Part 2: THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO THROW HIS DEAD MOTHER’S WEDDING DRESS IN THE TRASH—BUT WHEN I CARRIED IT INTO THEIR ENGAGEMENT PHOTOGRAPHS, HE DROPPED TO HIS KNEES AND BEGGED ME NOT TO PUT IT DOWN.

The mansion’s alarm system flared to life with a low, pulsating hum, bathing the grand foyer in flashes of amber security lighting. Heavy steel shutters automatically slammed over the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the opulent palace into a fortified bunker.

“Emma, stay behind me,” Luca ordered without hesitation. His posture instantly shifted from a grieving son to the commander of an army.

“How did they get through the outer checkpoint?” Luca demanded, drawing a matte-black pistol from beneath his tailored jacket with practiced ease.

“They rammed the security gate with an armored truck,” Marco reported, chambering a round into his automatic rifle. “The perimeter guards managed to drop five of them, but Don Bellini isn't here to negotiate. He knows the tape exists. He’s here to burn the evidence and execute anyone who heard it.”

My blood ran cold. *Execute anyone who heard it.* That meant me.

“Luca, what should I do?” I asked, panic clawing at my throat.

Luca turned to me, his dark eyes ablaze with cold fire. He caught my chin in his hand, his thumb pressing firmly against my jawline. “Listen to me carefully, Emma. Go into my private study. Behind the third bookcase on the left is a hidden vault. Go inside, lock the steel door from the inside, and don't open it for anyone except me.”

“What about the dress?” I asked, my voice shaking. “And the box?”

A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. Even facing an armed invasion, the fact that I worried about his mother’s belongings seemed to strike him deep in his chest.

“Take the box with you,” Luca said softly. “The dress stays on the table. If Bellini wants to burn my mother’s legacy, he will have to walk over my dead body first.”

“Luca—”

“Go, Emma! Now!” he roared as the sound of heavy automatic gunfire erupted outside the heavy oak front doors.

Wood splintered violently. Bullets ripped through the heavy oak panels, sending jagged shards flying across the foyer. I snatched the cedar box from the table, tucked it against my chest, and scrambled up the grand staircase just as the front doors were kicked off their hinges.

Don Vincent Bellini stepped over the threshold, flanked by heavily armed mercenaries clad in tactical gear. He was an older man, his hair silver, his tailored pinstripe suit immaculate despite the rain. But his eyes were dead, devoid of anything resembling humanity.

“Luca!” Bellini boomed over the gunfire, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Give me my daughter, hand over Isabella’s little box, and I might let you die with a bullet in your head instead of a knife in your throat!”

From the top of the stairs, Luca didn't hide. He stepped into the center of the foyer, completely exposed, holding his weapon with steady, deadly precision.

“You killed my mother on that bridge twenty years ago, Vincent,” Luca replied, his voice calm, chillingly lethal. “And you sent your daughter to finish the job.”

Bellini scoffed, lighting a thick cigar with gold matches while his men aimed their rifles at Luca’s chest. “Your mother was weak, boy. She thought business could be conducted with honor. There is no honor in our world. There is only survival.”