Chapter 5
LUCA
She's beautiful when she sleeps.
I stand in her bedroom doorway, motionless, my eyes tracking the rise and fall of her chest beneath the blanket.
The glow from the streetlight filters through her window, casting her face in soft shadows.
Her dark hair spills across the pillow, with one curl draped over her cheek.
Her lips are slightly parted, and she's breathing deep and even.
She's peaceful. Protected. Because I'm here.
My watch reads nearly midnight. I've been standing here for long minutes, just watching her. My fingers itch to touch her, to brush that curl away from her face, to feel the warmth of her skin, to trace the curve of her jaw the way I did outside her building hours ago.
She tilted her face up, waiting for me to kiss her, and it took everything in me to walk away instead.
Too soon.
When I kiss Francesca, when I finally put my mouth on hers, she needs to understand what it means. That she's mine. That I'm never letting her go. That every part of her—body, heart, soul—belongs to me.
She's not ready for that truth yet.
I step deeper into the room, my movements careful, deliberate.
I've been in here before, of course. Numerous times during the past months, each visit when she was at work.
The first time was just to confirm the layout, to understand her space, to breathe the same air she breathes.
By the sixth visit, I walked through every room, opened every drawer, memorized every detail.
But tonight is different... tonight she's here.
I stop at the foot of her bed, close enough to reach out and touch her ankle through the blanket. Close enough that if she woke, she'd see me immediately. The thought makes my pulse quicken—her eyes opening, finding me here, the shock and fear before she realizes there's no escape.
Not yet.
I notice the book on her coffee table is turned. I left it cover-up last time I was here, a small test to see if she'd notice. She did. Put it back spine-out, just how she keeps it.
The chair I sat in while she was at work, pulled out just slightly from the table. The coffee I ordered without asking how she takes it. The details I know about her schedule, her commute.
She's starting to put the pieces together. Good.
I want her to understand. Want her to see that I notice everything, that there's nowhere she can go that I won't find her, that she's been mine since the moment she put her hands on me in that ER and chose to save me instead of report me.
I pull out my phone—not my personal cell, the burner I keep for her—and swipe through the photos. Hundreds of them. I take another photo.
The camera makes no sound. The phone goes down and I watch Francesca for any sign she heard. Nothing. Her breathing stays deep and even, undisturbed.
I could wake her right now. Tell her everything. Show her the photos, explain that I've been watching her for months, that I staged the mugging to get close to her, that I've been in her apartment more times than she knows.
The truth would shatter her.
And then I'd put the pieces back together the way I want them.
I'm not sure which will serve me better—telling her the truth or letting her figure it out for herself. That uncertainty is the only thing keeping me from reaching out and putting my hand over her mouth to muffle the scream I know will come first.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just need to be near her. To make sure she's safe. To remind myself why I'm doing this.
She's so vulnerable here. Anyone could pick her locks the way I did. Anyone could stand in this doorway and watch her sleep. Anyone could hurt her.
The thought makes my jaw clench, my hands curl into fists.
No one touches what's mine.
I've already put the word out through my contacts. Francesca Mancini is under my protection. Anyone who so much as looks at her wrong will answer to me. The Outfit knows. The other families will know soon enough.
She doesn't need to know the target I've painted on her back by claiming her. She just needs to trust that I'll handle it.
And I will.
I check my watch again. It’s late. I should leave, get a few hours of sleep before the day ahead catches up with me. But I allow myself one more minute.
One more minute of watching her sleep, of breathing the same air, of standing in her space and imagining what it will be like when she finally accepts that this is where I belong.
In her life. In her bed. In her.
Before I met her for coffee, the day started the way most mornings do—with violence on the horizon.
The Santoro Social Club sits on Mulberry Street in Little Italy, tucked between a bakery and a restaurant that's been in the same family for generations. The front is nondescript—dark windows, a simple door, a brass plaque that says "Members Only" in discreet letters.
Inside, it's old world. Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the smell of espresso and cigars. A place where business is conducted in quiet voices, where respect is currency, and where the rules are simple: loyalty above all else.
I arrive on time. Early shows eagerness, late shows disrespect. On time shows you understand your place in the hierarchy.
