Chapter 8 - When the Whole City Turned Against Them
The club became chaos.
People screamed.
Tables overturned.
Glass shattered.
I dropped to the floor.
Aleandro covered me with his body.
"Stay down."
"I can help."
"Not now."
A gunman rushed forward.
Vincent stopped him.
Marco dragged David behind the bar.
Sofia disappeared into a side corridor.
The lights returned.
Antonio's men had surrounded us.
Then sirens sounded outside.
Rafael looked toward the doors.
"What did you do?"
David smiled.
"Called the police."
Rafael's face turned pale.
"You don't understand who I know."
"Maybe."
David pointed toward the television.
Every major news station had begun showing the leaked files.
Names.
Accounts.
Photographs.
Bank transfers.
Antonio Vitali.
Rafael DeLuca.
Everything.
The organization that had controlled Manhattan's criminal underworld for decades was collapsing in real time.
Rafael looked at me.
"This is your fault."
"No."
I looked at him.
"It's yours."
He raised his gun.
Aleandro stepped in front of me.
Rafael fired.
Aleandro staggered.
I screamed.
He fell.
Everything stopped.
I ran to him.
Blood covered his shirt.
"No."
He looked up.
"Emma."
"Don't talk."
"I'm okay."
"You are not okay."
He smiled faintly.
"I've had worse."
"You better not die."
"I wasn't planning to."
Police flooded the building.
Rafael was arrested.
Antonio escaped.
At least temporarily.
Aleandro was rushed to the hospital.
I stayed.
Hours passed.
When the doctor finally emerged, I stood.
"He's alive."
My knees nearly gave out.
"Is he—"
"He lost blood, but he'll recover."
I cried for the first time in months.
Not because I was broken.
Because I wasn't.
Three days later, Aleandro opened his eyes.
I was asleep beside him.
He whispered my name.
I woke.
"You scared me."
"Good morning."
"Don't joke."
He smiled.
I took his hand.
"You almost died."
"I know."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I love you."
His expression changed.
I realized what I'd said.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he squeezed my hand.
"I love you too."
The words felt different this time.
Not like chains.
Like a door opening.
When he was discharged, he moved into a quieter apartment.
No guards outside every door.
No surveillance.
No people checking every restaurant.
He began dismantling the most dangerous parts of his organization.
Legal businesses.
Security firms.
Real estate.
Restaurants.
The world still called him a mafia boss.
But he was slowly becoming something else.
A man who didn't want to inherit his father's war.
A man who wanted to end it.
I went back to work.
Then I quit.
I opened a small restaurant of my own.
Nothing extravagant.
Twenty tables.
Warm lighting.
No cracked chandelier.
David recovered and became an important witness.
Vincent retired.
Sofia moved somewhere sunny.
Marco stayed.
Mostly because he said nobody else could tolerate Aleandro.
Months later, Antonio was captured.
The last piece of the empire fell.
Aleandro stood beside me when the news broke.
"It's over."
I looked at him.
"Really?"
He nodded.
"For the first time."
Then he took my hand.
"Come home."
I smiled.
"Where?"
He pointed toward the restaurant.
"Here."
I laughed.
"You mean my home."
He smiled.
"Our home."
May you like
I didn't correct him.
Because for the first time, the word didn't frighten me.
