The gunshot shattered the night.
Alessia screamed as Damian pulled her down behind the marble fountain, shards of stone exploding above them. The scent of gunpowder filled the air, sharp and metallic. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.
"Stay down," Damian hissed, drawing his weapon. His voice was calm, controlled, but his eyes burned with fury.
Another shot rang out, grazing the edge of the fountain. Damian leaned out just long enough to fire back—two precise shots that echoed through the garden. A body fell with a dull thud among the roses.
Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
Alessia's hands trembled as she clutched the edge of the fountain. "Who was that?"
Damian scanned the shadows, his jaw tight. "A message."
"From who?"
He turned to her, his expression dark. "Someone who doesn't believe in peace."
Guards rushed into the garden, weapons drawn. Damian barked orders in rapid Italian, his tone sharp and commanding. Within moments, the area was secured, the intruder's body dragged away.
Alessia rose slowly, her knees weak. "You could have been killed."
He looked at her, his gaze softening for the briefest moment. "So could you."
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.
"No one ever does," he said quietly. "But you're in it now, Alessia. And that means you don't get to be careless."
She flinched at the edge in his voice. "Careless? I didn't—"
He stepped closer, his hand gripping her arm. "You walked into the dark alone. In this world, that's as good as pulling the trigger yourself."
Her anger flared. "I'm not one of your soldiers, Damian!"
"No," he said, his voice low. "You're my wife. Which means your life is my responsibility."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. His grip loosened, but he didn't step back. For a moment, the fury in his eyes gave way to something else—fear, maybe, or something dangerously close to it.
"I'll have extra guards posted outside your room," he said finally. "No arguments."
She wanted to protest, but the memory of the gunshot silenced her. She nodded once.
As they walked back toward the mansion, the night seemed darker than before. The illusion of safety had shattered, replaced by the cold truth of their world.
Inside, the household was in chaos—guards shouting, phones ringing, orders flying. Don Lorenzo appeared at the top of the stairs, his face pale. "What happened?"
"An attack," Damian said. "One man. Dead now."
"Who sent him?"
"Not sure yet," Damian replied. "But I'll find out."
Alessia stood silently beside him, her pulse still racing. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her—the new bride, the outsider, the weakness they would exploit if given the chance.
Damian placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the stairs. "Go upstairs. Lock the door."
She hesitated. "And you?"
"I have work to do."
Their eyes met, and for the first time, she saw the weight he carried—the burden of power, the constant threat of betrayal.
"Be careful," she said softly.
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Always."
Hours later, Alessia sat by her window, staring out at the moonlit garden where blood still stained the roses. Somewhere below, Damian's voice carried through the halls, low and commanding.
She should have hated him. He was everything she'd been taught to despise—ruthless, controlling, dangerous. But tonight, when the bullets flew, he had shielded her without hesitation.
And that terrified her more than the gunfire.
Because for the first time, she wasn't sure if the danger she feared most came from outside the mansion—or from the man she was beginning to understand too well.