90 "**“STOP WAVING YOUR HANDS! YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME!”

Twenty-four hours passed in an agonizing crucible of silence and tension.

By the following evening, Dr. Rossi had reluctantly cleared Luca to be moved back to the sprawling Moretti estate on the cliffs outside the city. The compound had been transformed into an impenetrable fortress: snipers posted every fifty yards along the perimeter wall, razor wire electrified, and German Shepherds patrolling the manicured lawns.

The outside world genuinely believed Luca Moretti was dead.

I had watched the news broadcasts on the encrypted television in Luca’s private study. Pundits and crime reporters speculated endlessly on the "power vacuum" left by the assassination of the city's most feared patriarch. Stocks in Moretti-controlled logistics firms were tumbling, and reports of minor skirmishes in the lower boroughs hinted that rival gangs were already testing the waters.

Luca sat behind his massive mahogany desk, refusing the hospital bed upstairs.

His arm was securely bound in a black medical sling beneath a tailored, charcoal-gray wool coat draped loosely over his shoulders. His color had returned somewhat, thanks to three blood transfusions, but the lines of fatigue and pain etched around his eyes were undeniable.

Isabella sat on the antique Persian rug at his feet, surrounded by her sketchbooks. Ever since the shooting, she had barely left Luca’s side. She refused to sleep in her own bedroom, insisting on sleeping on the daybed in Luca’s study, her hazel eyes constantly tracking every breath he took.

"Isabella," I called softly from the study doorway, carrying a tray with warm chamomile tea and a fresh set of bandages.

She looked up, her expression tense, but when she saw me, her shoulders dropped in relief. She signed: *TEA FOR PAPA?*

"Yes, my love," I signed back, setting the tray down on the desk. "And then I need you to go with Maria to take a warm bath. You haven't changed out of that sweater in two days."

Isabella shook her head stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the floor: *NO LEAVE PAPA.*

Luca looked down from the paperwork he was reviewing. His dark eyes softened with an infinite, tender patience. He reached down with his right hand, gently tapping her knee.

"Isabella," he said aloud, his voice steady and low. *LOOK AT ME.*

She looked up, her lower lip trembling.

Luca tapped his chest, right over his beating heart. *I AM SAFE. YOU ARE SAFE. ELENA IS HERE. YOU GO WITH MARIA, TWENTY MINUTES. THEN YOU COME BACK. I PROMISE.*

Isabella studied his face for a long, agonizing moment, searching for any sign that he was lying. Slowly, reluctantly, she uncrossed her arms. She stood up, stepped onto her tiptoes, and planted a soft, lingering kiss on Luca’s stubbled cheek, then turned and threw her small arms around my waist for a tight, fierce hug.

*TWENTY MINUTES,* she signed sternly to both of us before taking the hand of Maria, the elderly housekeeper, and walking down the hall.

As the heavy oak doors closed behind them, Luca let out a low, ragged breath and leaned back into his leather chair, his eyes closing in pure exhaustion.

"She is traumatized, Luca," I said, stepping behind his chair and gently resting my hands on his uninjured shoulder, using my thumbs to knead the knotted muscle at the base of his neck. "She watches every shadow. Every time a door slams, she thinks the glass is shattering again."

Luca reached up, covering my hand with his, his skin warm and reassuring. "She survived a war before she was six, Elena. And now, she has to survive my world. It kills me that my blood brings this poison into her life."

"You didn't bring the poison," I said fiercely, leaning down so my cheek rested against his hair. "You took the bullet that was meant for her, meant for me. You are the only reason she has a life to live. Never doubt that."

Luca turned his head, his dark eyes searching mine with a hunger that made my pulse flutter. "And you, Elena? Are you going to run? Now that you've seen the blood on the floor, now that you know what being Signora Moretti truly costs?"

I pulled my hand from his grip, walked around the massive desk, and stood directly before him. I didn't hesitate. I reached down and took the lapels of his heavy coat, pulling myself closer until I was inches from his face.

"When I was locked in that basement by my own family, treated like a defective piece of trash because I couldn't speak, you gave me a voice," I said, my voice unwavering, steady as steel. "You gave Isabella a father. I have buried the weak, terrified girl I used to be. I am not running from you, Luca. I am not running from this family. The only way I leave this house is in a coffin next to you."

Luca’s breath hitched. For a man who ruled an empire through fear and violence, he looked at me in that moment as if I were a holy apparition. His good arm hooked around my waist, pulling me down onto his lap with a fierce, possessive groan, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in his collarbone.

"God help any man who tries to take you from me," he growled, his lips crashing against mine in a kiss that tasted of iron, dark promise, and absolute devotion.

The heavy knock on the study door shattered the moment.

Marco slipped inside, his tactical vest swapped for a sleek, dark funeral suit. "Don Luca. The Commission members have entered the front gates. Valenti is leading the motorcade."