The rain hadn't stopped since dawn.
It fell in cold sheets over the Rossi estate, soaking the earth and turning the cemetery ground to mud. Black umbrellas sprouted like dark blossoms among the mourners, shivering beneath the weight of grief. The storm blurred everything—the headstones, the trees, the somber faces—but nothing could soften the heaviness clinging to the air.
A funeral was always somber, yet this one carried a different weight. Beneath the mourning black and murmured condolences was the unspoken truth: Daniel Rossi's death had left a dangerous vacuum in a world that thrived on shadows and power.
Charlotte Rossi—Lottie to those who had known her since childhood—stood rigid at the edge of her brother's grave. Her hands, gloved in black leather, clenched around the handle of her umbrella as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. The priest's words blurred into the storm, but she didn't need them. The past week had been a blur of arrangements and condolences, of whispers in hushed Italian and English, of men who kissed her cheeks with sympathy but whose eyes already looked past her, toward what Daniel had left behind.
Daniel.
Her only brother.
Her only family.
The name sat like a stone in her throat. She swallowed against it, but the taste of loss lingered bitter, unrelenting. Daniel had never been perfect—she had known his temper, his secrets, the late nights that reeked of smoke and danger—but he had been hers. Her protector, her anchor. And now he was beneath the earth, leaving her exposed.
Her lips parted around a whisper. "Stay strong, Lottie."
The words were almost lost in the storm.
A shadow shifted at the far edge of the gathering. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was. He stood taller than the rest, broad-shouldered and unbothered by the rain that lashed against him, the storm bending to his presence rather than the other way around. Gabriel Cavelli. Gabe.
Her pulse stuttered. Her grip on the umbrella's handle tightened until her knuckles whitened.
Of course he was here. He was always where he wasn't wanted.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as he drew nearer. Gabriel Cavelli didn't blend in like the others in their world; he commanded space the way a wolf commands a clearing. His reputation clung to him—ruthless, loyal to few, feared by many. The Cavelli who had survived three assassination attempts before he was thirty. The Cavelli who sat in council meetings like a king without a throne. The Cavelli her brother had trusted, though Lottie had never understood why.
He reached the grave, his tall frame blotting out the rain as he came to stand beside her. She didn't turn to him, but she felt his presence like heat through the chill.
"Charlotte," he said, his voice smooth and low, carrying over the storm with unnatural steadiness.
Her jaw tensed. She kept her gaze on the wet earth. "You shouldn't be here."
"I had to be."
The priest droned on, words of eternal rest muffled by the drumming storm. Soil was shoveled onto the casket with dull thuds. Lottie flinched at each one, her heart constricting with every sound. The permanence of it settled over her like the weight of the rain.
When the final rites ended, mourners drifted away in clusters. Some kissed her cheek, their condolences warm in tone but hollow in truth. Others avoided her eyes entirely, already thinking about what Daniel had left behind—debts, enemies, secrets.
Lottie stayed rooted, her boots sinking slightly into the mud. She would not be the first to walk away. She would not abandon Daniel in death the way the world seemed eager to do.
A larger shadow fell over her. Gabe had stepped closer, his umbrella angled to shield them both from the storm. She hated the relief it brought, hated that his scent—leather and smoke, sharp and masculine—wrapped around her senses.
"You need to leave with me," he said quietly, voice threaded with steel.
Her head turned sharply, her dark eyes burning. "Excuse me?"
"It isn't safe for you here. Not now. Not after Daniel."
The name sliced through her like glass. "And you think I'm safer with you?"
"Yes." The word came instantly, with such finality that she almost stumbled back. His eyes, cold and unwavering, locked on hers. "I promised him."
She froze, breath caught. "You think a promise gives you ownership of me?" she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "I don't belong to you, Cavelli."
"No," he admitted softly, almost too softly, "but you're under my protection now. That's the only thing keeping you alive."
Her chest tightened, her fury a fragile mask over something more dangerous. Fear. Not just of what lurked in the shadows of their world, but of the way part of her believed him.
"I don't want your protection," she snapped.
"That doesn't matter." His voice was low, almost a growl. "What matters is that you'll have it."
For a moment, the storm seemed to hold its breath. Rain hammered down, mud clung to their shoes, and still he stood there, immovable, unshaken. A man who had decided her fate without asking her, the same way he decided everything else—with brutal certainty.
Lottie's chest heaved. She wanted to scream, to claw at him, to run. But his words anchored her in place: I promised him.
Her brother's ghost lingered in the vow. And though she hated Gabe, though she hated every piece of this moment, she could not unravel the thread of loyalty that had bound him to Daniel.
Gabe stepped closer to the grave, his eyes fixed on the fresh mound of earth. His voice dropped low, meant for the dead and no one else. "I don't care if she hates me, Daniel. I don't care if she fights me every step of the way. I gave you my word, and I'll burn this city to the ground before I break it."
The vow struck like a blade in the silence that followed. Not tender. Not gentle. Ruthless.
Lottie shivered.
By the time the cemetery emptied, the storm had grown worse. Most mourners hurried to their cars, eager to leave the mud and grief behind. Only Lottie remained, her hand brushing the cold stone as if she could hold her brother through it. Gabe lingered a few feet away, silent, a sentinel. He didn't press her further, but his presence was inescapable.
At last, she turned, her coat heavy with rain, her hair plastered to her face. She looked at him, really looked, and saw the man who had inserted himself into her grief without invitation.
And though every instinct screamed to run, a deeper truth unsettled her.
Part of her believed him.
That terrified her more than anything.
From a sleek black car across the road, Richard Vitale watched with sharp eyes. His cigar glowed against the gray rain, the smoke curling upward like a taunt to the heavens. He'd seen the way Cavelli had stood too close to the Rossi girl, seen the unspoken claim in his posture.
A smile crept across his lips, cold and knowing.
The game had only just begun.