Don Marco is already seated in the back room, the one reserved for private meetings.
He's in his sixties, silver hair combed back, a face that's seen decades of violence and come out the other side still in control.
He built the Santoro Outfit from his father's small operation into one of the five families that run New York.
He's smart, ruthless when he needs to be, and he's never forgotten that my father died in his service.
That's why I'm still here. That's why he tolerates my methods, my reputation, my tendency to operate outside the usual chain of command.
He owes my father.
And I've more than earned my place.
"Luca." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I sit.
There's espresso on the table, two cups already poured. I take one, sip it. It's strong, bitter, perfect.
"The Bratva," he says, getting straight to business. "They're pushing into our territory. Midtown gambling operations. Three poker rooms in the past month, all on our turf."
I nod. I'm aware. The Morozov Bratva has been getting bold, testing boundaries, seeing how far they can push before we push back.
"We need to send a message," Don Marco continues. "Something clear. Something that reminds them why they don't fuck with the Santoro family."
"You want me to handle it."
It's not a question.
"There's a lieutenant. Petyr Morozov's right hand. He's the one running the poker rooms, collecting the debts, making the moves." Don Marco slides a folder across the table. "I want him gone."
I open the folder. Photos, surveillance reports, known associates. The lieutenant's name is Max Orlov. Late thirties, former Russian military, handles enforcement for the Bratva's gambling operations.
He's a professional. Good.
I prefer it when my targets know what they're doing. It makes the kill cleaner.
"When?" I ask.
"This week. Soon." Don Marco leans back in his chair. "But Luca, I need you sharp for this. The Bratva will retaliate. They'll know it was us. We need it to be clean, no witnesses, no mistakes."
"There won't be."
He studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem elsewhere, nephew."
The word is deliberate, a reminder of the blood between us, the debt he owes my father and the loyalty I owe him in return.
"I'm fine."
"You're never fine. You're efficient." He sets his cup down. "What's on your mind?"
I consider lying. Consider telling him it's nothing, just another job, business as usual.
But Don Marco didn't build an empire by being stupid.
"There's someone," I say carefully.
His eyes sharpen. "A woman."
"Yes."
"Serious?"
"Yes."
Don Marco leans forward, elbows on the table. "Luca, you're the best enforcer I have. You're cold, efficient, you don't leave loose ends. But women make men weak. They make men make mistakes."
"I won't make mistakes."
"You say that now." He taps the folder. "This job needs your full attention. The Bratva isn't some street gang. They're organized, they're dangerous, and if you're distracted, you'll end up dead."
"I won't be distracted."
"Then prove it." Don Marco stands, signaling the meeting is over. "Handle Orlov. Make it clean. Make it brutal. Make it clear that we're not playing games."
I rise as well, tucking the folder under my arm. "Consider it done."
"Good." He pauses at the door, looks back at me. "And Luca? If this woman is truly yours, protect her properly. The life we live doesn't leave room for weakness. If our enemies find out about her, she becomes a target. You understand that?"
"I do."
"Then be smart." He opens the door. "Don't let her become your weakness. Make her your strength."
I leave the social club with the folder under my arm and Francesca on my mind.
The job is simple. Max Orlov frequents a bar in Brighton Beach, arrives every night around eleven, stays until closing, always leaves alone. Walks several blocks to his car, parked in the same spot, a black Mercedes with tinted windows.
The kill will be in the parking lot. Quick, clean, a bullet to the back of the head. I'll make it look like a robbery, take his wallet, his watch. The Bratva will know it's a message, but the cops won't.
It's simple.
I've done it a hundred times before.
But as I drive back to my penthouse, all I can think about is the coffee date this afternoon.
Seeing Francesca again.
Watching her try to piece together the truth.
She shows up early.
I'm already at the café, same corner booth as last night, my eyes on the door. When she appears outside the window, pausing like she's deciding whether to come in, something tightens in my chest.
Mine.
She pushes the door open and walks inside, and I stand. Old habits from my father. Respect is shown in the small gestures—standing when a woman enters the room, pulling out her chair, holding the door.