Chapter 3: Alessandro

The bullet tore through Giovanni's shoulder, spraying blood across my mahogany desk like abstract art.

I didn't flinch.

"You stole from me, Giovanni." My voice was calm, conversational, as I leaned back in my leather chair. "Three hundred thousand dollars from the shipment last month."

He writhed on the floor of my office, clutching his shoulder, his expensive suit ruined. Blood seeped between his fingers as he gasped for air.

"Boss, I swear I didn't "

"Don't." I held up a hand, and he fell silent. Even bleeding and desperate, he knew better than to lie to me twice. "I have security footage. Bank records. Your gambling debts."

The fear in his eyes was satisfying in a way that most people would find disturbing. But I wasn't like most people. I was Alessandro De Luca, and in my world, fear was currency.

"Please," he whispered. "I have a family."

"So did Marco Santini. Remember him? The man whose shipment you sold to cover your debts?" I stood, straightening my cufflinks. "His wife is raising three children alone now because of your greed."

Giovanni's face went white. He knew what had happened to Marco. Everyone in the family knew.

I pulled my Glock from its holster, the weight familiar and comforting in my hand. "Any last words?"

"Wait!" His voice cracked. "What about your daughter? Your little girl needs—"

The gun was at his temple before he could finish the sentence.

"Don't." My voice was deadly quiet. "Don't you dare speak about my daughter."

Aria. My princess. The only light in a world that had gone dark the moment her mother drew her last breath.

Giovanni's eyes were wide with terror now, understanding he'd crossed a line no one crossed with me. "I'm sorry, boss. I didn't mean—"

I pulled the trigger.

The office fell silent except for the distant sound of city traffic far below. Blood pooled beneath Giovanni's still form, and I felt nothing. No remorse. No satisfaction. Just the cold emptiness that had lived in my chest for six months now.

My phone buzzed against my desk. A text from Mrs. Ciro my housekeeper: *Mr. De Luca, Aria is crying again. She won't take the bottle.*

I stared at the message, that familiar knot of helplessness tightening in my stomach. I could command armies of men, could make grown men weep with fear, could orchestrate deals worth millions of dollars. But a six-month-old baby was bringing me to my knees.

"Marco," I called out, not turning from the window.

My right-hand man appeared in the doorway, took one look at Giovanni's corpse, and nodded. "I'll handle it."

"Make sure his family gets the insurance money. They weren't part of this."

Marco raised an eyebrow. Six months ago, before Isabella died, I might have had the whole family eliminated. Loose ends and all that. But something about having a child of my own had changed my perspective on orphaning children.

Not that I'd gone soft. Just... selective.

"There's something else, boss." Marco's voice was careful. "The applications for the nanny position. We've narrowed it down to five candidates."

I turned from the window, my jaw clenching. Another reminder of how completely my life had changed. Isabella was supposed to be here, caring for our daughter, filling our home with laughter and warmth. Instead, I was interviewing strangers to raise my child because Mrs. Ciro's arthritis was getting worse and she couldn't keep up with a baby.

"What did the background checks reveal?"

"Three have clean records but limited experience with infants. One has excellent references but a boyfriend with gambling debts—a potential security risk. And one..."

I waited.

"One is interesting. Vanessa Rodriguez. Works at Sunshine Daycare downtown. Impeccable references, clean background, excellent with children. But there's something odd."

"Explain."

"Her boyfriend is Marcus Webb. Mid-level at First National, but our sources say he's been asking questions about certain accounts. Could be nothing, or..."

"Or he's fishing where he shouldn't be." I made a mental note to have Marcus investigated further. "What makes her interesting?"

"She's perfect on paper. Almost too perfect. And according to our surveillance, she's been acting strangely the past few days. Skittish. Like she's running from something."

Perfect and running from something. In my experience, that combination usually meant trouble.

But as my phone buzzed again with another message from Mrs. Ciro *She's been crying for an hour, sir* I felt that familiar desperation claw at my chest.

Aria needed someone who could care for her properly. Someone gentle and nurturing, everything I wasn't. Someone who could give her what I couldn't.

"Set up the interviews," I said finally. "Start with Vanessa Rodriguez."

"Boss, if she's involved with Marcus Webb—"

"Then we'll handle it." I holstered my gun and grabbed my jacket. "But first, let's see if she's what my daughter needs."

Because for Aria, I'd risk anything. Even bringing a potential threat into my home.

The irony wasn't lost on me that in trying to protect my daughter, I might be inviting danger right through our front door.