148Gianna’s POVThe elevator dinged softly, and Matteo gestured for me to step out first. The hallway ahead was narrow, the dim lighting giving it a mysterious edge that scared me a little bit. He had led me out of the hotel again today, refusing to tell me where he was taking me to. I keep saying I want him out of my life and yet I keep accepting his invitation to go out.How dumb I am.“Are you sure this place exists?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at him.Matteo smirked, his hands in his pockets. “Have I ever led you astray?”I raised an eyebrow. “Do you want an honest answer?”He chuckled, stepping beside me to push open a plain, unmarked door. The faint hum of jazz music drifted out, mingling with the cool night air.It was a rooftop bar.The rooftop bar was small and simple. Yet it was intimate. Strings of warm fairy lights crisscrossed above, their glow reflected in the glass-topped tables scattered around. Beyond the railing, the city stretched out beneath and around us.
149Gianna’s POVIf I hadn’t been hyper aware of Matteo since two nights ago, I wouldn’t have noticed the smallest things he was doing for me. He wasn’t hovering or overt, which made it harder to pinpoint it, but it was there and it was driving me crazy.Like the coffee on the conference table. I eyed it. And then eyed Matteo who was sitting near the window. We had a meeting this morning and I was too much in a rush to get my coffee as usual. But there was one on the table, still steaming in a cup that wasn’t from the hotels subpar café. I eyed it once again and eyed Matteo who was sitting near the window, flipping through his phone like he had t done a single thing out of the ordinary.“Is this yours?” I asked, holding up the cup.He looked up, feigning mild confusion. “It’s yours. I figured you’d need something better than whatever they serve downstairs.”I blinked. “How do you even know how I take my coffee?” That was a pointless question by the way. Because he had been getting me
150Matteo’s POV.This gala was the kind of event I hated but had perfected enduring over the years. Suits too stiff, champagne too warm, and conversations too shallow. Mr Clifford, who was hosting it, is, of course, a big player, and making an appearance wasn’t optional.I scanned the room, my gaze naturally landing on Gianna. She was near the bar, her sharp black dress cutting a figure that commanded attention without trying. Her head tilted slightly as she listened to some older man in a loud suit, her polite smile firmly in place. I could tell she wasn’t enjoying the conversation; her fingers tapped against her glass in that rhythmic way they did when she was irritated.The man leaned closer, a little too familiar, and I felt my jaw tighten.Before I could second-guess myself, I was already walking toward them, sliding into the conversation with a practiced ease.“Gianna,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through whatever the guy had been saying. “There you are. I’ve been looking
151Matteo’s POVDinner with Gianna was an exercise in restraint, though I’m not sure why I bothered anymore. She’d made it clear after the night we spent together that we were employer and employee—nothing more, nothing less.Yet, there I was, sitting across from her at a quiet restaurant, trying not to stare at how the soft lighting caught the warmth of her skin or how her lips curved slightly when she read the menu.“Don’t get the salmon,” I said, breaking the silence.She glanced up, one eyebrow arched. “Why not?”“Because it’s dry here. Trust me, I’ve been to this place enough times to know.”Gianna set the menu down and folded her arms on the table. “And you’re suddenly an expert on everything now?”I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve been accused of worse.”She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement in them. “Fine. What would the expert recommend?”“The risotto,” I said without missing a beat. “It’s one of the few things they don’t manage to ruin.”Her lip
152Gianna’s POVI hadn’t slept well in days. Matteo was like a storm cloud that followed me everywhere—quiet but impossible to ignore. Every glance, every small interaction left me tangled in a web of conflicting emotions that I really wasn’t ready to face yet.And now, sitting across from him in yet another cramped conference room, I couldn’t concentrate to save my life.“Gianna?” His voice cut through my thoughts.My head snapped up. “What?”He tilted his head, looking far too amused for my liking. “I asked if you’d prefer to handle the presentation, or should I take the lead?”“Oh.” I forced myself to focus, ignoring the slight flush creeping up my neck. “You should do it. You’re better at improvising.”He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You think I’m good at something? That’s a first.”“Don’t let it go to your head,” I muttered, keeping my eyes glued to the papers in front of me.But I could feel his gaze on me still like he knew my thoughts and understood them w
153Matteo’s POVI wasn’t one for tiptoeing around problems. Gianna, however, seemed determined to shove hers into a fucking closet and pretend they didn’t exist.We were wrapping up for the day, the conference room except for the faint hum of the city outside. She was sitting at the head of the table, fingers flying across her laptop keyboard, her focus sharp as a blade. At least, she wanted it to look that way.“Gianna,” I said, leaving my things and walking to her knowing fully well she’d push me away again. But I didn’t care. Not this time.She didn’t look up. “Not now, Matteo. I’m busy.”“Busy avoiding me, you mean?” I demanded, slamming my palms on the table much more louder and harder than I’d intended.That got her attention. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys before she sighed and sat back, crossing her arms. “What do you want?”I leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded. “I want to know what’s going on with you. And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ speech—I’
