CHAPTER TWENTY
Healing, Sherezine Kazan was quickly learning, was rarely a straight line. It did not matter that the traitors were dead, or that her father and brothers were finally resting in the peaceful, mist-shrouded earth of Romania. The mind held onto terror long after the body was safe.
It happened in the dead of night. The expansive master suite of the Palazzo Moretti was quiet and insulated against the chill of the Milanese winter.
The only sound was the faint crackle of the dying embers in the hearth.
But in her sleep, Zina was not in Italy.
She was back on the cold marble floor of the eastern estate.
She could smell the sharp, metallic tang of copper and cordite.
She could hear the deafening crack of the suppressed rifles, the shattering of crystal, and the agonizing thud of Farzin’s body hitting the floor.
Zina gasped, her eyes flying open in the darkness. She bolted upright, her chest heaving as she fought to draw oxygen into her panicked lungs. Her hands gripped the silk sheets, twisting the fabric as a cold sweat broke out across her collarbones.
Instantly, the mattress shifted. Alessandro Moretti was a man forged in a world of constant peril; he went from deep sleep to alertness in a fraction of a second. The moment he felt the violent tremor in her body, his powerful arms were around her.
"Sherezine," Sandro murmured, his voice a low, vibrating anchor in the dark room. He pulled her flush against his broad, bare chest, wrapping her in his warmth. "I am here. You are in Milan. You are safe."
Zina buried her face in the curve of his neck, her breathing ragged and uneven. "I saw them," she whispered, her voice fracturing against his skin. "I saw the marble. I couldn't stop them from falling."
"I know, amore. I know," Sandro soothed, pressing firm, lingering kisses into her tangled dark hair.
His large hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles across her back, physically grounding her to the present.
"But the marble is washed. The men who hurt them are ash. Breathe with me. Just follow my chest."
He took a slow, exaggerated breath in, holding it, and exhaling steadily.
Zina closed her eyes, forcing her lungs to match his measured pace.
Little by little, the terrifying echoes of the massacre began to recede, chased away by the scent of cedar and the solid, unwavering strength of the man holding her.
As she finally relaxed against him, exhaustion pulling her back down into a dreamless sleep, Sandro rested his chin against the top of her head. He stared out into the dark room, his heart aching for the pain she still carried.
A year ago, if someone had told the Don of Milan that his entire existence would revolve around soothing a woman in the middle of the night, he would have dismissed them as a fool.
He had built his empire on ice and calculation.
He had never believed himself capable of this kind of devotion.
Yet, as he held his future wife, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his ribs, Sandro realized he had never known true happiness until she walked into his life.
He was helplessly consumed by her, and he would spend every day of his life making sure the shadows never touched her again.
***
The day of the wedding arrived with brilliant, unexpected sunshine breaking through the Milanese winter.
The private chapel on the sprawling grounds of the Palazzo had been transformed into a fragrant sanctuary.
Thousands of white roses, woven with delicate strands of jasmine, cascaded down the ancient stone pillars and lined the central aisle.
The guest list was restricted to the inner circle—no politicians, no rival dons seeking favor, only the family and the most trusted lieutenants who had bled for them.
Alessandro stood at the altar, wearing a bespoke black tuxedo that fit his towering, muscular frame with perfection. Matteo stood to his right, offering a rare, genuine smile of encouragement, while Vittorio Moretti sat in the front pew, leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes shining with pride.
The doors at the back of the chapel slowly groaned open. The string quartet shifted into a soft, soaring melody, and the congregation rose to their feet.
Sandro turned his head. The moment his green-grey eyes found the entrance, the air vanished completely from his lungs.
Sherezine was a breathtaking, impossible vision.
Her gown was a masterpiece of ivory silk and intricate, hand-woven lace that clung to the elegant lines of her body before cascading into a dramatic, sweeping train.
Her dark hair was styled in classic waves, pinned back by a diamond comb that caught the sunlight pouring through the stained glass.
She looked like an empress stepping out of a myth.
But what made Sandro’s heart physically ache was the boy walking beside her.
Reza, dressed in a perfectly tailored miniature tuxedo, was walking his sister down the aisle.
