Chapter 22 - Alessandro
The blood under Emma’s collar is mine, a thumbprint I left three hours ago when I gripped her throat while fucking her senseless after dealing with tonight’s third body.
Now she sits beside me in the war room, the navy Armani I chose specifically to hide my marks, while Marco slides a manila envelope across the mahogany table like a death sentence.
"Three separate deliveries in the last two hours," Marco says, his voice carrying that particular tone that used to make me look for exits. "Each one more specific than the last. They know about our northern routes, the dock schedules, even which judges we own."
Around us, my family sits in various states of controlled tension.
Dante signs something to Nico, Luca cleans his nails with a blade, Sofia watches Emma with barely concealed suspicion.
The Glock pressed against my ribs is a familiar weight, safety off, ready for whoever's threatening what's mine.
Emma's body still carries the evidence of how thoroughly I claimed her.
My knuckles split from persuasion work, her skin marked where I gripped too hard, her pussy probably still sore from taking every inch of my desperation and rage.
Emma spreads the photos across the table, studying each one as if she wasn't trembling in my arms just hours ago, screaming my name while I promised to destroy anyone who threatened us.
Her fingers trace patterns only she sees, and Christ, watching her take command like this makes my cock stir despite the gravity of the situation.
Every man at this table is seeing what I already knew.
She's not just beautiful, she's fucking brilliant. And she's mine.
"These were all taken from service areas," she observes quietly, her voice steady despite everything we've done in the last six hours. "Loading docks, kitchen entrances, the spots where staff create blind spots during shift changes."
Dante's hands pause mid-sign, his dark eyes sharpening with interest.
"Whoever took these knows servant patterns," Emma continues, arranging the photos by timestamp.
The movement makes her lean forward, and I catch her jasmine scent mixed with sex and my cologne, marking her as thoroughly as any ring could.
"Third Wednesday, rotation day. First Monday, laundry service.
They're using the invisible people, the ones you don't notice because they've always been there. "
My hand finds her thigh under the table, thumb stroking through the silk.
The gesture looks supportive to my family, but Emma knows it's possession, a reminder that after this meeting, I'll bend her over my desk and fuck the tension out of both of us while recounting every threat I'll eliminate for her.
"Since when does the Hewson princess understand servant schedules?" Sofia asks sweetly, though poison drips from every word.
Emma doesn't flinch, though I feel her pulse quicken under my touch. "Since I started paying attention to how households actually run instead of just living in them."
The response is perfect, deflection without confession. Pride and arousal war in my chest as she continues her analysis, pointing out details even Marco missed. My brilliant little liar, playing her role perfectly.
"This is family business," Sofia announces to the room, now ignoring Emma completely. "Why are you taking advice from children?"
Emma straightens but doesn't retreat. "Because I understand desperation," she says. "And desperate people make predictable mistakes."
Fuck. The way she commands authority despite her fear makes me want to clear this table and take her right here. My cock hardens fully at the thought, and I have to adjust myself under the table.
"Listen to the princess," Sofia mutters, her fingers drumming against the table with increasing agitation.
Something's off with her tonight, nervous energy crackling around her like static.
"Next she'll be teaching us about survival.
About sacrifice. About things she's never experienced from her Swiss boarding school tower. "
"Sofia," Marco warns, but she's already building momentum.
"It's fascinating, really." Sofia stands, circling the table like a predator. "How quickly she's adapted. How naturally she fits into our world. Almost like she's been rehearsing for this role her whole life."
Emma stays perfectly still, but I feel the slight tremor where our bodies touch.
My hand tightens on her thigh, a silent promise that I'll handle this.
Calabrese watches the exchange with growing interest, sensing blood in the water.
The rage building in my chest tastes metallic, like the blood I'll spill if Sofia pushes much further.
"The girl makes solid points," Luca interjects, still cleaning his nails. "Her servant theory fits the evidence."
"Of course it does," Sofia snaps. "Because she's not—"
"Not what?" I ask, my voice dropping to dangerous territory. The same tone I used before putting three bullets in the last man who threatened Emma. "Not family yet? She's my wife, Sofia. That makes her more family than outsiders offering unsolicited help."
"She's a fraud!" Sofia's accusation explodes across the room like shattered glass. "This isn't the real Hewson daughter! I don't know who she is, but she's not—"
"You're paranoid," I say calmly, though my pulse pounds in my ears and my hand drifts toward my gun. "Again."
Sofia's eyes widen with rage. "I am not—"
"You've been erratic for weeks. We've all noticed it." I stand slowly, positioning myself between her and Emma, my body coiled for violence. "You've been struggling since the Russians resurfaced, we all know that. But attacking my wife because you're falling apart? That's beneath even you."