154Gianna’s POVThe final night of the trip arrived faster than I anticipated. It had been a whirlwind of back-to-back meetings, client dinners, and endless negotiations, leaving little time for myself. But as I sat in my hotel room, staring at my half-packed suitcase, I felt a twinge of something I couldn’t quite name. Relief? Sadness?Maybe both.A knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. I frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late—too late for a work-related interruption.“Who is it?” I called out.“It’s Matteo,” came the reply.Of course, it was.I hesitated for a moment before standing and opening the door. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, his tie slightly loosened but still annoyingly put together.“What do you need?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.His lips twitched in what might have been a smirk. “Relax, Gianna. I’m not here to bother you with work. I wanted to check if you were free for a moment.”“I was about to—” I gestured vaguely at
155Gianna’s POVBack in the city, it felt like everything should have gone back to normal. The trip was behind us, and with it, the long nights, the rooftop wine, and Matteo’s surprising kindness. We were back in our element: the office, the routine, the emails that never stopped. It was safe here, predictable.And yet, I found myself glancing at my office door more often than necessary, half expecting Matteo to walk through it with one of his disarming comments or an unsolicited opinion about my latest report.He didn’t.Instead, he kept his distance, but not in the way I expected. Matteo had always been everywhere, his presence big and loud, demanding attention. But now, he was more subtle, almost… careful. And it was driving me insane.It was barely past nine. I was hunched over my desk, scanning through the latest client proposal, when there was a soft knock at my door.“Come in,” I called, not looking up.A cup of coffee slid onto the corner of my desk, accompanied by a familiar
208Emilia’s POVThe package sat on the dining table, wrapped in elegant gold paper and tied with a satin bow. Francesca bounced on her toes, her small frame radiating excitement.“Can I open it now, Emilia? Please?”I hesitated, glancing at the doorway where I knew Alaric would appear any moment. My stomach twisted at the thought of his reaction. This wasn’t just any gift—it was from Alonso.“Go ahead, sweetheart,” I said softly, smoothing down her curls. Francesca’s joy was infectious, and I couldn’t bear to ruin it for her.Her tiny fingers worked quickly to tear the paper, revealing a sleek black box. She opened it with a gasp, pulling out a beautiful, hand-carved wooden horse. The craftsmanship was impeccable, every detail perfect, from the delicate reins to the smooth finish of the wood.“It’s so pretty!” Francesca exclaimed, holding it up for me to see. “Look, Emilia! It’s like the ponies in my storybook!”I forced a smile, though my chest felt tight. “It’s beautiful, love. Do
207Emilia’s POVAlaric paced the living room like a caged tiger, his hand raking through his hair as he muttered under his breath. I sat on the couch, my arms folded, trying to keep my own emotions in check. This had become a familiar scene since I’d returned from seeing Alonso, the air between us heavy with tension neither of us seemed willing—or able—to break.Finally, he stopped and turned to face me, his dark eyes blazing. “I don’t understand how you can even consider letting that man into your life after everything he’s done.”I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “It’s not about letting him in, Alaric. It’s about understanding where I came from, about finding some kind of peace with it.”“Peace?” he repeated, his voice sharp. “You think you’re going to find peace with a man like Alonso? He’s a manipulator, Emilia. He’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear to worm his way into your good graces.”I stood, my frustration bubbling over. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you t
206Emilia’s POVI was seated across from Alonso in the dimly lit study of his villa, the journal clutched tightly in my hands. It felt strange to be here again, to look into the eyes of a man who had caused me so much pain and confusion, yet who claimed to have loved my birth mother more than life itself. He looked different today—not the powerful, untouchable mafia king, but a man weighed down by his own ghosts.“I found this,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt as I placed the journal on the polished wooden table between us. “It was my mother’s.”Alonso’s face softened, his gaze dropping to the worn leather cover. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he leaned back, his expression shadowed with something I couldn’t quite name. Guilt? Pain? Regret?“She kept it hidden,” I continued. “But it paints a picture I’m not sure I can reconcile. She loved you, Alonso. That much is clear. But she was also afraid of you, afraid of what this life would do to her—and to me.”His shoulders sagged,
