Chapter 108

Aldo

The Marcello estate hadn’t seen a night like this in far too long. Since Layla and I had wed on this same lawn—nearly a year ago now. How had it been so long? How had time passed so quickly?

And more importantly: How had we been married for so many months, yet shared so few moments like this one.

It truly was a beautiful moment, a breathtaking scene.

Glowing lanterns swayed across the gardens, and tables filled with food—and surrounded by people—lurked beneath colored tents splattered across our lawn like pastel mushrooms.

The laughter of children echoed across the landscaped greens. Adults lingered in clumps beside the tents, or along the stone pathways, nursing drinks or hors d'oeuvres. The smells of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the rich aromas of fine cigars and aged wine.

On the patio, the rhythmic beat of the live band had lured out a collection of listeners, and even coaxed a few couples out to dance.

I sat at the back of the patio, watching it all unfold. Breathing it in, listening, looking. Admiring. Loving.

I hadn’t seen anything this beautiful in nearly a year. Maybe that was why I felt better today than I had since the attack. I’d been laid up in bed for weeks, and yet today, I felt like I could almost forget any of it had happened.

Almost.

“Your mom definitely knows how to throw a party.” Beside me, Layla, too, was watching the colorful fan of people sprawled across our lawn. “I can’t believe she brought this all together in a week.”

“She has a talent for it.” When I turned my gaze to her, my heart skipped a beat.

She was smiling.

My Layla. Wife of the legendary Aldo Marcelo. Queen of the Marcello family. Fearsome adversary to the Rossettis … She was smiling. When was the last time I’d seen her smile?

Far, far too long, that much I was sure.

And now, with her beside me—smiling—with all our family and friends spread out around us, I realized: this was happiness.

It was peace. It was the meaning to my life, the reason for all the fighting, all the work and fear and uncertainty. And it was why I’d met with Ethan, all those months ago, to try to find a way to clean up my act.

To make this last forever.

Because I couldn’t stand the thought of only seeing Layla’s smile once in a blue moon. Couldn’t bear the idea that when it vanished from her face tonight, I had truly no idea when I’d see it again.

Another year? No, that was unacceptable. The thought hit like a knife to my gut. I wouldn’t wait another year, or even another month, to see my wife smile again or my son run, laughing, across the backyard.

I’d missed this so much. The warmth of my family. The sound of my son’s bliss. The simple joy of a gathering untouched by the weight of the war looming over us. Peace. Happiness. Health.

A celebration of life.

Beside me, Layla stood to snag two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. She turned back to me, still smiling.

“I don’t know if my doctor’s cleared me to drink,” I protested as she pressed the glass into my hand. “What if she gets mad?”

“I thought you didn’t always listen to your doctor?” Layla smirked, then leaned in to press a kiss against my mouth. “Fortunately, I have it on good authority that your doctor is in a forgiving mood.”

I leaned forward to follow her mouth—to steal another kiss from those perfect lips. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

“Mmm, you could always say it ag—”

The world fractured in an ear-shattering boom.

A wave of heat and debris swept through the air, the shockwave sending a spray of glass though the air in front of me. Someone screamed. Layla tumbled into my lap as my vision spun, tilted sideways. My shoulder collided with the ground.

And somewhere far too close, the report of gunfire echoed across the lawn. Not just an accident—an attack.

“Get down!” someone shouted. Someone else screamed. More guns cracked. I couldn’t tell where the explosion had come from or where the guns were now.

“Layla?” I blinked, trying to clear my blurred vision. My ears rang from the explosion, and smoke and dust obscured the scene around me. I was lying on the patio pavement, my chair tipped over. “Layla?”

Beside me, Layla climbed slowly to her knees. “Aldo!”

She shuffled towards me, but I waved her off and pushed myself upright. “Go find Eli! I’ll be all right.”

“Aldo—”

More gunfire cut off her words. Bullets tore through the air, shattering bottles, piercing table, cutting through the still afternoon like deadly whispers.

“Find Eli!” I commanded, and she didn’t need to be told twice.

In an instant, she was on her feet, running in a crouch. Choosing a zagging path through tables and debris. When her fingers hitched up the hem of her skirt, I realized she was reaching for a hidden gun.

She really had learned to be a Mafia woman, hadn’t she?

A dark-haired woman burst up onto the patio, a white-haired boy beneath her arm. Relief hit in me a warm wave. My son was alive. Maybe that knowledge was what gave me the strength to pull myself to my knees.

“Eli!” Layla nearly crashed into the duo, probably as relieved as I was. “Vanessa!”

“I’ve got him,” Vanessa said, her voice trembling. “We’re all right. We’re …”

Her high, panicked voice cut off as more guns sliced the day. She folded down to the patio, bringing Eli with her.

“You have to get inside!” Layla commanded, pulling Vanessa back to her feet. “Get Eli to the safe room. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Vanessa said, her arm still around Eli.

“Go!” Layla roared, and Vanessa obeyed. She and Eli raced for the house, and Layla—my Layla—ran the other way.

Gun in hand.

Ready to fight. To protect our family, whatever the cost. To take life, end life, give life, if that’s what it meant.

And I?

I pulled myself to my feet, pain wracking my body, in time to see Layla leap from the patio and into the chaos. She moved against the flow of people. Racing the tide. She lept a damn table.

Gun in hand. Fierce and wild.

A predator on the hunt for prey. And if I knew anything about Layla, it’s that the prey would be very, very sorry when she found it.

My own fingers clambered for the gun stashed in my waistband. I might not be able to split a crowd on deerlike legs, as Layla was, but I certainly wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

Or let my family go down without firing off a few good shots.

I was wounded, but I was hardly out of the battle.

When Rossetti brought this fight to my home, to my family, he brought the fight to me. And there was no scenario in which Aldo Marcello wouldn't go down swinging.