The room goes silent. Marco's eyes narrow, reassessing. Dante's hands still completely. Even Luca stops pretending to clean his nails. The taste of blood fills my mouth from biting my tongue to keep from telling Sofia exactly what I'll do to her if she says Emma's real name.
"How dare you," Sofia breathes. "Father's death destroyed all of us, but at least I'm not—"
"Not what? Not moving forward? Not functioning?" I let disappointment color my voice while imagining wrapping my hands around her throat. "Father would be ashamed to see you like this, Sofia. Paranoid, making wild accusations because you can't handle change."
"This isn't about father's death!" Sofia's voice cracks. "This is about the truth—"
"This is about you spiraling," Marco interrupts quietly, and everyone turns to him. "Alex is right. The paranoia, the accusations, you need to get yourself together, Sofia."
"I'm not paranoid! She's not who she claims to be!"
"Enough." Marco's single word carries finality. "We have real threats to handle. The blackmailers already compromised three of our operations last night. If you can't contribute without these… episodes, then leave."
The mention of last night's violence makes Emma's hand find mine under the table, her fingers tracing my split knuckles with a tenderness that makes my chest crack. She trusts me completely, even knowing I came to her bed with blood under my fingernails.
Sofia looks around the table, searching for support. But the family has already chosen sides, and she knows it. Dante won't meet her eyes. Nico shifts uncomfortably. Luca actually looks sympathetic, which from him is practically a declaration of concern.
Emma hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. Her complete stillness, her trust that I'll handle this, it makes something roar in my chest.
Sofia storms out without another word, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancestral portraits. The sound echoes through awkward silence as everyone processes what just happened. The scent of gun oil from my weapon mingles with Emma's jasmine perfume, violence and beauty intertwined.
"Well," Luca says after a long moment. "That was uncomfortable. Even for us."
Nico clears his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on the actual threats? The blackmailers are still out there."
Emma finally moves, her hand squeezing mine before she speaks. "My analysis stands," she says quietly, but with the authority I've been teaching her. "They're using servant networks. I can predict their next moves because I understand how invisible people think."
Marco studies her for a long moment, then nods. "Can you tell us who the blackmailers are? We don't know how long until they lose their patience, and if we don't counteract them by then, who knows what information about our business they will leak."
Emma takes a deep breath. "It must be the Hewsons."
"Your parents?" Marco asks sharply.
"Right, my parents," Emma continues smoothly. "We looked into your family before the wedding. Due diligence, and all that. They must have figured they could use me as leverage over you for some extra money." She chuckles. "They've always been business folks first."
"They will need watching," Dante signs. "If–"
"I'll handle the Hewsons," I interrupt, already imagining Mrs. Hewson's throat under my hands. "Personally. They've been nervous since the wedding. Time to find out why."
The meeting dissolves into logistics, but the energy has shifted.
Everyone's thinking about Sofia's accusation, even if they won't voice it.
Emma maintains her composure, contributing when asked, but I can feel the effort it's costing her.
Her thigh trembles slightly under my touch, and I stroke higher, reminding her that she's not alone.
When Marco finally dismisses everyone, Emma and I are the last to leave. Her hand in mine trembles slightly, the only sign of what this cost her.
We're almost to the door when Marco's voice stops us.
"Alex. A moment. In my private study."
Emma looks at me, and I squeeze her hand. "Go ahead to our room. I'll be right there."
She nods, understanding this is something I need to handle alone. When she's gone, Marco gestures toward his private office, the one where real family business gets decided. I follow him through the heavy oak door, the one that's witnessed every major Rosetti decision for three generations.
Once we're alone in his private sanctuary, surrounded by leather-bound books and the faint scent of our father's cigars, Marco moves to the window, his back to me.
"Your wife is clever," he says quietly. "Almost too clever for a sheltered heiress."
"She's adapted well to our life." My hand drifts to my gun again, calculating how many seconds it would take to draw if this goes wrong.
"Has she?" Marco turns, his eyes boring into mine. "Or did she already know how to navigate it?"
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. Yet." He pours two glasses of whiskey from the decanter on his desk, the good stuff he only breaks out for serious conversations. "But Sofia's not usually wrong about people. So either your sister has completely fallen apart, or…"
"Or what?"
"Or we need to talk. Tomorrow morning, after we implement your wife's plan." His hand settles on my shoulder, brotherly and threatening at once. "Whatever truth you're hiding, Alex, it better not endanger this family."
The weight of his grip reminds me that blood means everything and nothing in our world. That I've already chosen Emma over truth, over family, over my own survival if necessary.
"My wife is exactly who she needs to be," I say carefully. "For this family. For me."
Marco studies me for a long moment. "Tomorrow, then. And Alex? Come prepared to tell me everything, or come prepared to lose everything. Your choice."