Some of the names sound familiar to me: Enzo, Carina, Brighton Beach, Bratva. But Alessio’s voice grows tense and cold.
She's my daughter," he says, voice like ice. "And you're telling me she was in Lukov's lap at some Brooklyn sex club? Where the fuck does that little girl get her nerve?"
"I tried calling her," says the other man quietly, "but she wouldn't?—"
"I don't care what you tried, Enzo. Find her. Brooklyn is crawling with Lukov's men, and that bastard has his hands all over my Carina. If you have to drag her away from him, you do it. Today."
Enzo sighs. "What if she doesn't want to leave him?"
A silence thick as honey. Then: “You fucking make her.”
Footsteps approach, and I try to look busy, though my hands are shaking. Alessio comes in, followed by a younger man who might be his brother, except for the haunted look in his eyes. Alessio’s face is tense, jaw set and nostrils flared, his old mafia scars clear in the daylight. I think I see exhaustion in the lines on his forehead, but he hides it well.
“Lucia,” he says. “Come with me, please.”
He doesn’t wait for me to clean my hands and walks quickly through the apartment, with me hurrying after him, leaving a trail of flour behind. Enzo follows, nods at me once, then heads down another hallway. I hear the words “Brooklyn” and “fix it quietly” before his voice disappears.
We stop at a door I haven’t seen before. Alessio swipes a card, and there’s a soft click. Inside, it’s not a panic room but a study. Dark wood, military neat, two massive monitors on the desk cycling through black-and-white security feeds: lobby, street, rooftop, even the elevators. There’s a wall of old photographs—Alessio as a little boy on some Mediterranean dock, then older, sharper, flanked by men whose eyes look as cold as his, with only time to tell them apart. Above the desk hangs a single framed photo of a girl: red-haired, blue-eyed, and wild. The light in her grin scorches the air.
He notices my attention and says, “That’s my Carina. My daughter.”
I nod, not knowing if I’m supposed to speak. Instead, I stand there, waiting for him to sit behind the desk, snap his laptop shut, and fix me with that bright, impossible gaze.
He steeples his hands under his chin. “You’re smart. So I won’t lie to you.”
He leans back. “There are people who want to see me ruined, dead, or locked away forever. But even more, some want to use my family as leverage. That includes anyone I care about, Lucia.” He says my name slowly, as if weighing it.
I shift, the floor suddenly tilting. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because today you’re part of that,” he says. “You understand?”
I want to say yes. Instead, I watch his hands press flat on the desk, notice the slight tremor in his right pinky, and the blue veins on his wrist. I remember Chiara’s sadness and how she said peace would always be out of reach.
“You’re scared for your daughter,” I say, surprising myself.
His face stays blank, but his jaw flexes once, twice. “She’s young. Thinks she’s immortal. I just found out she’s beenplaying house with the son of a fucking Bratva boss. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “It means every single thing I have built can be lost, overnight, if she becomes a pawn. I don’t know if they want her for leverage, for humiliation, or for fun. But I won’t let them use her against me.”
He rises, comes around the desk, and stands two inches in front of me like a closing door. “You are not to leave this apartment unless you are with Enzo or me. Not for coffee, not for air, not to pick up a goddamn fashion magazine. Are we clear?”
His presence is so intense that I can’t even nod. I just look up at his face and, for the first time, see his fear. It isn’t wild or frantic, but something heavier, like a lifelong burden.
“I’m not your daughter,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, just for a heartbeat. “No. You’re not.” When he opens them, he touches my jaw—so gently I almost start to cry right there—and then, eyes rimmed in old heartbreak, he says, “But you’re the only one I have left who isn’t already at war with me.”
I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek, leaving a faint warmth behind. “I’ll be good,” I murmur.
He gives me a tiny push toward the door: “Go. Chiara will keep you company. I’ll call you if I’m not back by morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALESSIO
The only thing I hate more than my enemies is my daughter’s taste in men.