CHAPTER SEVEN #3
He saw a soldier clamping a hand over his sister’s mouth. He saw another man twisting Zina’s arm, holding her hostage against the wall.
The calm, calculating businessman vanished replaced by a primal, demonic rage.
Sandro drew his weapon and fired in a single, fluid motion. The soldier holding Francesca caught a bullet directly between the eyes, dropping to the marble floor like a stone.
"Sandro, they’re killing Papa!" Francesca screamed hysterically, scrambling away from the falling body. "Rossi is staging a coup! They were going to kill Papa!"
Rossi raised his weapon toward Sandro, but he was too slow. Matteo and Nico opened fire, a deafening barrage of bullets that tore through the gallery, dropping the remaining two soldiers instantly.
The man holding Zina panicked. He shoved her violently forward to use her as a distraction and raised his gun toward the Don.
Sandro didn't flinch. He sidestepped the line of fire, closed the distance with shocking speed, and drove his fist into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch. As the man collapsed, gasping for air, Sandro shot him twice in the chest.
The gallery fell into a ringing, smoke-filled silence. Blood pooled on the polished marble beneath the priceless paintings.
Sandro stood breathing heavily, his suit jacket open, his eyes wild. He looked at Francesca, who was shaking but unharmed, being helped to her feet by Nico.
Then, his eyes found Zina.
She was slumped against the wall, holding her shoulder, projecting perfect, terrified shock.
Sandro dropped his gun. It clattered against the marble.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides and pulled her fiercely into his arms. His heart was hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.
He buried his face in her hair, his hands trembling as they moved over her back, checking her for bullet wounds, for blood, for anything.
"Are you hurt?" Sandro demanded, his voice ragged, stripped of its usual control. "Zina, look at me. Did they hurt you?"
"No," Zina whispered, letting herself be engulfed by his warmth, the smell of gunpowder and cedar wrapping around her. "I'm okay. Sandro, I'm okay."
"Matteo, lock down the estate," Sandro barked over his shoulder, still refusing to let Zina go. "Secure my family. Nobody leaves the grounds." He looked back down at Zina, his green-grey eyes dark with adrenaline and fear. "Come with me."
He kept his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, leading her away from the blood and the bodies, pulling her through the corridors until they reached the oak doors of his private study. He kicked the doors shut behind them, locking the deadbolt.
***
The study was quiet, insulated from the chaos of the estate. The only light came from the fire crackling in the hearth and the moonlight pouring through the tall windows.
Sandro paced the length of the room, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruining it completely. The impenetrable Don was unraveling. The thought of what could have happened to her, the image of a gun pointed anywhere near her, was tearing him apart from the inside.
"I brought you into this," Sandro muttered, his voice thick with self-loathing, staring at the floor. "I told you that you would be safe, and I brought you into a room full of traitors. My God…! If he had pulled that trigger—"
Zina didn't want to hear the guilt. She didn't want to hear the apologies. The adrenaline of the near-miss, the sheer, undeniable reality of how fiercely he had rushed in to protect her, shattered the last remaining wall between her duty and her heart.
She crossed the room. She didn't say a word.
Zina grabbed the lapels of his ruined suit jacket and shoved him backward. Sandro hit the edge of the leather sofa, his knees buckling slightly in surprise as he fell back onto the cushions.
Before he could process what was happening, Zina climbed onto the sofa, straddling his lap, and crashed her mouth against his.
It wasn't the exploratory kiss of the garden. It was desperate, bruising, and intoxicating. She kissed him like the world was ending outside those oak doors, her hands gripping his jaw, pouring every ounce of the complicated love she felt for him into the space between them.
For a second, Sandro was stunned. Then, the shock evaporated, replaced by a wave of euphoric relief.
A low, breathless laugh tore its way out of Sandro’s throat, vibrating against her lips.
His hands spanned her waist, pulling her flush against his chest as he kissed her back with a fierce, answering hunger.
The violence, the coup, the blood in the hallway—it all vanished, burned away by the heat of the woman in his arms.
He held her tightly against him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin as she continued to press soft, desperate kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his lips.
As he sat there, holding Zina Emir in the quiet safety of his study, Alessandro Moretti knew with certainty that the Don of Milan had fallen helplessly in love. And he did not care if it cost him the rest of the world.