Chapter 27
Iwake to warmth.
A strong arm wrapped around my waist. A steady heartbeat pressed against my back.
The scent of cedar and smoke and something wholly Alessandro filling my lungs.
He didn’t leave.
For the first time since the accident… he didn’t leave at dawn.
I turn my head just enough to see the outline of his face, peaceful in sleep. There’s no tension between his eyebrows. His jaw isn’t clenched. His breathing is slow, steady.
My heart squeezes.
He said he loved me last night. In three languages. And he stayed.
When he finally stirs awake, he presses a kiss to the top of my head before rolling out of bed with a soft curse, stretching, and muttering something about needing coffee.
I follow him downstairs a few minutes later—and freeze in the doorway.
Rocco is standing in the kitchen.
He’s leaning against the counter, sling still on his arm, looking entirely too pale to be back at work. But he smiles when he sees me.
A real smile.
Soft. Familiar now.
“Hey, El,” he says, pushing off the counter with his good arm. “Just wanted to stop by. Make sure you’re okay.”
Before I can say anything, Alessandro brushes past me, murmurs something about taking a call, and disappears into his office with his phone pressed to his ear.
I turn back to Rocco. “You should be resting,” I scold gently, nodding toward his sling. “I’m fine. I should be asking you that.”
He shrugs, smirking. “Ladies love fussing over me. I'm milking it while I can.”
I laugh, shaking my head. His humor warms something in my chest—it feels good to laugh after everything.
But the moment Alessandro steps back into the kitchen, the temperature shifts.
His face is grim. Hard. Eyes sharp in a way that makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Alessandro?” I ask softly. “What’s wrong?”
Rocco straightens immediately, all traces of teasing gone.
His stance shifts—protective, alert, command-ready.
Alessandro’s gaze meets mine, and there’s something dark in it.
“That was your father,” he says quietly.
My heart stutters. “My father?”
“He wants you to come to his home,” Alessandro continues. “He says your mother wants to see you. And he wants to speak with me.”
That… doesn’t make sense. They haven’t reached out. Not once. Not even when I was hurt.
My stomach twists. “Why now?”
“I don’t know.” Alessandro reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. “But I will be with you the entire time. Do you understand me? I’m not leaving your side.”
Before I can respond, Rocco steps forward.
“I’m coming too.”
Alessandro nods once, already expecting it.
But Rocco’s gaze finds mine, steady and sure.
“You’re not walking into that house without all of us. Not happening.”
The car ride is suffocating. No one speaks. Not even Rocco.
Alessandro sits beside me—one hand gripping mine so tightly our knuckles turn white. His jaw flexes every few seconds, the muscle ticking with restrained violence.
Rocco is in the drivers seat, staring out the windshield as if expecting enemies to materialize from thin air.
And maybe they will.
When we finally pull through the ornate gates of my childhood home, my stomach twists so tightly I almost double over.
I grew up behind these walls. But now they feel like cages.
The front door opens before we even reach it.
My father steps out. Viktor Volkov. Pakhan of the Bratva. My father.
His cold gaze sweeps past me as if I’m a piece of furniture.
Then he walks straight to Alessandro.
“Mr. Moretti,” he says with a curt nod, extending his hand.
Alessandro shakes it, but his brow dips. He noticed.
My father doesn’t even look at me.
“Rocco,” Viktor adds, giving the soldier a clipped nod.
Rocco responds professionally but his eyes flicker with irritation.
I? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a word. Like always.
“Come,” Viktor says, turning his back to us. “We will speak in my office.”
Rocco moves behind me instantly—fierce, protective—his presence like a shield as we walk inside.
He scans every corner, every doorway, every shadow.
Every room my father leads us through gets a full tactical sweep of Rocco’s gaze before we step into it.
My father still doesn’t look at me.
He stops abruptly when a familiar figure enters.
My mother.
Surprise flickering in her eyes before she shifts her attention to Alessandro and Rocco.
“Mr. Moretti. Mr. Rocco.”
She greets them before she greets her daughter.
Typical. Her eyes finally land on me.
I nod—small. Controlled. “Mother.”
She folds her hands and appraises me like I’m a vase she’s deciding whether to keep or replace.
Viktor clears his throat. “Let the women fetch refreshments. We men will talk business.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Probably forgot I’m considered one of “the women” in his own house.
My mother turns stiffly and I follow her to the kitchen, Rocco staying a careful half-step behind me.
She barely speaks. “Are you well?”
“I’m happy,” I answer honestly.
She stops mid-step. Like I spoke nonsense. Like happiness is a foreign language. Her lips part in shock, but she says nothing—just walks again in silence.
Rocco shifts beside me, jaw tight.
He sees all of it.
When we return to the sitting room where my father and Alessandro wait, my father is mid-sentence—something about trade routes and neutrality agreements.
Alessandro looks up at me immediately.
His expression softens just a fraction.
“Dove, the numbers you ran the other day—what was the discrepancy you caught in the port invoices?”
I answer without thinking, slipping effortlessly into the analytical tone he always encourages. “It was a thirty percent increase disguised as a logistical surcharge—”
My father scoffs. Loud. Sharp. Cutting.
“Girl,” he says with disdain, “you don’t understand the complexities of port taxation. Leave these matters to your husband.”
The words slice across the room like a blade. My spine straightens. My shoulders lock. My face goes cold. The mask drops into place so hard I almost hear it.
Alessandro sees it. And his expression turns murderous.
His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. His entire body goes still—like a predator coiling before the strike.
He looks at my father with eyes I’ve only seen in the warehouse.
Eyes of a man who will bury anyone who hurts what’s his.