The young boy looked incredibly adorable, yet his dark eyes held a heartbreaking solemnity.
He was standing in for the father and the brothers who had been stolen from them, performing his duty as the last male heir of the Kazan bloodline with fierce pride.
As they reached the altar, Reza stopped. He looked up at Sandro, his small jaw set with determination.
"I am supposed to protect her," Reza said quietly, his voice carrying only to Sandro and Zina. "But I think you can help me."
Sandro’s throat tightened painfully. He stepped down, placing a large, gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "It is the greatest honor of my life to help you, Reza," Sandro whispered.
Reza nodded, placing Zina’s hand into Sandro’s, before stepping back to take his seat beside Roxana and Meryam.
Sandro turned to face his bride. For a man who commanded legions with a single word, he was helplessly transfixed. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer her a compliment, but the beauty of the woman standing before him left him completely speechless.
Zina offered a radiant, tearful smile, her dark eyes shining with love. "You are staring, Don Moretti."
"I cannot breathe," Sandro breathed out, a rare, vulnerable laugh escaping his chest as he carefully pulled her closer. "My God, Zina. You are... magnificent."
The priest stepped forward, initiating the ancient rites, but the rest of the world faded into a soft blur for the two of them.
When it came time for the vows, Sandro did not recite the traditional lines.
He took both of her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles, his gaze locked onto her soul.
"I promised to protect your life," Sandro said, his deep voice carrying a raw, unshakeable devotion that echoed off the chapel walls.
"But today, I promise you more than survival.
I vow to protect your peace. I will guard your joy.
I will stand between you and the shadows for all the days of our lives.
You are my heart, Sherezine. You are my only home. "
Tears spilled over Zina’s dark lashes, tracking hot and fast down her cheeks, but her smile was blinding. "And I vow to stand beside you in the fire," she whispered, her voice trembling with certainty. "To shield your back, to love you fiercely, and to be your peace, as you have been mine."
When Sandro finally leaned down to seal the vows, crushing his mouth gently against hers, a cheer erupted from Matteo, Nico, and the enforcers in the back rows. Zina laughed against his lips, the agonizing chapters of her past finally closing, making way for a brilliant, unwritten future.
***
A few weeks later …
The atmosphere in Sandro’s private study was decidedly less tender.
The desk was covered in leather-bound ledgers and decrypted intelligence files.
Matteo Serra stood by the window, the grey winter light casting sharp angles across his face, while Bernardo Fabbri sat opposite Sandro, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses.
The underworld was still reeling from the shockwaves of the past few months.
Sandro had made absolutely certain that every syndicate in Europe, the Americas, and the East knew exactly how the Kazan dynasty had fallen.
The narrative of a simple territorial dispute had been incinerated, replaced by the ugly, undeniable truth of cowardice and betrayal.
"The Vanzetti bloodline is eradicated," Matteo reported, his tone devoid of sympathy. "Nico and the strike teams finished the final sweep of the northern provinces this morning. Every lieutenant, every safe house, and every hidden vault connected to Ruggero Vanzetti has been turned to dust."
"And the traitors?" Sandro asked, leaning back in his leather chair, his green-grey eyes cold and flat.
"The lineages of Kamran, Bogdan, Farid, and Radu have been systematically dismantled," Bernardo confirmed, tapping his pen against the desk. "The loyalists in the East finished the job. There is not a single living soul left who bears their names or holds their assets."
Sandro nodded slowly. The retribution was complete. "And the Russians?"
The Odessa Combine and their Bratva cousins had spent the last several weeks frantically attempting to insulate themselves from the fallout.
Sandro had formally declared their syndicate a severe risk—a rogue element that had disrupted the fragile ecosystem of the European underworld by funding a massacre on allied soil.
"Taras Bondarenko is bleeding," Matteo said, a vicious smirk touching the corner of his mouth.
"To avoid an all-out war with our network and our European allies, the Bratva agreed to the reparations. They surrendered three major Black Sea shipping routes directly to Giorgio’s control, and they wired an indemnity payment so it will bankrupt their western expansion for the next decade. "