The Shadow of the Duca

The wine glass I had spilled earlier was forgotten, dripping red drops onto the white rug like fresh blood. Alessandro pulled me toward the sofa, sitting me down while he paced the length of the hardwood floor, his long legs moving with restless, predatory energy. He had shrugged off his trench coat, revealing a crisp black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing corded muscle and old scars I had never asked about.

“Tell me everything,” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest to stop my hands from shaking. The shock was beginning to wear off, replaced by a sharp, defensive anger. “Starting with why you thought faking your own death and leaving me in the dark was a brilliant masterclass in romance.”

Alessandro stopped pacing. He looked at me, a rare flash of vulnerability crossing his stark features before his mask of iron authority snapped back into place.

“It wasn't supposed to take six months, Emma,” he said quietly, running a hand through his dark hair. “The plan was to dismantle my uncle’s network from the inside, flush out the traitors who had taken bribes from the Chicago outfit, and leave for Europe within three weeks. But Don Luciano had deeper roots than I realized. He had corrupted half the federal judges in Suffolk County and planted informants inside my own security detail.”

“Including Mateo?” I asked skeptically.

“No. Mateo was the one who pulled me out of the burning wreckage before the second secondary explosion went off,” Alessandro replied, walking over to pour himself a finger of neat scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. He didn't offer me any; he knew I hated the stuff. “He’s the one who smuggled me to a safehouse in Montreal while I recovered from the shrapnel wounds.” He touched the jagged scar on his neck unconsciously. “It took months just to regain the use of my right shoulder.”

I stared at him, my anger melting back into a hollow ache. I looked at the broad expanse of his shoulders, realizing for the first time how close I had actually come to losing him forever—not just in theory, but in bloody, agonizing reality.

“And now?” I asked softly. “Now that you’re back in Boston?”

Alessandro turned around, setting the crystal glass down without drinking from it. His black eyes locked onto mine with terrifying clarity.

“Now, my uncle is dead. I reclaimed the docks this morning,” he said smoothly, as if he were talking about a routine corporate acquisition rather than a bloody coup in the underworld. “The Chicago syndicate sent an envoy to my penthouse an hour before I came here. They know I survived. They know I’m rebuilding my empire.”

“And what does that mean for me?” I stood up from the sofa, my voice rising. “If they know you’re alive, they know about me! I’m not a mobster, Alessandro! I’m a former restaurant server from a normal family who got dragged into your dark, twisted fairy tale because I spilled champagne on your shoes!”

In two long strides, he closed the distance between us. Before I could back away, his hands caught my waist, lifting me slightly as he pulled me hard against his chest. His touch was electric, familiar, and completely overwhelming.

“You were never just a civilian to me, Emma,” he murmured, his lips brushing my temple, sending shivers down my spine. “The moment you looked at me without fear in your eyes at Raldi’s, you signed your name in my ledger. You belong to this world now whether you want to or not. But I swear to you on my mother’s soul—nobody will ever touch you. I’ll burn this city to ash before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”