CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The embers in the marble fireplace of the master suite had burned down to a deep, pulsing orange, casting a warm, flickering glow across the sprawling four-poster bed.
Outside the reinforced windows, the Milanese night was completely still, the estate locked down under an impenetrable fortress of guards and steel.
But inside the suite, the atmosphere was consumed by a fierce, undeniable heat.
Alessandro Moretti moved over Zina with a slow, agonizing reverence.
He had returned from the war room to find her resting, wrapped in the silk sheets, the exhaustion of Geneva finally catching up to her.
But the moment he had slipped into bed beside her, the cool silk brushing against his heated skin, rest had become impossible.
He braced his muscular frame above her, his green-grey eyes burning with such devotion, it stole the breath directly from her lungs. Zina reached up, her fingers tangling in the dark, slightly damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.
Sandro kissed her with a slow, consuming hunger.
There was no rush, only a desperate, need to worship the woman beneath him.
His large, calloused hands mapped the curves of her body, tracing the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips with a possessive, trembling tenderness.
He trailed open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, drawing a soft, ragged gasp from her lips.
"You are so beautiful," Sandro murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against her collarbone. "You own me, Sherezine. Every breath I take belongs to you."
Zina arched into his touch, a breathless, musical laugh escaping her lips as his mouth moved lower, blazing a trail of fire over the swell of her breasts.
The sound of her laughter—pure, unadulterated, and free of the shadows that had haunted her for so long—was the most intoxicating sound Sandro had ever heard.
It broke the last remnants of his formidable control.
He positioned himself between her thighs, his eyes locking onto her dark, shimmering gaze.
He slid into her with a smooth, deep pressure that made Zina cry out, her back arching off the mattress as she anchored her legs tightly around his waist. The physical connection was staggering.
Sandro set a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling back only to drive into her deeper, forcing all the oxygen from the room.
Zina’s fingernails bit into the broad expanse of his shoulders, matching his powerful thrusts with a frantic, desperate rhythm of her own.
The friction and the heat of his skin sliding against hers melted the world outside the suite into nothingness.
There was only the scent of cedar, the taste of salt on his skin, and the blinding, agonizing build of pleasure tightening her muscles.
"Sandro," she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows, her eyes fluttering shut. "Please."
"Look at me," Sandro commanded softly, his breath ragged as he increased his pace, driving into her with a fierce, possessive urgency. "Open your eyes, amore. Look at me."
She forced her eyes open, meeting his burning gaze just as the climax tore through her.
A beautiful, fractured cry spilled from her lips as the intense waves of pleasure crashed over her, making her entire body tremble violently against him.
The sight of her unraveling, so completely surrendered to his touch, pushed Sandro over the edge.
He let out a deep, guttural groan, pouring himself into her with one final, powerful thrust before he shuddered and collapsed against her chest.
They lay tangled in the damp silk sheets for a long time, their chests heaving in synchrony. Sandro shifted his weight, rolling onto his side and pulling Zina flush against him. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her damp forehead, his large hand gently stroking the long line of her spine.
As the adrenaline slowly bled out of their systems, the quiet reality of the world beyond the bedroom door began to seep back in.
Sandro let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder. "I met with Matteo and Bernardo while you were sleeping," he murmured, his voice quiet in the dim light.
Zina tilted her head up, her dark eyes instantly sharpening as the tactical operative awoke beneath the haze of the afterglow. "What did they find?"
"The intelligence from Geneva was verified," Sandro explained, his expression turning serious.
"Taras Bondarenko and the Bratva have officially severed ties with Vanzetti.
They realized the liability of leaving you alive, and they refuse to invite a continental war with our syndicate over a botched execution. They cut him loose."
Zina processed the information, her mind moving with clinical speed. "If the Bratva abandoned Vanzetti, they abandoned the capos as well. Kamran, Bogdan, Farid, and Radu are completely isolated."
