Chapter 2

*Pfft-pfft.*

Matteo went down before his fingers could clear his holster, collapsing lifelessly against the rusted corrugated wall behind him.

The muzzle flash barely illuminated Renzo’s face, but in those microsecond strobes of yellow fire, I watched a predator at work. It was magnificent. There was no theatrical bravado, no shouting, no waste of motion. He moved with an economical, lethal precision that bordered on art.

Frankie turned, raising an automatic shotgun. Renzo was already inside Frankie’s guard. He seized the barrel, redirecting it downward as a deafening blast tore into the concrete, and with his off-hand, drove a clinical, crushing strike straight into Frankie’s throat.

Frankie dropped to the floor, instantly neutralized and still.

Sal cried out in panic, firing blindly into the gloom. A ricochet sparked against a rusted pillar four inches from my cheek. I didn't flinch. I sat there, admiring the angle of Renzo’s flanking maneuver. He didn't rush Sal from the front. He stepped into the blind spot created by the hanging chains of an overhead hoist, circling behind the man while Sal was still reloading his cylinder.

When Renzo emerged from the shadows behind Sal, he was completely silent.

He caught Sal from behind, wrenching him into an inescapable lock, and whispered something cold into his ear. I couldn't hear the words over the distant drone of river traffic, but Sal’s face twisted into an expression of sheer, paralyzing horror.

With a single, decisive stroke of Renzo’s combat blade, the struggle ended.

Sal crumpled to the concrete floor, entirely limp.

That was the moment. The exact millisecond the performance had to begin.

As Renzo wiped his blade clean and turned toward the center of the room, raising his sidearm to sweep the remaining shadows, I unleashed a scream so raw, so full of frantic, breathless hysteria that it echoed off the corrugated steel ceiling like an iron bell.

I began to thrash against the chair, hyperventilating until my lips turned pale, kicking my heels against the concrete.

"No! Please! Don't! Don't shoot me! Please, God, don't shoot me!"

Renzo froze.

The silhouette of the terrifying killer seemed to crack. Through the gloom, I saw his posture change instantly. The cold, mechanical rigidity vanished, replaced by an urgent, frantic alarm. He holstered his gun so fast it seemed to vanish into his coat, kicked the dropped blade away from my feet, and dropped to his knees right in front of my chair.

"Hey. Hey, look at me. Look at me, you're okay," he said, his voice entirely different from the dead whisper he’d given Sal. It was deep, desperate, and laden with frantic urgency. "I'm not going to hurt you. Look at my eyes. Look at me, Clara."

I had thrashed, turning my face away, sobbing violently. "Get away from me! Don't touch me!"

"I'm cutting you loose, alright? Keep your hands still so I don't nick you. Easy. Easy..."

He reached behind my back. The moment his fingers brushed my wrists, I felt how carefully he moved. His hands, capable of snapping a man’s windpipe with a twist, were feather-light. He sliced through the plastic ties.

The instant my hands were free, I didn't run. I didn't reach for the blade in my boot.

I threw myself forward into his chest.

I felt the shock run through him like an electric jolt. His breath caught in his throat. For a second, his broad hands hovered in the air, hesitant, unsure whether it was a crime to touch something that seemed so fragile, so pristine amid the dark warehouse. Then, slowly, with an almost reverent gentleness, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me against the solid wall of his torso.

"You're safe," he murmured into my hair, his chest rumbling against my cheek. "I’ve got you. Nobody is ever going to touch you again."

I had buried my face in the crook of his neck, sobbing convincingly into his collar, while behind his back, my eyes were wide, cold, and assessing.

His heart was hammering against my cheek—not from the exertion of neutralizing three men, but from the terrifying intimacy of holding a woman who looked at him like a savior.

*Hook, line, and sinker.*

***

Back in the warm, mahogany-paneled dining room of Castiglione’s, a waiter in a spotless tuxedo arrived carrying a silver tray. The man was old, with white hair and the hollow, watchful eyes of someone who had served mafia royalty for forty years. He didn't look at Renzo’s bruised knuckles, nor did he look at my tear-streaked face.

He set down a heavy porcelain platter containing a forty-ounce bone-in Florentine ribeye, charred black on the outside, gleaming with rosemary butter, alongside a bottle of 2015 Brunello di Montalcino.

"Don Silvio’s private reserve, Renzo," the waiter murmured respectfully.

"Leave the bottle. Bring an extra glass of sparkling water with lime for the lady," Renzo commanded, his tone quiet but brooking no room for hesitation. "And tell Leo to keep the back entrance clear. Nobody walks through that curtain until I say so."

"Understood, sir." The waiter bowed slightly and vanished behind the heavy velvet drapes that separated our booth from the main dining floor.

Renzo picked up the steak knife. The serrated blade caught the candlelight.

I gave a tiny, involuntary flinch—a microscopic jerk of my shoulders that I knew he would catch.

Immediately, Renzo stopped. He looked down at the knife in his hand, then at me. A flash of genuine self-loathing crossed his chiseled features. He set the knife down on the linen with a dull clink, sliding it to the far edge of the table, out of my sight.

"Forgive me," he said softly. "I forget... you shouldn't have to see steel tonight."

"It's silly," I whispered, wiping the corner of my eye with the sleeve of his oversized coat. "You’re being so kind to me, and I’m just... I can’t stop shaking."

"There is nothing silly about surviving," Renzo replied, his voice hardening with an undercurrent of conviction. "Those animals had no right to lay a hand on you. You were caught in a war that has nothing to do with you."

*Oh, my sweet, lethal prince,* I thought, looking into his burning hazel eyes. *This war has everything to do with me.*

He picked up a small silver dinner fork and neatly carved away a tender sliver of the beef from the edge of the bone, placing it gently onto my plate. He added a spoonful of roasted fingerling potatoes, his movements methodical and patient, like an older brother caring for an invalid sister—or a knight attending his queen.

"Eat something," he coaxed. "Your blood sugar is bottomed out. You’re pale as paper, Clara."

"I don't know if I can swallow," I said, looking down at the pink meat with an expression of faint nausea.

"Try. For me."

The phrase slipped out of his mouth before he could catch it. *For me.*

As soon as he said it, Renzo’s dark brows pulled together, a faint heat coloring the high bones of his cheeks. He cleared his throat, suddenly looking down at his own empty plate, his broad shoulders shifting uncomfortably under his bespoke charcoal vest.

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