Too Late, Don Moretti

Eve POV

I pulled myself into the fortified penthouse. The moment the heavy steel door clicked shut, my chest seized.

It was not a pressure. It was a serrated, dull-edged blade, thrust with precision between the third and fourth ribs, tearing the very air from my lungs. My knees struck the hardwood floor with a jolt that resonated in my teeth. Five years ago, I had intercepted a rival assassin's bullet intended for Julian's heart. It had made its ruin in my chest instead.

I stumbled to the kitchen counter, my fumbling hands entering the code into my emergency medical safe. I dry-swallowed two black-market pills and waited for the violent trip-hammer of my heart to subside.

Cold sweat gathered at my hairline. I leaned my forehead against the cool marble counter, my eyes shut tight against the tilting of the room.

At two in the morning, the security keypad beeped. Julian walked into the penthouse. He owned the building, as he owned all things of consequence in this city.

He entered the kitchen, holding a small velvet box. A confident, arrogant set to his mouth.

"I have brought it back," he said. "She has had her amusement. Now put it on."

I turned and picked up my tablet. I tapped the screen and pushed it across the marble island toward him. It was the security footage I had pulled from the street camera outside the restaurant.

It showed Isabella kissing his cheek while wearing the ring. It showed his Capos bowing to her—offering her the deference due a matriarch.

Julian stopped walking. His eyes locked on the screen. Then, his gaze drifted down to the counter. He saw the open medical safe. He saw the scattered pills.

His breath caught, and the arrogant set of his mouth slackened. He understood the precariousness of my physical state. He understood that the insult he had delivered had been severe enough to trigger a flare-up—and that every episode brought me closer to the final one.

"Eve," he said, his voice falling to a raw, urgent whisper. "I am sorry. I was merely fulfilling the old oath, to keep the peace. I concealed it from you to prevent Syndicate rumors. I did not wish to cause you any distress."

I set the tablet down.

"Leave the keycard on the counter," I said. "Return to the restaurant and take Isabella as your wife."

Julian stepped forward. His amber eyes turned dark. The apologetic man vanished, and the Don returned.

"I am not marrying Isabella," he said. "The Don's Command is that you will be my wife. You do not have the privilege of dismissing me."

He reached out and gripped my wrist, his fingers closing upon my skin with a possessive force. He pulled me flush against his hard chest.

"Release me," I said.

"She is a ward, Eve," he growled. "Like a sister. Cease this jealous display and remember your place."

I raised my free hand.

With a final, concentrated effort, I struck the Don of the Moretti Family across the face.

The sound was a sharp, singular crack in the quiet kitchen. It was a shocking, unforgivable breach of Omertà protocol. To strike a Boss was to invite death.

Julian froze, his head jerked to the side. A red mark bloomed on his sharp cheekbone. He slowly turned his head back to look at me, his eyes wide with a profound disbelief.

"I require a permanent separation," I said. "We are concluded."

Julian released my wrist. He took a slow, heavy breath, though his chest rose and fell rapidly with a rage he fought to contain.

"You are unwell," he said. "You are not thinking with clarity. I will depart and allow you time. We will discuss the wedding arrangements tomorrow."

He turned and started walking toward the door.

I picked up the velvet ring box from the counter and threw it hard at his broad back.

"Go give Isabella her due," I said.

Julian stopped. He turned and looked at the box lying on the floor. He picked it up, his knuckles stark white against the dark velvet.

He raised his arm and violently smashed the box against the marble floor. The antique hinges snapped. The priceless diamond bounced across the tiles and rolled under the refrigerator.

Julian turned his back to me and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the space he had occupied. The ring lay somewhere under the refrigerator, a relic of a dynasty that had demanded everything from me and given me nothing in return. My chest still ached, a dull, insistent reminder of how close I had come to death five years ago—and how little that sacrifice had ultimately mattered to the man I had saved.