The first time I saw her, she was laughing.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even meant to be heard. But it cut through the cold like a bell—sharp, silver, impossible to ignore.
I'd gone to that street for blood.
Not beauty.
Not grace.
Not her.
But fate doesn't ask. It just throws you into the fire and watches to see if you burn or rise.
It was two winters ago. The night I tore a rival capo's throat open in the alley behind La Rosa Nera. Clean hit. Quick. Professional. But the job left me wired, teeth on edge, pulse pumping in rhythms only violence could soothe.
I needed a distraction before heading back to the estate. Something to pull me down from the high.
So I walked.
That's when I saw the bookstore.
It was old—cracked windows, fading letters, tucked between a pawn shop and a shuttered bodega like it had survived the apocalypse and decided to sell poetry about it. The kind of place no one noticed.
But I did.
Because of her.
She was inside, sitting on a stool behind the counter, feet tucked under her, nose buried in a paperback. Her hair was pinned up in a messy knot, strands falling over her forehead. She had a cup of something warm next to her, steam curling toward the ceiling.
And she was smiling.
No—glowing.
Like someone had taken all the light in the world and poured it into her chest.
I stood there like a goddamn idiot, boots planted in the snow, blood drying on my cuffs, watching this girl laugh at something on the page like the world hadn't chewed her up and spit her out.
She had no idea she was being watched.
And I had no idea what the hell was happening to me.
I wasn't a man who believed in signs. Or fate. Or the universe giving gifts to sinners like me. But in that moment, I wanted to believe.
I wanted her.
Not just in the way I usually wanted things.
I wanted her untouched. Unbroken.
Safe.
So I started protecting her.
From a distance. Quiet. Careful.
I paid off the bookstore's back rent when the landlord threatened to evict them. I sent men to follow her home—only to watch, not to engage. I threatened a petty thief when he tried to steal her wallet outside the subway. He never knew who left him bruised and begging on the sidewalk.
She never saw me.
But I saw her.
Every week.
Every breath.
Until the night she saw me.
And everything changed.
⸻
Now
She sleeps in my bed.
She doesn't know it used to be my father's, that the carved oak frame is older than both of us combined. She doesn't know I've never let another woman sleep here. That I've never even wanted to.
But Elena? She fits. Like some missing piece I didn't know I was bleeding for.
I stand by the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds. The estate is quiet now. Too quiet. That silence before a storm breaks the sky.
There's a traitor in my house.
Dante says he's close to confirming who. I trust him. But trust doesn't come easy when the stakes are this high.
Because they're not coming for me anymore.
They're coming for her.
And I don't know if I'm strong enough to stop it.
"Elena," I whisper into the dark, even though she can't hear me.
You don't know what you do to me.
You make me want to be more than a weapon.
More than a king.
You make me want to be good.
And that terrifies me more than any bullet ever could.
I hear a sound behind me—soft. Sheets rustling.
She's awake.
"Alessio?"
Her voice is sleepy. Fragile.
I turn.
She's sitting up, blanket wrapped around her like armor. Her hair's a mess. Her eyes are bleary. And I've never seen anything more perfect.
"I didn't mean to wake you," I say.
"You didn't. I couldn't sleep."
"Too many questions?"
"Too many lies."
She says it without heat. Just truth. And it guts me.
"Ask me," I say. "Anything."
She watches me for a long beat. Then—
"When did you first see me?"
I don't lie.
I walk to the bed, sit on the edge. Reach out and push a loose curl behind her ear.
"Two years ago."
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"You were in the bookstore. Laughing."
She blinks. "You were there?"
"I was outside. I'd… just finished a job. I saw you through the window."
"You followed me for two years?"
"I watched," I correct softly. "Protected. I didn't even know who you were then. Not really. But I felt it. Something pulled me to you."
She swallows. "That's not protection. That's obsession."
"Maybe," I admit. "But I'd rather be obsessed with your safety than be the reason you end up in a body bag."
Her lip trembles.
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
"I know this is twisted. I know I don't deserve you."
"Then why me?" she whispers. "Why not walk away before it got this far?"
I look into her eyes and let her see everything.
"Because the moment I saw you, I stopped being able to walk away from anything that had your name on it."
She exhales. Shaky. Wounded. Real.
And then she leans forward.
Not to kiss me.
But to stay.
Her head rests against my chest. My arms wrap around her. And for a moment, just a moment, the world outside doesn't matter.
Just her heartbeat.
And mine.
Too close.
Too fast.
Too late.