“Keep her.” Those were the two words I heard my mafia husband say about another woman on our fifth wedding anniversary,

The morning sun spilled across the terracotta tiles of our Positano villa like molten honey, warming the crisp Mediterranean breeze that drifted through the open French doors. True to his word, Adrien stood by the stove in an apron that looked absurdly domestic against the broad expanse of his tattooed shoulders, flipping delicate, paper-thin crepes with surprising finesse.

For three blissful months, this had been our reality. No dead drops. No encrypted phones buzzing at three in the morning. No men in tailored suits whispering reports of body counts while I pretended not to listen.

I sat at the wooden breakfast table, my fingers tracing the swell of my belly beneath my linen sundress. Our baby girl was active today, kicking in rhythmic flutters against my palm. Beside my plate lay the emerald eternity band Adrien had given me, glittering in the Italian sunlight.

"You’re staring, cara," Adrien murmured without turning around, though the low rumble of his voice held a smile.

"I’m just trying to reconcile the notorious Don of the Hudson Syndicate with a man who frets over lemon zest," I replied, resting my chin in my hands.

He turned, setting a pristine porcelain plate before me. The crepes were dusted with powdered sugar and garnished with fresh raspberries from our terrace garden. Leaning down, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to my temple, his stubbled jaw brushing against my skin before his lips found the sensitive curve of my throat.

"I am whatever you need me to be," he whispered against my skin. "Today, I’m a chef. Tomorrow, whatever you ask."

"Just stay right here," I said softly, turning my head to catch his lips. "That’s all I need."

The peace was so intoxicating that when the chime of the estate’s front iron gate echoed through the villa, it sounded like a gunshot.

Adrien’s entire posture shifted in an instant. The relaxed husband vanished; the apex predator reemerged before my eyes. His spine snapped straight, his dark eyes hardening into chips of obsidian. In one fluid, practiced motion, he reached beneath the kitchen counter and slipped a silenced semi-automatic into the waistband of his trousers, pulling his linen shirt over it.

"Stay inside," he instructed quietly, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Adrien—"

"Elena. Please."

I followed him to the shaded colonnade anyway, keeping myself pressed against the stone pillar. Through the archways, I watched the heavy black wrought-iron gates swing open. Only Marco, Adrien’s most trusted lieutenant who had supposedly retired alongside us, was permitted to operate the gate.

A sleek silver sedan entered the driveway. It wasn't one of ours.

When the driver stepped out, it wasn't a hitman in tactical gear. It was an elderly courier in a gray postal uniform carrying a single, flat wooden box tied with rough twine.

Adrien intercepted the man halfway up the cobblestone drive. I couldn't hear the exchange, but I saw the courier hand over a clip-board for a signature, bow respectfully, and hurry back to his vehicle as though he felt the icy aura of danger radiating from the man in front of him.

Adrien stood alone on the sunlit path, staring down at the wooden box. He didn't open it immediately. He checked the seals, ran his thumb along the seams, and finally drew a silver pocket knife to slice the twine.

From my vantage point, I saw the box lid fall away. Inside, nestled in crushed purple lavender, was an object wrapped in black silk.

Adrien pulled it free. It was a heavy silver signet ring—the crest of the Moretti family, the rival dynasty we had supposedly wiped out in the ashes of the Hudson estate. Beside the ring lay a single, dried white rose dipped in fresh crimson wax.

The wind suddenly felt biting cold.

Adrien turned back toward the house. His face was an unreadable mask of stone, but the lethal fury swimming in his dark eyes told me everything I dreaded to know.

"The war isn't over, is it?" I asked, my voice barely carrying over the rustle of the olive trees as he reached the colonnade.

Adrien looked down at me, tucking the silver signet into his pocket. His jaw clenched so hard I heard the grind of his teeth.