Chapter Twenty-Five -

I leave the room before the silence turns into something dangerous.

The hallway is still humming with adrenaline when I spot Marco lingering near the stairwell, shoulders tight, eyes darting like he’s already anticipating bad news.

“Move her upstairs,” I say, voice flat. “Room next to mine.”

Marco blinks. Once. Twice.

“You’re—” He swallows. “Boss, you can’t be serious.”

I don’t slow down.

“She stays under my roof,” I continue. “Constant watch. Full access.”

Marco takes a half-step after me. “She’s a Moretti. She broke out twice. She almost killed you. Putting her next to your—”

I stop.

Not abruptly.

Deliberately.

The air changes.

I turn my head just enough to look at him.

Not with anger.

Not with rage.

With disappointment.

“Say it again,” I tell him quietly.

Marco stiffens. “I just think—”

“That’s the problem,” I cut in softly. “You’re thinking. When I didn’t ask you to.”

His throat works as he swallows.

Rocco steps forward before he can finish the sentence. “I’ll handle it,” he says evenly. “I’m not afraid of the mafia princess.”

Good.

I don’t even look at Rocco. My attention stays locked on Marco.

“You see that?” I say to him. “That’s what competence looks like.”

Marco’s face drains of color.

“You question my decisions again,” I continue, lowering my voice until it’s barely more than a breath, “and I won’t bother explaining the consequences.”

I step closer.

Close enough that he has to tilt his head up to meet my eyes.

“You won’t be transferred,” I add. “You won’t be demoted.”

I smile faintly.

“I’ll just remove the part of you that keeps making noise.”

Marco nods fast. “Understood. Boss.”

“Good.”

I turn away like he’s already forgotten.

As I walk, I start issuing orders without looking back.

“Clean the west hall. Remove the bodies. Burn the clothes. Fix the cameras. I want this house looking untouched by morning.”

“Yes, boss.”

Men scatter instantly.

I take the stairs two at a time, my thoughts heavier than the blood on my sleeve.

Vincenzo Moretti tried to assassinate his own daughter.

That’s the thought that keeps looping.

Aria isn’t some soft pawn. She’s a killer—trained, sharpened, molded by his hand. His favorite weapon, whether he admits it or not.

And now he’s put a price on her head.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

Public.

A chain bounty.

That’s not discipline.

That’s extermination.

It doesn’t make sense.

Vincenzo has always been careful. Strategic. Slow. He’s tested borders for years, nudged territory lines, probed defenses—but never this. Never open war. Never emotional moves.

And this?

This is emotional.

Which means something went wrong.

I stop at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing hard enough to feel the wood bite into my palm.

He should’ve come for his princess himself.

If Aria truly betrayed him—if she’d compromised his empire—he would’ve hunted her personally. Made an example of it. He wouldn’t outsource something this important.

Unless…

Unless killing her isn’t the goal.

Unless flushing something out is.

Unless I am.

The realization settles heavy in my gut.

Vincenzo Moretti doesn’t throw pieces off the board.

He sacrifices them to reposition the king.

I exhale slowly.

Aria thinks she’s been outlawed.

Maybe she has.

Or maybe she’s bait.

Either way, the result is the same.

I reach my office door and pause.

Her father just turned his deadliest weapon against itself.

And he did it on my doorstep.

I don’t like not knowing the endgame.

I don’t like that Aria is in the middle of it.

And I really don’t like that I’ve already chosen a side.

I push the door open.

“Whatever you’re planning,” I mutter under my breath, already reaching for my phone,

“You just dragged me into it.”

And God help anyone who comes for her now.