205Emilia’s POVI sat at the edge of the couch, clutching my mother’s journal like it was my lifeline. It had this emotional weight to it that I hated, pressing against my chest like a phantom ache and making me feel suffocated. Alaric paced the room, his sharp movements punctuated by the occasional clenched fist. I’d just finished reading him the most damning entries, and the fire in his eyes made me question whether I should’ve shared them at all.“She loved him,” I said quietly, breaking the tense silence. “That much is clear. But she was scared, too. Scared of what his world meant for her—and for me.”Alaric stopped mid-step, turning to face me. His jaw tightened, and his eyes were colder than I’d seen them in a long time. “She was scared because Alonso dragged her into hell. He promised her safety, and instead, he handed her over to a life she couldn’t escape.”His words cut deep, and not because they were wrong. The journal painted a picture of a man who loved my mother but cou
204Emilia’s POVThe late afternoon sunlight filtered through the wide windows of the library, casting golden patterns across the polished wood floor. My fingers brushed against the spine of an ancient leather-bound journal, its surface cracked and worn with time. I had found it tucked away in a small wooden chest Alonso had left in the room I was temporarily staying in—a chest I wasn’t supposed to open but couldn’t resist. I hadn’t even remembered about it until now.The name Inscribed on the cover made my breath catch. Isabella. My mother.I hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I had spent weeks trying to piece together who she really was, struggling to separate the idyllic image I had as a child from the fragmented truth Alonso had given me. And now, here in my hands, was her voice—her thoughts, her fears, her love—all bound in a fragile relic of the past.My heart pounded as I flipped open the cover. The pages were filled with a delicate script, the ink faded b
203Alaric’s POVThe meeting room was quiet except for the low hum of voices as my men debated logistics. Allesio stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed, the tension in his posture mirroring my own. I sat back in my chair, listening but not speaking, my fingers steepled as I processed the information.“They’ve been hitting our distribution routes near the docks,” Allesio said, his tone clipped. “Two shipments delayed this week alone. It’s not coincidence, Alaric.”My jaw tightened. “And you’re sure it’s the Santoros?”Allesio nodded. “As sure as I can be. The timing, the method—it fits their MO. They’re small-time, but they’re not stupid. They see the tension with Alonso and think it’s their chance to play kingmaker.”“Idiots,” I muttered, leaning forward. “They won’t survive stepping into this war.”“We could let them,” Allesio suggested. “Let them hit Alonso’s operations, stir up trouble on his end. It might even work in our favor.”“No,” I snapped, the finality in my voic
202Alaric’s POVThe house was quiet, too quiet, as I sat in my office with a glass of whiskey that I hadn’t touched in over an hour. The amber liquid caught the dim light of the desk lamp, swirling lazily as if mocking my restless mind. Emilia was in the next room, probably pacing, possibly crying, but definitely not telling me everything she was thinking. That was the problem with her. She’d shoulder a world of burdens without letting anyone else carry even a fraction of the weight.And it was killing me.I heard the soft creak of the door opening, and when I looked up, there she was. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her face weary, but there was something very dull in her expression. She didn’t wait for me to invite her in—she rarely did these days. Instead, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts.“Are you going to stand there all night?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.She crossed the room and sat in the chair ac
201Emilia’s POVThe house was unusually quiet when I stepped through the front door, the familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeting me like an old friend. My body ached from the stress of the day, and my mind was still reeling from everything Alonso had said. But as my gaze swept the empty entryway, I felt a pang of longing—for the comfort of this home, for Francesca’s sweet voice, and, yes, even for Alaric’s brooding presence.I hadn’t even taken a step toward the living room when I heard the unmistakable sound of Francesca’s laughter floating down the hallway. It was light and unburdened, and it felt like a balm on my frayed nerves.I followed it, my footsteps soft against the tiled floor, and found them in the sunroom. Francesca was perched on Alaric’s lap, her tiny hands clutching one of his much larger ones as she giggled at something he’d said. Alaric, for his part, looked almost relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.The sight made my heart twist
200Emilia’s POVThe air inside the car felt heavy and suffocating as though the stupidity of my decision pressed down on every passenger. The convoy surrounding us—a caravan of SUVs loaded with Alaric’s men—only heightened my anxiety. Outside the tinted windows, the world passed by in muted colors, but my focus was on the knot in my stomach that tightened with every passing second.“I still think this is a mistake,” Alaric’s voice crackled through the small earpiece I wore, his tone as sharp as the blade he always carried.“I know,” I replied quietly, glancing at the driver, who kept his eyes locked on the road. “But I need to do this.”He sighed audibly. “We’ll be right outside. If anything feels wrong, anything at all—”“I know,” I interrupted. “You’ll storm the place. Just… trust me, Alaric.”The line went quiet, but I could sense his frustration. He hated this, hated the idea of me walking into Alonso’s villa even with his men stationed at every entrance and exit. Still, he’d agr