(Leonardo POV)
I wasn't supposed to be here. Dons didn't walk into tenements that reeked of mildew and broken dreams. We sent soldiers for collections. We watched from marble towers while others waded through the filth.
But tonight, necessity wore my mother's face.
The Rossi apartment clung to me like wet fabric—bleach, cigarette ash, the metallic tang of fear-sweat. My men moved through the cramped space with predatory grace, their tailored suits a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling. Rico flanked my right, hand resting inside his jacket. Ready.
I stepped across the splintered threshold, expecting the usual scene. A man on his knees, babbling apologies and promises. Marco Rossi begging for mercy he didn't deserve, offering his hands, his life, anything to delay the inevitable.
Instead, I found defiance in a five-foot frame.
She stood between me and the couch where Marco Rossi hunched like a broken marionette, still clutching my mother's locket in his trembling hands. The daughter. Had to be. Same dark eyes as the thief, same stubborn line to her jaw.
But where Marco cowered, she blazed.
Her chin lifted as our gazes locked. Most men couldn't hold my stare for three seconds without their knees buckling. She didn't even flinch.
"Don Torrino." Her voice carried no tremor, no surrender. Low, steady, with an edge that wasn't quite defiance but certainly wasn't fear. "If you've come for my father, you'll have to go through me."
Behind her, Marco whimpered something in broken Italian. Pathetic syllables that died when she cut the air with her hand, silencing him without breaking our stare.
The air shifted. The scent of bleach and desperation gave way to something electric, dangerous. Something that made my pulse quicken in ways I hadn't felt in years.
I should have laughed. A slip of a woman thinking she could stand against me? It should have been insulting.
Instead, I was fascinated.
She was small, delicate even—but her presence filled the cramped room like smoke from a lit fuse. Dangerous because flame attracted attention. Dangerous because fire spread.
I moved closer, boots silent on threadbare carpet. The space contracted with each step, but she held her ground. Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat—rapid, but not panicked.
"Your father took something from me." My voice came out lower than intended, intimate in the suffocating closeness. "Do you understand what that means?"
Her gaze didn't waver, didn't search the room for evidence. She knew exactly what I was talking about.
"It means you came yourself." No hesitation, no plea for mercy. "Which makes it important. Important enough to kill for."
Something twisted in my chest—not quite amusement, sharper than intrigue. When had anyone last surprised me? When had anyone looked at me and seen not the monster, but the man driven to monstrous acts?
I studied the architecture of her face. The slope of her cheekbones, the determined set of her mouth, the way intelligence flickered behind those dark eyes like candlelight. Beautiful, yes, but beauty was common as dirt in my world. This was something else.
This was courage without stupidity. Strength without bravado.
Rico shifted behind me, leather holster creaking. "Boss?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My attention was wholly consumed by this woman who stood in my path like she had the right, like she commanded space that should have been mine by default.
For the first time in years, someone had made me pause.
For the first time in my life, someone had made me want to pause.