The room still buzzes with tension even after the gunshots fade. Dons cluster in hushed groups, processing what just happened—the conspiracy, the betrayal, the swift justice that left two bodies cooling in a back room.
I should feel triumphant. My parents' murderer is dead. The mission is complete.
Instead, I feel hollow and terrified and desperate to find Alessandro before I lose my nerve.
The meeting dissolves around me. People leaving, guards repositioning. Dante touches my elbow, gesturing toward the exit.
"Let's go. We can debrief at—"
"Sophie."
Alessandro's voice cuts through the noise, and my entire nervous system goes haywire. He's standing three feet away, still in that devastating dark suit, his grey-green eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes breathing feel optional.
"We need to talk."
Dante immediately steps forward, positioning himself between us with all the subtlety of a guard dog spotting a threat. His jaw is tight, protective instincts overriding whatever fragile alliance we just forged.
I put my hand on my brother's arm. "It's okay. I'll meet you outside."
Dante looks between us, calculating odds of terrible outcomes. His expression says he'd rather chew glass than leave me alone with Alessandro, but he's smart enough to recognize that some conversations need to happen without an audience.
"Five minutes," he says finally, the warning clear. He shoots Alessandro a look that promises creative violence if anything goes wrong, then leaves.
But doesn't go far. I can practically feel him hovering outside the door.
Alessandro leads me to a side room—some private lounge with leather furniture and the faint smell of cigars. The door closes behind us with a soft click.
Long silence.
We stand on opposite sides of the room, the space between us charged with everything we haven't said. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the love that somehow survived it all.
Then Alessandro speaks, dark humor in his voice despite everything. "So. Sophie Caruso. Mafia princess. Sent to destroy my family."
I lift my chin, defensive. "I thought your family killed my parents."
"We didn't."
"I know that now."
More silence. The kind that fills with ghosts of conversations we should have had before everything exploded.
Alessandro runs a hand through his hair—that familiar gesture I've memorized without meaning to. "You were good though. I'll give you that. Very convincing. The meek little maid routine. The innocent virgin act."
Something hot flares in my chest. "I was a virgin." The words come out sharper than intended. "And you suspected me, didn't you? You knew something was off."
"Sometimes." His lips quirk slightly. "You slipped occasionally."
"Like when?"
"The 'handling a different kind of rapier' thing?" He actually laughs, rough and genuine. "Really? That was shit."
Despite everything—the executions, the revelations, the aftermath of destroying a criminal empire—I almost smile. "I was panicking."
"I could tell. You're a terrible liar when you're panicking."
"But I fooled you for months." I take a step closer, drawn toward him like gravity. "Got into your bed, your life, your head."
"You did." His expression shifts, something raw flickering beneath the sardonic surface. "This should make me hate you. You pulled off an entire scheme, lied to my face every day, used me—"
He pauses, and the silence stretches taut as a wire.
"And it only makes me want you more." His voice drops low, almost wondering. "What the fuck does that say about me?"
My breath catches, pulse hammering against my ribs.
Before I can respond, Alessandro continues, tone shifting to something almost confessional. "You want to know the fucked up part? When I found out who you really were, my first thought after the anger, after the betrayal—was that I understood. You did it for your family. For your parents. I get that."
The words hit like a physical blow, cracking open something I've been holding tight since he kicked me out.
"I fell in love with you." My voice comes out small, fragile in a way I hate. "That part was real. All of it—every time I said it, every time I showed it—that was real."
Alessandro crosses to me in two strides. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and the touch sends electricity racing through every nerve.
"That's what makes it worse," he says softly, grey-green eyes burning into mine. "Because I believe you."
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, angry, relieved—everything we've been holding back crashing together. I kiss back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to eliminate any space between us.
His tongue sweeps against mine, and I moan into his mouth as heat floods through me. His hands slide from my face into my hair, tilting my head back while his other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against his body.
I feel everything—the hard planes of his chest, the tension in his muscles, the evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach. My fingers work at his shirt buttons, desperate to touch skin, to confirm this is real.
Alessandro breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck, teeth scraping my pulse point in a way that makes my knees buckle. His hands grip my hips, backing me against the wall, and the solid surface is the only thing keeping me upright.
"Alessandro," I gasp as his mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear. My head falls back, body arching into his.
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing fabric aside. The heat between us builds, frantic and consuming.
"Jesus Christ, can you two not—"
We freeze.
Chiara stands in the doorway, looking like she's witnessed something deeply traumatizing. Her expression cycles through horror, disgust, and resignation in rapid succession.
Alessandro pulls back, both of us breathing hard. I'm suddenly aware my dress is askew and my lipstick is probably smeared across both our faces.
"Dante sent me to check on you," Chiara says flatly, crossing her arms. "He's getting worried." Her gaze flicks between us, taking in the disheveled clothes, the flushed skin, the general air of interrupted passion. "Guess you made up."
She turns and leaves with a dramatic eye roll, and the absurdity—Chiara De Luca as unwitting cockblock—hits us both simultaneously.
We look at each other and actually laugh.
It's not much—more breathless and slightly hysterical than genuine humor—but it breaks something loose. The tension that's been coiling since the summit dissolves into something almost normal.
Alessandro runs his hand through his hair again, composing himself with visible effort. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, lips swollen from kissing, and he looks absolutely wrecked in the best possible way.
"I need time," he says finally, his voice rough. "To process everything. To figure out what happens next."
My heart clenches, but I nod. After months of lies, we both need space to find solid ground.
"But I'll call." His eyes meet mine, and underneath the uncertainty, there's something that looks remarkably like hope. "I promise."
I believe him.
And standing in this side room of a private club where we just watched my parents' murderer get executed, that belief feels like the beginning of something new.
Something real.
Something that might actually survive everything we've put it through.