Chapter 25
Darkness. Heavy. Thick. Pressing. My head throbs—sharp and deep, like something is trying to split it open from the inside. A soft beep echoes somewhere near my ear. Hospital machines, I realize slowly. But none of it matters.
Because the moment I remember the SUV flipping—Rocco’s blood—the sound of Alessandro screaming my name. My chest seizes.
“Alessandro,” I croak out, too soft, too weak.
I blink hard, forcing my vision to focus, searching the shadows of the dim room.
There—a broad silhouette slumped in a chair near the wall, head bowed, shoulders tight even in sleep.
My husband. A strangled sob escapes me. His head snaps up instantly.
“Elena?” His voice is raw, cracked, as if he’s been swallowing broken glass.
Then he’s at my side—moving faster than I’ve ever seen him—hands trembling as he cups my face, my shoulders, my hair, as if trying to confirm I’m real.
“Dove—Jesus—Dove,” he breathes, kissing my forehead, my cheek, the back of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I wince at the movement, but my heart aches more at the torment in his eyes.
“Alessandro,” I whisper, pushing my hand up to his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
His eyes squeeze shut, like the words physically hurt him.
“You were hurt—because of me. Because you were with Rocco. Because—”
“Stop,” I whisper, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “I needed you and you came. That’s all that matters.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“Come here,” I whisper.
His brows pull together. “Elena, I—I can’t. You’re hurt. I’ll—”
“I need you to hold me,” I breathe, voice cracking. “Please.”
That breaks him.
He exhales shakily, then carefully, slowly, he shifts onto the bed. One arm goes under my shoulders, the other wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest as if I’m something fragile and priceless.
I melt into him.
His scent—smoke, cedar, Alessandro—grounds me immediately.
His breath hits the top of my head in uneven bursts. He’s shaking. My fierce husband. My hurricane.
He holds me like he’s terrified someone might rip me from his arms.
“You scared the hell out of me, Dove,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together.
“I know,” I whisper.
Eventually his breathing steadies. The tension in his muscles loosens. His grip remains tight, but he finally falls asleep with his face buried against my hair.
Time blurs. The door clicks softly.
I look up to see Rocco entering the room—his arm in a sling, bruises blooming across his jaw, dried blood still staining his shirt.
He freezes when he sees me awake. “Elena?” he whispers, stunned.
I motion him closer with my free hand, careful not to wake Alessandro.
Rocco approaches the bedside, expression a battlefield—guilt, fear, rage, relief. I reach out and take his hand. He stiffens. Then he swallows hard. I see the torment in his eyes. The way he blames himself.
I squeeze his fingers gently. “Rocco,” I whisper, “I’m okay.”
His jaw flexes, and for a moment I think he might cry.
“You saved my life,” I continue. “You protected me. Thank you.”
He shakes his head once, sharply. “Always” he murmurs.
The word settles warm in my chest.
Family.
That’s what this is.
Alessandro shifts in his sleep, tightening his hold on me, and Rocco steps back with a faint, pained smile.
“Rest,” he whispers. “I’ll be right outside.”
Three days. Three long, tense, suffocating days.
I’m healed enough now that my head barely aches, but Alessandro—my fierce, relentless husband—is unraveling thread by thread.
He barely sleeps. He barely eats unless I beg. He leaves before sunrise and doesn’t return until the house is drowned in moonlight.
And every night when he finally crawls into bed, his body is shaking with exhaustion and rage.
He pulls me close, buries himself in me, losing the storm inside his chest in my skin—but it doesn’t soothe him for long.
He’s a man possessed. A man hunting ghosts with bloodied hands. A man terrified of losing me. And I can’t stand watching him destroy himself.
Tonight the house is full.
Gia is sprawled on my couch like she lives here.
Isabella, ever soft but sharp beneath it, sits cross-legged on the armchair, sipping tea.
Sofia, is sitting on the floor sprawled over her coloring books.
It’s almost midnight. Alessandro still isn’t home. My chest aches.
I slam my book shut.
Gia looks up, eyebrows raised. “Uh-oh. The quiet one looks pissed.”
I stand so fast Isabella’s tea sloshes over the rim. “I’m done,” I say, voice shaking. “He’s working himself into the ground, and I’m not just going to sit here waiting for him to pass out in a warehouse somewhere because he won’t let himself rest.”
Gia smirks. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to snap.” Then she sobers. “But what are you actually planning, El?”
“I’m going to the warehouse,” I announce, lifting my chin. “I’m dragging him home myself.”
