CHAPTER ELEVEN
The atmosphere within the Palazzo Moretti had undergone a seismic, almost comical shift.
In the days following the massacre in the grand foyer, the sprawling estate operated under a new, unspoken law: absolutely no one disturbed Zina Emir.
The cold hostility that Lucia, Rosa, and Francesca had previously weaponized against the supposed civilian baker had evaporated, replaced by a hyper-vigilant, stifling caution.
As Zina sat in the sunlit morning room, reaching across the silver tray to select a piece of biscotti, Francesca actually flinched, pulling her teacup back as if Zina might suddenly weaponize the pastry.
Zina released a slow, measured breath, staring at the ceiling for a fraction of a second to summon her patience.
It was incredibly annoying. She had no intention of hurting any of them—she had quite literally just saved their lives—yet they tiptoed around her as if she were a live grenade with a loose pin.
They treated her with a bizarre cocktail of deep respect, overwhelming caution, and palpable terror.
Across the small glass table, Alessandro Moretti leaned back in his armchair, a cup of espresso balanced in his hand, looking extremely pleased with himself.
He caught Zina’s irritated glare and offered a devastating, unapologetic smirk.
The Don of Milan was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
Watching the formidable matriarchs of his family walk on eggshells around the woman he loved was, to his mind, the most entertaining thing to happen in the Palazzo in a decade.
"If you keep looking at my mother like that," Sandro murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement, "she might actually pass out from the stress."
"I am chewing, Sandro," Zina replied dryly, taking a bite of the biscotti. "It is a standard human function. I am not plotting a tactical strike on the breakfast spread."
Sandro chuckled, a rich, vibrating sound that made Zina’s heart skip despite her annoyance.
***
The doors of the morning room swung open.
Matteo Serra and Bernardo Fabbri stepped inside, their expressions uncharacteristically solemn.
While the Moretti women were terrified, the Underboss and the Consigliere were fascinated.
They had spent the last three days managing the fallout of the ambush, neutralizing and killing those responsible, but now the dust had settled. It was time for answers.
Sandro set his espresso down, the amusement fading from his eyes. He stood, offering his hand to Zina. "My study," he said simply.
Minutes later, the four of them were enclosed within the soundproof, cedar-lined walls of Sandro’s private office.
Sandro bypassed his desk, opting instead to pull Zina down beside him on the wide leather sofa.
He immediately wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders, tucking her flush against his side as if daring the two men across the room to interrogate her.
Matteo leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. Bernardo stood beside him, meticulously wiping his glasses with a silk square.
"Alright," Matteo began, his dark eyes locking onto Zina with intense, calculating respect. "The ghosts are out of the walls. The civilian cover is dead. Who are you?"
Zina did not hesitate. She had surrendered her secrets to Sandro, and by extension, she was trusting his inner circle. She sat up slightly, though she didn't break contact with Sandro’s side.
"My name is Sherezine," she said, her voice calm in the quiet room. "Sherezine Kazan."
The silence that followed was so absolute, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
Bernardo stopped wiping his glasses, his hands freezing in mid-air. Matteo’s posture stiffened instantly, his eyes widening as his encyclopedic knowledge of the global underworld rapidly processed the name.
"Kazan," Matteo breathed, the syllable carrying an echoing weight. He stared at her, stunned. "The Middle Eastern syndicate. But... the Kazan dynasty was eradicated. The chatter across the network said it was a localized turf war that got out of hand. No one knew there were survivors."
"It was not a turf war," Zina corrected, the icy, clinical tone of the assassin returning to her voice. "It was an orchestrated massacre from the inside."
Matteo shook his head, looking at her as if she were a myth made flesh. "If you are a Kazan... you trained with the best in the world."
"Yes," Zina said simply.
Matteo let out a sharp, incredulous breath, pointing a finger at her. "Does that mean you can practically disappear into the walls?"
"Yes."
"Good God," Matteo muttered, dragging a hand over his jaw. "You could actually be invisible if you wanted to."
