. “Two hours after the call, he sent me a series of photographs.”
A pause.
“Of?”
“Ella.”
Silence this time. Not amused.
“She was sightseeing in Syracuse this afternoon.”
Even now, recalling it, something cold coils low in my stomach. I knew that being seen with her carried risk. I calculated it and dismissed it as manageable. She’s been in my life for such a short time that there was no logical reason for Molinaro to attach significance to her so quickly.
But he did.
The photographs were deliberate. Framed carefully. Not just proof of surveillance, but proof of understanding.
He hit the mark.
And that shifts my attention back to something far more concerning.
Someone inside our circle is feeding him information.
Though the security around her is a giveaway and easy for a trained eye to spot, he knew things about Ella he had no business knowing.
Mateo exhales slowly. “How close did his men get?”
“Too close.” My jaw tightens. “Oriana and Franco identified two of them inside the cathedral. They kept their distance, but not enough. And Ella noticed something was off. By the time I reached her, she was spooked. Afraid.”
“Fuck.” Mateo’s voice drops. “She shouldn’t be out in the open by herself. You can’t have her exposed like that again.”
“I won’t.”
The decision had formed the moment I saw her face.
“I’m taking her to the island.”
“Good.” No hesitation. “No one gets near her there.”
No, they won’t.
My island is layered with surveillance, motion sensors, thermal cameras, and a perimeter defense system that would make smaller governments jealous. Every inch monitored. Every approach calculated.
No one steps onto that land without my knowledge.
“You don’t want her finding out who she’s going to marry from anyone but you,” Mateo adds.
There’s no mockery in his tone. Just fact.
He understands.
But he’s my brother. We were shaped by the same man. Raised with the same expectations. We think the same way because we were trained to.
“So how did Rocco interfere?”
A growl escapes me before I can stop it.
To be betrayed on my own fucking yacht by a man I pulled off the street and gave purpose to is not just infuriating, it is insulting.
“Santino caught Rocco injecting poison into the dessert he was preparing to serve Ella and me.”
Silence.
“So much for loyalty,” Mateo says flatly.
Loyalty should have been unquestionable. I gave Rocco a salary, status, security. A future he would never have earned on his own. But greed is a powerful motivator. Stronger, apparently, than survival.
“When Santino confronted him, Rocco pulled a gun and fired.”
But Santino is not my head of security by accident. He had him restrained within seconds.
Rocco never stood a chance. Experience always outweighs desperation.
“Santino disarmed him and extracted what he needed before I even made it downstairs.”
“Molinaro?” Mateo asks.
“Of course it was fucking Molinaro.”
I want his throat in my hand. I want to feel the exact moment he understands he miscalculated.
“The bastard bribed Rocco. Promised him enough money to make betrayal look attractive.”
Mateo exhales sharply. “Did Rocco really believe he would survive that arrangement? Either Molinaro silences him or you do.”
“Greed makes men irrational.”
And dead.
“He’s no loss,” Mateo continues. “I assume the problem has been handled.”
A noncommittal grunt is all I give him.
Ella’s frightened eyes flash through my mind. The way her body trembled when I pushed her behind the sofa. The way her breathing went erratic.
For that alone, Rocco signed his own death warrant.
“She heard the shot,” I say after a moment. “And she saw my reaction.”
“What did you do?”
“I moved her behind cover. Had her lock herself in a bedroom while I assessed the situation.”
Mateo is quiet for a second. “And now?”
“I told her it was a gas leak explosion. But still, she’s trying to create space between us again.”
A calculated withdrawal. Emotional self-preservation.
“Well,” he says lightly, “I’m sure you’ll charm her again. And there won’t be another incident. Not on that island.”
No. There won’t.
He goes silent again, thinking. “Molinaro has someone feeding him information. We need to know who. Rocco wasn’t high enough in the chain to know anything meaningful.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“Until we find out,” I continue, “we cannot trust anyone fully. Santino and Uberto have begun vetting everyone again, but it’s a slow process.”
Financial audits. Background rechecks. Surveillance cross-referencing. If there’s even the slightest suspicion, the traitor will be dealt with. Examples will be made. No one messes with a De Marco.
I should be in Sicily. Or Rome. I should be forcing Molinaro into a corner and ending this.
But I cannot leave Ella right now.
I have only a few days to anchor her properly.
“You’ll oversee things while I’m away,” I tell Mateo. “Is Romeo still in Tuscany?”
“He is. He’ll make sure all shipments leave as planned while keeping the little redhead occupied.” Amusement edges his tone. “I think she’s wearing him out.”
A low laugh slips from me.
“As long as he doesn’t get distracted.”
“You still planning to attend the cartel meeting in Rome on Sunday?” Teo asks.
“Yes. Several others are equally tired of Molinaro’s theatrics. Coordinated pressure will flush him out faster.”
“But Ella is supposed to fly home Sunday.”
There’s a brief silence between us.
I picture her at the airport. Boarding. Leaving.
No. Not happening.
“She won’t,” I say calmly. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t want to.”
A quiet hum of approval comes through the line. “Well. I’ll ensure no one interrupts while you persuade her.”
I allow myself a faint smile. “See that you do.”
We talk for a while longer, shifting to other matters. Numbers. Routes. Personnel adjustments. By the time the call ends, the raw edge of my anger has settled into something far more useful.
Clarity.
I return to the doorway of the bedroom and watch my angel for a moment.
She looks so peaceful, unaware of how close poison came to her lips tonight.
Molinaro will pay for that.
But for right now, it’s time to remind her how good we are together. How inevitable we are.
That distance she tried to construct?
I’ll make sure she remembers why stepping back is impossible.
By morning, she’ll feel nothing but us.