Chapter 7

The Watch and the Weight

Livia’s breath caught as she lingered in the penthouse’s shadowed hallway, the faint tick of a clock echoing from Alessandro’s study. The air was thick with the scent of leather and cedarwood, his presence lingering even in his absence. Her fingers brushed the safehouse key he’d given her last night, its weight a reminder of his trust—and her gamble. Sergio’s note about Russo’s dock ambush burned in her memory, but it was the mole he’d mentioned that kept her awake, her mind spinning. Who in Alessandro’s inner circle would betray him? And why did her chest tighten at the thought?

She edged closer to the study door, left ajar, her bare feet silent on the cool marble. Inside, Alessandro sat at his desk, his broad shoulders hunched, a glass of amber whiskey untouched beside him. His fingers traced the edge of a silver watch, its face scratched but gleaming under the desk lamp. His obsidian eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with something raw—guilt, maybe, or grief. Livia’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t the mafia kingpin who’d claimed her at the poker table. This was a man carrying a ghost.

“You’re staring,” Alessandro said without looking up, his voice low, almost a growl, but softer than she expected. His introversion wrapped around him like armor, every word deliberate, sparing.

Livia stepped into the light, her auburn hair catching the lamp’s glow. “You’re brooding,” she countered, her tone bold, testing the boundaries of his trust. She crossed her arms, the silk of her blouse whispering against her skin. “What’s with the watch?”

His jaw tightened, his fingers pausing on the watch’s clasp. For a moment, she thought he’d shut her out, retreat behind his wall of silence. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze meeting hers, heavy and searching. “It was Vincenzo’s,” he said, the name falling like a stone. “My mentor. The man who built me.”

Livia’s curiosity flared, but she kept her face neutral, her green eyes locked on his. “And now it’s yours,” she said, stepping closer, her voice steady but probing. “Why does it feel like a chain?”

Alessandro’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You see too much.” He set the watch down, its tick louder in the quiet room. “Vincenzo trusted me. I failed him. Russo made sure of it.” His voice caught, a rare crack in his control, and Livia’s heart stuttered. She’d expected ruthlessness, not this—grief carved into his faint scar, his clenched fist.

She wanted to ask more, to unravel the story behind his guilt, but a sharp buzz from her phone broke the moment. A text from Dante: You’re playing with fire, Livia. Alessandro can’t protect you. Her thumb hovered, then deleted it, her jaw tight. Dante’s desperation was a noose she’d already slipped. But the mole—Sergio’s warning—gnawed at her. Was it Rosa, watching her every move? The scarred guard at the elevator? Or someone closer, hidden in plain sight?

“What was that?” Alessandro asked, his eyes narrowing, catching her flinch. He stood, his 6’2” frame looming but not threatening, his presence a quiet storm.

“Nothing worth keeping,” Livia said, her voice firm, shoving the phone into her pocket. She met his gaze, defiance sparking. “You’re not the only one with ghosts.”

His brow arched, a silent question, but he didn’t press. Instead, he stepped closer, his cedarwood scent wrapping around her. “Ghosts don’t scare me,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “But betrayal does.” His hand brushed her arm, a fleeting touch that sent heat racing through her veins. “Be careful who you trust, Livia.”

Her breath hitched, his warning echoing Sergio’s. She could tell him about the note, the mole, but the key in her pocket—the trust he’d given her—held her back. She wasn’t ready to bare it all, not when she was still learning the board they played on. “I’m careful,” she said, her chin lifting. “But I’m not afraid.”

For a moment, they stood there, inches apart, the air crackling with unspoken truths. Then he nodded, a single, sharp motion, and turned back to his desk. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice regaining its edge. “We move on the docks tonight.”

The docks were a labyrinth of shadows, the tang of salt and oil thick in the air. Livia crouched behind a stack of crates, her black jacket blending with the night, her heart pounding as Alessandro’s men fanned out, their silenced footsteps barely audible over the lapping waves. He’d trusted her intel from Sergio, no questions asked, and now they were here, hours before Russo’s planned ambush. Her fingers gripped the safehouse key, its edges biting into her palm. If she was wrong, if Sergio had lied, she’d just led Alessandro into a trap.

He knelt beside her, his black shirt blending with the darkness, his eyes scanning the docks. “Your contact better be solid,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. His hand rested on her shoulder, steadying her, a possessive protector’s touch that felt more like partnership than control.

“He is,” Livia whispered, her voice steady despite the doubt clawing at her. Sergio’s chain-smoking, his nervous glances—they screamed risk, but his intel had been specific. She’d bet on it, on him, on herself. “Russo’s men will come from the west. Two boats, ten men.”

Alessandro’s nod was curt, his focus shifting to his earpiece as his second-in-command, Luca, reported positions. “West side clear,” Luca’s voice crackled. “But we’ve got movement—unmarked van, north end.”

Livia’s stomach dropped. A van? Sergio hadn’t mentioned that. Her eyes darted to Alessandro, but his face was unreadable, his jaw set. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low, then signaled his men to move.

She grabbed his wrist, her grip fierce. “I’m not sitting this out.” Her voice was a hiss, her green eyes blazing. “I got you this far.”

His gaze softened, just for a second, then hardened. “Stay close.” He handed her a small pistol, its weight foreign but solid in her hand. “Don’t make me regret this.”

They moved together, shadows among shadows, her pulse racing as the van’s headlights cut through the fog. Alessandro’s men flanked it, silent and lethal, but Livia’s eyes caught a flicker of movement—a man slipping from the van, his silhouette too familiar. Matteo. Vincenzo’s son. She’d seen his photo in Alessandro’s files, his sharp features and bitter eyes unmistakable. Her breath caught. Was he the mole? Or something worse?

Before she could warn Alessandro, gunfire erupted, sharp and deafening. She ducked, her back pressed against a crate, the pistol trembling in her grip. Alessandro’s hand found hers, pulling her behind cover, his body shielding hers. “Stay down,” he growled, his eyes scanning the chaos. His men returned fire, pinning Matteo’s group, but the van screeched away, disappearing into the night.

When the gunfire stopped, Alessandro’s grip on her tightened, his voice rough. “You okay?” His eyes searched hers, a flicker of fear breaking through his control.

She nodded, her throat tight, the pistol still clutched in her hand. “Matteo,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “That was Matteo.”

Alessandro’s face darkened, his hand dropping to the watch in his pocket, its tick a faint echo in the silence. “Vincenzo’s son,” he said, his voice raw, guilt flashing in his eyes. “He’s coming for me.”

Livia’s mind raced. Matteo’s revenge, Sergio’s mole warning, Dante’s texts—they were all pieces of a puzzle she didn’t fully understand. But Alessandro’s guilt, his touch, his trust—they anchored her. “Then we face him together,” she said, her voice steady, her fingers brushing his. “No more ghosts.”

He looked at her, his obsidian eyes softening, a rare vulnerability breaking through. “You’re more than I expected, Livia,” he murmured, his hand lingering on hers, the heat of his touch a promise and a warning.

Her phone buzzed again, shattering the moment. Another text from Dante: You’ll pay for this. She deleted it, her resolve hardening. Matteo, Russo, Dante—they’d all learn she wasn’t a pawn anymore. As Alessandro led her back to the car, his hand firm on her back, Livia clutched the key and the pistol, her transformation ignited under Milan’s unforgiving stars.