Page 34 of Shattered Engagement

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities neither of us dared consider before this morning. I think of Maria’s words at the nursing home—her hope that I might find something beyond vengeance. Could this be it? Could Isadora be the future I never hoped to dream of?

“Justice,” she answers, meeting my gaze steadily. “And afterward... afterward, I want the chance to discover who I am when I’m not being what everyone else demands.”

I gently touch her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “What about who we might be?”

The question makes her breath hitch, as does mine. The possibility of an “us” beyond this revenge plot, beyond the tangled web of family loyalties and blood debts, is a dangerous thought.

“One step at a time,” she says, pressing a kiss to my palm. “First, we take down Giancarlo Calviño. Then we figure out what comes after.”

I nod, understanding the caution in her words. We’ve both lived our lives caged by others’ expectations. Freedom—if we can grasp it—will take time to figure out.

“We should go,” I say reluctantly, glancing at my watch. “Rodriguez takes over your security at nine.”

I force the reality to stay at bay even though it insists on crashing back with a powerful realization of just how precarious our position is. How many lines we’ve crossed in the span of a few hours.

As we dress in silence, I feel her studying me—her eyes taking in the way I move, and probably marking even the set of my shoulders. She’s more observant than anyone gives her credit for. I wonder if she sees Stefano Calviño beneath the Alessio Gravano, feared enforcer, who still exists in every controlled gesture. Can she see the man with a soul deeper than his vengeance?

The boy who survived. The man who remembered.

All I can hope is that she sees someone who’ll fight like hell to, against all odds, be her salvation rather than her destruction. That’s what I want. That’s what she deserves.

“Ready?” I ask, extending my hand once we’re both dressed.

She places her palm in mine, our fingers intertwining with newfound certainty. “Ready.”

Six days until a wedding that will never happen. Six days to bring down an empire. Six days to rewrite our futures.

And for the first time since I can remember, I’m not worried about what comes next.

12

Alessio

The tie around my neck feels like a noose as I scan the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors where New York’s elite mingle with the city’s most notorious criminals. Tonight’s charity gala—one of the many pre-wedding events crowding these final days—serves as the perfect stage for what we’ve all become: wolves in designer clothing.

Five days until the wedding that will never happen. Five days until I reveal myself to Giancarlo Calviño as the son he tried to murder.

Five days until I unleash hell upon the empire he built on my mother’s grave.

“Another whiskey?” A server appears at my elbow, tray balanced perfectly.

“No.” I keep my voice low and controlled. “Thank you.”

My gaze finds Isadora across the room. She’s breathtaking in emerald silk that matches her eyes, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant curve of her neck. I know exactly how that skin tastes, how it flushes under my touch. The memory of yesterday morning in my childhood bedroom sends heat coursing through my veins.

But tonight, she has to act as if she belongs to Luca. At least that’s what everyone needs to believe, and it makes me feel sick.

My half-brother stands beside her, one possessive hand at the small of her back as he speaks with the police commissioner. Luca’s smile never reaches his eyes—cold, calculating, much like our father’s. Luca and I may share blood, but that is where it ends. We look nothing alike. He was raised in privilege while I was raised in secret. He was given everything while I fought for scraps.

And now, he has Isadora.

Over my fucking dead body will he have her.

Our eyes meet across the room, hers and mine, just for a second. She gives nothing away—her expression remains politely interested in whatever Luca is saying—but I feel the connection like a physical touch. Only I know what she looks like when passion replaces that careful mask, when those green eyes darken with desire, when my name—my real name—falls from her lips.

Stefano. Not Alessio.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,capo.” Vittorio materializes beside me, his voice barely above a whisper.

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