I didn’t want her. At least, that’s what I told myself. The sharp scent of her perfume clung to my senses, something intoxicatingly dangerous, but I couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not with the city on the edge of chaos, not when betrayal was as close as the next breath. But she wasn’t the kind of woman you ignored. The kind who stepped into a room like a force of nature, taking up space with the weight of her gaze. Her eyes were like burning embers—dark, intense, full of fire—and the way she looked at me? As if she already knew what I was capable of. What I could do to her. And that made me want her even less. The contract was signed. The deal was made. My word had always been my bond, and in this world, it was all that mattered. Loyalty, honor—those were the codes I lived by, even if they kept me a prisoner in my own life. My father’s death had thrown me into the power struggle that followed, and now, as the heir to the DiCarlo family, there was no room for softness.

She was still in my head when the sun came up. I’d slept for maybe an hour, stretched out on the leather couch in my office like a soldier in enemy territory. My gun stayed close, tucked under the pillow. In this world, trust was suicide, and comfort was a luxury you couldn’t afford twice.But even with a loaded weapon at my side, the real threat had already walked through my front door wearing silk and secrets. Isabella Romano. My wife. And the fuse to a bomb I’d willingly lit. I showered and dressed in silence, my mind already mapping out the day—meetings with the Irish, a shipment in the docks, surveillance on a rat in my crew. The usual list of fires to put out. But beneath all of that, her voice still echoed: “I’m not scared of you.” She should be. God help her—she really should be. The dining hall was quiet, filtered sunlight cutting across the long table like a spotlight. She sat at the far end, dressed in black, her hair pulled back in a sleek twist that made her look

A storm always leaves something behind. Broken glass. Silence. Blood in the gutters. This one left her in my bed. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not with Isabella lying beside me, the silk of her nightgown like a weapon drawn between us. She didn’t touch me. She didn’t have to. Her presence was enough to set every nerve in my body on edge. She was poison wrapped in lace. And I was the idiot drinking straight from the bottle. By morning, she was gone. A ghost in her own house. But she’d left behind something worse than her absence: questions. Why had she come to me? Why now? And what the hell was she hiding? I headed downstairs, sharp and silent, like the devil himself was on my heels. Nico was waiting in the dining room, eyes dark with urgency. “There’s been movement,” he said without preamble. “Someone’s trying to stir Ricci’s men. We picked up chatter—new supplier. Outside our network. Big money. Bigger reach.” “Ricci doesn’t have the balls to move without warning,” I mutte

They say revenge is best served cold. But in my world, it’s served bloody. Matteo was alive. Nico had turned. And the DiCarlo empire was cracking beneath my feet. But I wasn’t the kind of man who watched empires fall. I was the kind who lit the match and built a new one from the ashes. And this time, I had a queen beside me. Whether she stayed loyal… that was still up for debate. The mansion felt different now. Like something was watching me from the walls. My men were on edge. They had seen the shootout at the chapel, seen the smoke, heard the screams. They didn’t need explanations—they needed orders. And blood. Nico’s betrayal hit harder than I wanted to admit. I’d raised that man, trained him, bled beside him. Trusted him with things I hadn’t told anyone, even Isabella. And now, every secret he held… was in Matteo’s hands. I called my inner circle to the war room. Enzo. Gio. Paolo. Loyalists. Old blood. I laid out the map on the table—our territory, Ricci’s, and the s

There’s a moment—right before everything shatters—when you can still turn back. When the path behind you isn’t buried yet, when the blood hasn’t dried. But I passed that point a long time ago. Now, every step forward feels like walking barefoot through glass. And Isabella? She’s bleeding, too. But she’s not making a sound. We buried my father a second time. Same plot. Same priest. Same marble stone. Only this time, no one came but me and Isabella. I stood over the hole and stared into the dirt, fists clenched at my sides. “I was never his favorite,” I said. “But I never thought someone would drag his body out just to send a message.” Isabella didn’t speak. She placed a black rose on the headstone. Then, finally, “He would’ve been proud.” I turned to her. “You didn’t know him.” “No. But I know what legacy demands.” Her voice was quiet. Sharp. And somehow more dangerous than any gun. Later that night, Gio brought me something unexpected. “Boss,” he said, handing me a