Inside the private dining room, Alessandro sat at the head of a long oak table. Alone. His two bodyguards lay dead behind him.
Across from him stood Sal Lucchese, gold chain bright against his thick neck, flanked by four men aiming submachine guns at Alessandro’s chest.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” Sal sneered. “You brought Katarina’s ghost back into our world. Lorenzo Greco offered peace. We hand over the girl, and you step down.”
Alessandro did not move.
“You think Greco will let you live, Sal? A man who bites the hand that feeds him will eventually bite his new master.”
“Maybe,” Sal said. “But I’ll be alive tomorrow, and you won’t.”
He nodded.
“Finish him.”
The doors exploded inward.
Dante entered like death itself.
He opened fire.
Two men went down before they knew the doors had opened. A third swung his weapon toward Dante, but Elena fired from the doorway with the 9mm she had taken in the hall.
The man clutched his shoulder and dropped.
Dante put a bullet between the fourth man’s eyes.
The room went silent in less than four seconds.
Sal stood frozen.
Alessandro rose slowly, adjusted his cuffs, and poured himself a glass of bourbon from the table.
“You missed,” he said softly.
Sal fell to his knees.
“Boss, please. I was forced. Lorenzo threatened my family.”
“Save your breath.”
Alessandro drew a silver, pearl-handled revolver.
“You tried to murder my blood. You brought wolves into my home.”
He aimed.
“The Moretti family sends its regards.”
Bang.
Sal collapsed, his gold chain pooling around his neck.
Alessandro holstered the weapon and walked to Elena. He took in the blood on her camisole, the gun steady in her hands, the locket resting at her chest.
Pride burned in his eyes.
“You survived.”
“They brought a hammer to a gunfight,” Dante said coldly.
Alessandro touched the silver weeping willow locket.
“You are no longer a waitress, Elena. You are Sophia Katarina Moretti. You have bled for this family. You have killed for this family. From this night forward, the entire city will know your name.”
Then he looked past her to Dante.
Something silent passed between them.
Dante stepped forward and placed one protective hand on Elena’s lower back, drawing her slightly against him.
He was claiming her.
And Alessandro allowed it.
Elena leaned into Dante’s warmth, fingers brushing the hand at her waist.
The terror of the night faded into something darker.
Something burning.
She had walked into Leto as a ghost, an invisible waitress drowning in debt and rainwater.
She was leaving the St. Regis as Moretti blood.
A lost heir.
A woman men would hunt.
A woman men would die for.
“Let them come,” Elena whispered, her voice steady in the blood-soaked room. “Let Lorenzo Greco try.”
The streets of New York would never be the same after that.
Because Sophia Katarina Moretti had finally come home.
And this time, no one was going to bury her name again.
