"THE STRUGGLING WAITRESS THOUGHT SHE WAS A GHOST UNTIL SHE THREW HERSELF OVER A CRIME LORD’S LITTLE BOY—AND WHEN THE CRYSTAL SHREDDED HER BACK, ENZO VALENTI DECIDED HER LIFE WAS HIS TO PROTECT"

We left the gala immediately, returning to the fortified walls of the Valenti estate. The mansion transformed overnight from a family home back into a military command center. Dozens of armed men patrolled the grounds, and the security cameras were upgraded with thermal imaging. Enzo spent three days locked in his study, making calls that ended in furious, shouted Italian. I refused to sit in the bedroom and knit like a helpless princess. On the fourth morning, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of his office and carried in a tray of espresso. Enzo was leaning over a map of the city, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark ink of his family tattoos. "You haven't slept, Enzo," I said, setting the silver tray on his desk. "I sleep when Russo is in the ground," he replied without looking up. I walked around the desk and placed my hands firmly over his, stopping him from marking another location with a red pen. "You promised me five years ago that we were a partnership," I reminded him gently. He finally looked at me, his eyes bruised with exhaustion and dark with worry. "Russo is targeting our legitimate supply lines," Enzo explained, the frustration evident in his gravelly voice. "He is burning our construction sites, trying to force me into an open street war." "If you fight him in the streets, you lose the legitimate empire you spent five years building," I realized. "Exactly," Enzo growled. "The FBI is watching everything. If I retaliate, I go to a federal prison." He pulled me into his lap, burying his face in the soft fabric of my sweater. "I will not let them take me away from you and the children, Clara." I ran my fingers through his thick, dark hair, my mind racing. "Then we do not fight him with guns," I said softly. "We fight him with money."