Gia chokes on her wine. Isabella smiles like she’s been waiting for this.
Sofia squeals, “Adventure!”
Gia whistles. “Bold. Stupid, but bold.”
Isabella sets down her mug with a small, wicked smile. “I approve.”
I turn to Gia. “Can you get me there?”
Gia snorts. “Honey, I can barely get myself past Nico without Alessandro sending a SWAT team.”
My stomach drops. Right.
Nico.
Gia jerks her thumb toward the hallway.
“He’s outside right now. And he will absolutely narc on you to Alessandro the second you breathe near a door.
Nico will never let you leave. Do you know what he’d do if I so much as breathe funny?
He’d call Dante. Dante would call Alessandro.
Alessandro would storm back here, tear the door off its hinges, and murder all of us. ”
Sofia nods seriously. “Papa would be mad.”
I bite my lip, frustrated tears burning the back of my eyes. “I need to see him. He won’t listen unless I look him in the eyes.”
A beat of silence. Then Isabella stands. Slowly. With purpose.
“I can get her out,” she says softly.
Gia gapes. “Isa, Nico is trained to follow threats and beautiful women.”
Isabella’s smile is sweet and entirely predatory. “Which is why he’ll be very… occupied.”
Gia’s grin goes wicked. Sofia bounces excitedly.
“I help distract Zia Gia’s guard! I’m very cute. Papa says it’s dangerous.”
Gia takes Sofia by the hand and marches loudly toward the front hallway.
From the living room, we hear Sofia gasp, “Nico! Nico! I made brownies! But you can’t have any.”
Gia piles on, “She’s lying. They’re all for you. Come taste-test them, pretty boy.”
Nico’s suspicious voice floats out, “What are you two up to?”
Meanwhile Isabella grabs my wrist and whispers, “Come on.”
We slip down the side hallway—the one Nico can’t see from his post. Isabella opens the back door soundlessly.
Cool night air rushes in. I take one last breath. I’m going to Alessandro.
My husband.
My storm.
My sanity.
And I’m going to drag him home myself.
The warehouse looks like a steel giant against the night sky.
Isabella parks around the side, out of sight, and gives my hand one last squeeze. “Go,” she whispers. “He needs you.”
I don’t hesitate. The second I push through the heavy side door, the air changes. Men turn.
Conversations die.
A dozen pairs of hard, suspicious eyes lock onto me.
Silence drops like a weight.
But I lift my chin.
These are Alessandro’s men. And I am Alessandro’s wife.
So, I keep walking—heel clicks echoing over concrete, spine straight, hands loose at my sides the way Gia taught me.
A few of them nod. Another steps aside quickly, almost nervously. Good.
I follow the sound of raised voices toward the back of the warehouse.
As I move deeper, the air thickens—hot, metallic, laced with the unmistakable scent of blood. My stomach tightens, but I don’t stop. Not even when my knees tremble.
Alessandro is here. And he needs me. I reach a closed door, loud voices spilling through it—sharp, furious, scraping along my nerves.
Someone shouts. Something crashes.
Then a roar—Alessandro’s—deep and savage in a way I’ve never heard.
My heart slams against my ribs. Instinctively, the mask slides over my face. The one my father trained into me. The emotionless, unbreakable shell Alessandro hates so much. But right now, it’s the only thing keeping my legs moving. I grab the handle. And I throw the door open.
What I walk into is—Utter, bloody chaos.
Bright overhead lights glare down on a scene that looks ripped from a nightmare.
A man is tied to a metal chair in the center of the room—barely recognizable beneath the bruises, the blood streaking down his chest, the swollen mess of his face. His head hangs forward, breaths shallow and ragged.
The floor is splattered with red.
Tools litter the table beside him—knives, pliers, things I don’t want to name.
Dante stands off to the side, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s two seconds from tearing the place apart.
Rocco is near the wall, injured arm wrapped but tense, a weapon in his hand, his eyes are laser focused and ready for his turn.
And Alessandro—Alessandro is in front of the half-conscious man, shirt soaked through, fists dripping crimson, chest heaving with unrestrained rage.
He looks feral. Unhinged.
A force of nature barely contained by human skin.
He turns at the sound of the door slamming open.
His eyes—dark, wild, burning—snap to mine.
And the whole room freezes.
Every man goes silent.
Even the one tied to the chair lifts his head in shock.
Because Alessandro—the Underboss, the monster, the feared second-in-command—goes completely still.
Like someone just ripped the air out of his lungs.
His voice drops to a growl.
“Elena. What the hell are you doing here?”