Enzo POV
I hear the glass shatter three seconds before the first gunshot.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I'm already pulling Isabella off the bed, throwing her toward the bathroom when bullets tear through my bedroom window. Glass explodes everywhere. One piece cuts my cheek. I don't feel it.
"Get down!" I shove her behind the bed and pull my gun from the drawer. Always keep one close. Always.
More windows breaking. Downstairs now. They're inside.
"Enzo—" Isabella's voice shakes.
"Don't talk. Don't move." I peek over the bed. Count the muzzle flashes through the doorway. Five men. Maybe six. They're spreading through the house like poison.
I built this mansion to be a fortress. Every door is reinforced steel. Every window is bulletproof glass—except the old ones in my bedroom. The ones I never replaced because Lucia loved how the morning light came through them.
That mistake might kill us both tonight.
"They're coming upstairs," Isabella whispers.
She's right. I hear boots on the marble staircase. Heavy. Fast. Professional.
These aren't random thieves. This is a hit.
My phone is across the room. The panic button is in the hall. My guards are in the west wing—too far. We're alone.
Good.
I work better alone.
The first man appears in the doorway. Black mask. Black clothes. Gun raised.
I shoot him twice. Center mass. He drops.
"Oh God—" Isabella covers her mouth.
"Stay quiet." I drag her toward the bathroom. "Lock yourself in. Don't come out until I say."
"I can't leave you—"
"You can and you will." I push her through the bathroom door. "Lock it. Now."
She hesitates. Her eyes are huge and terrified. For one second, I want to hold her. Tell her everything will be fine.
But I stopped lying to myself three years ago.
"Lock the door, Isabella."
She does.
I turn back to face the wolves.
Three more men pour into my bedroom. They see their dead friend and don't even pause. Professionals definitely. Probably ex-military.
"Enzo Valentino," one says. His voice is muffled behind the mask. "We don't want you. Just the girl."
"Then you picked the wrong house." I fire. He ducks behind my dresser.
The other two split up. Smart. They're flanking me.
I drop and roll, shooting as I move. Catch one in the leg. He screams and falls. The other one rushes me.
We collide. His gun goes flying. Mine does too.
Now it's just fists and fury.
He's younger. Faster. But I've been killing men since before he learned to shave. I break his nose with my forehead. Grab his knife from his belt. Stab him in the throat.
Blood sprays hot across my face.
He gurgles and drops.
The one with the leg wound is trying to crawl away. I walk over and step on his wound. He screams.
"Who sent you?" I press harder. "Who?"
"Romano—" he gasps. "Victor Romano—paid us—five hundred thousand—"
Her father. Her own father sent killers.
The rage that fills me is cold. Calculating. Deadly.
I shoot him in the head.
More footsteps downstairs. More men coming. How many did Victor hire?
The bathroom door cracks open. "Enzo?"
"I said stay inside!"
"There's someone behind you—"
I spin. Another man in the doorway. Gun aimed at my head.
I'm too slow. Too far from my weapon.
This is it.
The gunshot is deafening in the small room.
But I'm not hit.
The man in the doorway staggers. Falls. Behind him stands Marco—Arthur's boyfriend—holding a smoking gun.
"You're welcome," Marco says. He looks terrified but steady.
"How did you—"
"Arthur heard the shooting. Sent me to help." Marco steps over the body. "There's two more downstairs. Your guards just arrived. They've got it handled."
I nod. Can't speak yet. My hands are shaking from adrenaline.
The bathroom door opens again. Isabella stumbles out. She sees the bodies. The blood. Me covered in it.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't run.
She walks straight to me and throws her arms around my neck.
"I thought you were dead," she whispers into my shoulder. "I thought—"
"I'm okay." I hold her tight. She's shaking like a leaf. "I'm okay. You're okay. We're both okay."
Lies. We're not okay. We'll never be okay again.
Her father just tried to murder her. In my house. In my room. While she slept in my bed.
Victor Romano is a dead man walking. He just doesn't know it yet.
"Sir." One of my guards appears in the doorway. "We captured one alive. He's talking."
"And?"
"Says Romano hired twelve men total. This was just the first wave." The guard looks sick. "The other six are targeting Arthur. They're at his apartment right now."
My blood turns to ice.
Arthur. My son.
"Get cars. Now." I grab my phone. Call Arthur. It rings. Rings. Rings.
No answer.
"Enzo?" Isabella pulls back. "What's wrong?"
I try Arthur again. Still nothing.
Marco's face has gone white. "We have to go. We have to go right now—"
My phone buzzes. Text message. Unknown number.
I open it.
It's a photo of Arthur. Tied to a chair. Beaten. Blood running down his face. Gun pressed to his head.
Below it: Come alone or he dies. You have one hour.
"No." Marco grabs my arm. "It's a trap. They want you."
He's right. This is the real plan. Use Isabella as bait. Kill me when I'm distracted. Then take Arthur.
Victor thought of everything.
Almost everything.
He forgot that I didn't build an empire by following rules.
"Get Isabella to the safe room," I tell Marco. "Code seven-seven-seven. Don't open it for anyone but me."
"What are you going to do?" Isabella asks.
I look at her. This girl I've protected for three years. This girl I married to my son to keep her close. This girl who's become the only thing I care about besides Arthur.
"I'm going to end this." I grab my jacket. More guns. More knives. "Your father wanted a war. I'm going to give him one."
"Enzo, wait—"
I kiss her. Hard and fast. Might be the last time.
"If I don't come back," I say against her lips, "the empire goes to you and Arthur equally. Papers are in the safe. Code is your birthday."
"You're coming back." Her fingers dig into my shirt. "You have to come back."
I don't answer. Can't make promises I might not keep.
I leave her standing in my blood-soaked bedroom, surrounded by dead men, while I go to save my son.
The elevator ride down feels like falling.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo.
This time it's not Arthur.
It's my daughter.
The daughter I haven't seen in ten years. The daughter who left and swore never to come back. The daughter I thought was safe in Europe.
She's tied up next to Arthur. Same room. Same gun to her head.
The message below makes my heart stop:
Surprise. Bring Isabella or they both die. Thirty minutes. Clock's ticking.