"They have no money, no ports, and no Russian muscle to protect them," Sandro confirmed, watching the gears turn in her brilliant mind.
"But they are cornered," Zina whispered, her brow furrowing as she stared at the flickering shadows on the ceiling.
"Cornered men are unpredictable. They know they cannot run back to the East. The loyalists would execute them for treason.
And they know your enforcers are hunting them here in Europe. They have nowhere to hide."
She pushed herself up slightly, resting on her elbow, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.
"If they cannot run, they have to negotiate.
But they have no capital to negotiate with.
They know I would never grant them mercy, and they know my mother would shoot them before they could even open their mouths. "
Zina froze. The blood drained from her face as the horrifying logic locked into place. She looked down at Sandro, terror flashing in her eyes. "Reza. They will look for leverage. He is just a child, Sandro. They will try to take my brother to force a negotiation."
Sandro didn't hesitate. He reached up, cupping her pale cheek, his thumb brushing away the panic before it could take root.
"He is safe, Zina," Sandro stated, his voice ringing with immovable authority.
"I already gave the order. The estate is on full lockdown. The perimeter guards have been tripled, and I have authorized lethal force for any unauthorized movement near these walls. Nico is personally overseeing Reza’s detail.
He will not take a single step without my best enforcers watching his shadow. They cannot touch him."
Zina let out a shaky breath of relief, her shoulders dropping as the tension bled out of her. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You never have to thank me for protecting our family," Sandro replied fiercely, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him.
Zina lifted her head, looking him dead in the eye. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by the fierce fire of the Kazan bloodline. "I know the war is coming to our doorstep, Sandro. I know they will try to strike. But you need to understand something right now."
Sandro braced himself, anticipating an argument about her safety.
"I am not stepping aside," Zina declared, her voice cold and unyielding.
"I am not going to sit in this suite and knit while you go out and fight the men who butchered my family.
If you go, I go. I love you, Alessandro.
And because I love you, I will protect you just as fiercely and just as violently as you protect me. Do you understand?"
Sandro stared at her, utterly paralyzed by the magnitude of her vow. He looked at this woman—this magnificent brilliant queen who had survived the destruction of her entire world—and realized that she was freely offering to stand in the fire for him.
A staggering sense of humility washed over the Don of Milan.
He was a man steeped in blood and ruthlessness, a man who had long ago accepted that his life would be solitary and cold.
To be loved by Sherezine Kazan, to have a woman of her caliber look at him and vow to protect him, was the greatest, most undeserved gift the universe could have ever bestowed upon his unworthy life.
Sandro’s throat tightened. He reached up, tangling his fingers in her dark hair, and pulled her down for a kiss that was desperate, bruising, and stripped of his pride.
"I understand," Sandro whispered against her lips, his voice thick with emotion. "We fight them together."
***
Two days later, the looming threat of the syndicate war was momentarily pushed into the shadows. The Palazzo Moretti was sealed off from the outside world, and within those impenetrable walls, the family gathered to celebrate the engagement.
It was not a grand, ostentatious affair. There were no politicians, no rival Dons, no journalists. It was an intimate, low-key dinner held in the private western dining room, bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, and surrounded by the people who mattered most.
The long mahogany table was covered in a feast that represented the merging of two empires.
Roxana and Meryam had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchens alongside the Moretti chefs.
Platters of fragrant Persian jeweled rice and slow-roasted lamb sat seamlessly beside bowls of rich, creamy Milanese risotto and handmade truffle pasta.
Zina sat beside Sandro, wearing a simple, elegant dress of midnight blue silk, the diamond on her left hand catching the light every time she moved. Sandro sat with his arm draped casually over the back of her chair, his posture relaxed, his eyes shining with a rare, unburdened happiness.
At the head of the table, Vittorio Moretti raised a glass of vintage Barolo. The room fell silent as the retired Don looked down the length of the table, his weathered face softening into a warm smile.