Zina looked at the deadly Underboss, her expression completely deadpan. "I don't do magic, Matteo. It is just geometry and blind spots. But yes, if I need to disappear, I can."
The flat, unapologetic delivery of the statement sent a ripple of dark amusement through the room. Bernardo let out a rare, genuine laugh, shaking his head at the floor. Matteo looked both deeply unnerved and thoroughly impressed.
Sandro, meanwhile, looked at the woman tucked against his side as if she had hung the moon.
He pulled her closer, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the side of her head, completely ignoring the two men standing three feet away.
He tangled his fingers in her dark hair, his thumb stroking her jawline.
Zina tilted her head, giving him a flat, questioning look. "What exactly are you doing? We have an audience."
Sandro didn't even glance at Matteo or Bernardo. His green-grey eyes were locked on her, brimming with adoration. "I am holding the woman I love. And since this is going to be your reality for the rest of your life, you might as well get used to it."
Matteo wisely elected to ignore the display of vulnerability from his Don, clearing his throat to steer the conversation back to the tactical reality.
"The massacre," Matteo said gently, treading onto dangerous ground. "If it happened in the East, why do you believe Italians were involved?"
The warmth in Sandro’s eyes faded, replaced by the same cold focus that had gripped the room.
Zina looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt.
"I don't know who funded the hit," she admitted, her voice dropping to a quiet, steady rhythm.
"I don't know the name of the man who organized the infiltration.
All I know is what I heard from the alcove.
" She swallowed hard, the ghosts rising up to choke her.
" The man giving the orders... the man who shot my father and executed my brothers.
He spoke English, but his accent was Northern Italian. "
She delivered the information with the clinical detachment of a soldier delivering a field report. But the sheer, devastating grief vibrating beneath her words was so palpable it made the air in the study feel heavy.
Bernardo exchanged a long, meaningful look with Matteo. No more questions were needed today.
"We will look into it," Bernardo said softly, placing his glasses back on his face. "Excuse us."
The two men quietly exited the study, the door clicking shut behind them.
The moment the lock engaged, the stoic, unbreakable facade Zina had maintained for months finally cracked. A ragged, trembling breath tore its way out of her throat.
Sandro didn't say a word. He moved instantly.
He stood up, scooping her effortlessly into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.
He carried her across the study to the deeply cushioned windowsill that overlooked the dark, sprawling gardens of the estate.
He sat down, arranging her sideways in his lap, tucking her head firmly beneath his chin.
"Cry," Sandro whispered, his large hand stroking the length of her back.
Zina didn't fight it. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the dam finally, completely shattered.
She wept. The tears she had shed with Roxana and Meryam had been the shared, insular agony of a broken family holding onto each other in the dark.
But this was different. This was the overwhelming, staggering relief of surrender.
Someone outside her bloodline knew her secret.
Someone else was carrying the crushing, paralyzing weight of her reality.
She didn't have to be the sole protector anymore.
Her sobs echoed in the quiet study, violently shaking her frame.
Hearing her cry—feeling the agonizing depths of her sorrow—shattered Sandro’s heart into a million pieces, but he knew she needed this and he needed to be her anchor.
He held her fiercely, rocking her gently against his chest. He murmured soft, continuous words of devotion into her hair, kissing her temple, her forehead, her cheek.
He was giving her the safe harbor she had been denied for months, letting her empty the darkness from her soul until her tears finally ran dry against his skin.
***
Three days later, the quiet peace they had forged was abruptly tested.
Zina stood in the center of Sandro’s study, crossing her arms over her chest as a dangerous spark flared in her dark eyes.
Sandro stood by his desk, looking impossibly stubborn.
Matteo and Bernardo were seated at the small conference table, watching the impending collision with wary and amused fascination.
"Absolutely not," Zina said, her voice rising. "I am not moving my family into this estate."
"It is not a request, Zina," Sandro fired back, his tone carrying the firm authority of the Don.
"The cover is blown. You are not remaining in a glass-front bakery on the coast. You, your mother, your grandmother and Reza are moving into the east wing of the Palazzo by tonight, where I can protect you. "