Chapter Seven: Consequences

Elena woke slowly, dragged out of sleep by sunlight pouring through tall windows she did not recognize at first. For a few disoriented seconds, she lay still and tried to make sense of where she was, why the sheets felt unfamiliar, and why her entire body ached as if she had been run over. Then memory slammed back into her all at once, sharp and merciless, and her stomach twisted as she remembered the warehouse, the gun in her hands, and the man who had fallen when she pulled the trigger.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The image was burned too deep. Two shots. Center mass. Exactly as she had been taught.

When she finally opened her eyes again, Damien was already awake. He stood near the windows with his back to her, fully dressed, phone pressed to his ear as he spoke in low, urgent Italian. His posture was rigid, his voice controlled, and it was the same tone she had heard him use the night before when everything had gone to hell. Watching him like this made something tighten in her chest as she tried to reconcile the man who had held her while she slept with the one who had calmly led an armed assault without hesitation. She was beginning to understand that those were not contradictions. They were simply different facets of the same dangerous whole.

He finished the call and turned, and the moment his eyes landed on her face, something in his expression shifted. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, studying her carefully before asking how she was feeling. Elena hesitated, searching for words that didn’t quite exist, and finally said she felt like she had crossed a line she could never uncross. Two days ago she had been someone else entirely, and now she wasn’t sure she recognized the person she had become.

Damien listened without interrupting, his face open in a way that surprised her. When she finished, he said the first kill always did that. It changed how you saw yourself and the world around you, stripped away illusions you didn’t even realize you had. He said it got easier over time, though easier didn’t mean better. It just meant different.

She asked if he remembered his first. For a brief moment, his gaze went distant, and when he answered, his voice was quieter. He told her he had been seventeen and that his father had made him do it as a test. He said he had thrown up afterward, shaking so badly he could barely stand, and his father had beaten him for showing weakness.

Without thinking, Elena reached for his hand and held it. She said his father sounded like a terrible man. Damien let out a short, bitter laugh and said Vincent Cross had been many things, and terrible was definitely one of them. He explained that everything he had built over the past decade had been about freeing himself from his father’s control. The marriage to Elena wasn’t just about territory or power. It was about finally being strong enough to stand on his own terms.

Before she could ask more, his phone rang again. The moment he answered, the softness disappeared from his face, replaced by that cold, focused mask. He listened for less than a minute before ending the call and telling her they needed to get to the Russo estate immediately. The Calabrese family had responded to last night’s attack.

The drive across the city felt unreal. Morning traffic moved as usual, people heading to work, stopping for coffee, living ordinary lives, while Elena sat in the back seat feeling like her world was unraveling at terrifying speed. Marco met them at the estate gates, looking exhausted and grim. He told them the Calabrese family had launched coordinated retaliation overnight. Two gambling halls and a restaurant front had been firebombed, and five Russo soldiers were now in the hospital with injuries ranging from minor to critical.

Elena felt sick as she listened. Her decision had consequences, and those consequences had names and faces. She asked if anyone had died. Marco said not yet, but one man was touch and go. His name was Tony Marchetti. He had a wife and three children, and the next twenty-four hours would determine whether he lived.

The weight of that settled heavily in her chest. She had never met Tony Marchetti, but his life now hung in the balance because of an order she had given.

Damien rested a hand against her back as they walked inside, murmuring that this was what war looked like and that she couldn’t carry every casualty or it would destroy her. Elena wanted to argue, wanted to say that responsibility didn’t disappear just because it was inconvenient, but she forced herself to keep walking. Falling apart wouldn’t help anyone.

Inside the estate, everything buzzed with controlled chaos. Phones rang constantly. Men moved quickly, voices low and tense. When Elena entered what remained of her father’s office, the room went silent. Every eye turned to her, assessing, judging. She straightened her spine and met their gazes head-on.

She told them she knew the Calabrese family had hit back hard and that the consequences were serious. She said the decision to strike had been hers and that she accepted responsibility for what followed. But she made it clear that the Russo family would not retreat or show weakness. If the Calabrese family wanted a war, they would get one they regretted starting.

After a long moment, one of the older captains stepped forward and said the men respected her honesty and her willingness to lead from the front. The others nodded in agreement, and something in Elena’s chest loosened. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed that moment until it passed.

Marco pulled her and Damien aside and explained that the next move was critical. The other families were watching closely. If Elena hesitated now, they would sense weakness. Damien asked what Marco suggested, and he said they should hit the Calabrese family’s main gambling operation downtown. It was heavily protected and extremely profitable, but destroying it would force negotiations.

Elena asked how many men it would take. Marco said at least thirty, possibly more, and there would likely be casualties. Damien pointed out that ending the war quickly might be worth that risk.

Elena thought about Tony Marchetti. About wives and children. About soldiers who trusted her leadership. She asked what would happen if they tried to negotiate instead. Marco said negotiating from weakness would destroy them.

She looked at Damien and saw that he would support her decision either way, and somehow that made the weight heavier. Finally, she told Marco to prepare the hit and said she would go with them again. When Marco protested, she shut it down.

Afterward, Damien kissed her forehead and said she was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish. She told him she hadn’t figured that out yet.

Then her phone buzzed. The message was from her father’s lawyer, Richard Castellano, claiming he had information about her father’s death. Damien warned it could be a trap, but Elena called anyway. She recognized Richard’s voice immediately.

He said her father had left documents identifying possible enemies. They agreed to meet in two hours. As they prepared to leave, Marco confirmed the gambling operation hit was scheduled for midnight.

As the car pulled away, Elena stared out the window, knowing there was no turning back now, and feeling certain that things were about to get much worse before they ever got better.