Salvatore's POV
'I did not raise a stupid man.'
Her words echoed in my head.
But I knew she was right. If I killed Massimo now, it wouldn't save Francesca.
It would just be the starting gun for a war that would leave her, and the baby, dead in the crossfire.
Domenico would never let the blood of his son go unavenged.
He would burn the entire city down to get to us.
It would also be predictable.
And predictable men die.
.
Later that morning, I called Andrew into my office.
I looked at Andrew. His jaw was tight, eyes scanning the room.
"Andrew," I said, turning my attention to him. "I need you on a different detail. Personal protection."
Andrew straightened, his hand resting instinctively near his hip. "Who's the target?"
"Francesca."
He froze, his expression shifting from business to personal alarm. "Francesca? Is there a hit on her? Do you have a name?"
"Not a hit," I said, walking over to the window that overlooked the vineyard.
"Not yet. But Domenico knows about the baby. He called it his grandchild. That makes her a resource in his eyes. He won't stop until he controls her, or the child."
I turned back to the room. "She is not leaving this estate without you. If she goes to the doctor, you go. If she wants coffee in town, you go. You breathe the air before she does. Are we clear?"
Andrew nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. "Understood, Sal. I won't let her out of my sight."
"It's not just about stopping a bullet," I said, holding his gaze.
"She's scared. She's going to hate the cage we're building around her. You need to be the wall between her and the fear, but you can't be the prison guard. She needs to feel safe, not trapped."
"I'll keep her safe," Andrew said softly. The way he said it, without bravado, made me study him closer.
I'd known Andrew for years, we had grown up together, his Father, had been my Dad's best friend, same way he was mine.
Also, he had known 'Cesca since she was but a babe. This assignment was therefore personal to him.
.
Later that afternoon, I found Francesca sitting in the solarium, staring out at the overcast sky. She looked so small in the oversized armchair, her hands folded protectively over her stomach.
"Cesca," I said softly.
She flinched, turning wide, tear-stained eyes toward me. When she saw it was me, she slumped, exhaling a shaky breath. "Sal. You startled me."
I walked over, crouching beside her chair so I wouldn't loom over her. I noticed a stack of envelopes on the side table, linen, expensive, stamped with a wax seal I recognized immediately.
Enzo Domenico. He was playing the role of the concerned grandfather-to-be while his son threatened my family.
Francesca saw me looking at the envelopes and hastily snatched them up, crushing them against her chest as if they were radioactive.
"They just keep coming," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"The postman, a courier on a motorcycle… even flowers. He says he just wants to talk. He says he wants to provide for the baby."
"He doesn't want to provide, Cesca. He wants to own," I said, keeping my voice low. "If he buys the baby, he owns you. And he owns us."
She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear tracking down her pale cheek.
"I'm so scared, Sal. What if he takes him? What if he takes the baby away from me?"
"He won't," I said, the steel in my voice surprising even me.
"I promise you that. Over my dead body does that monster touch your child."
Before I could say more, the heavy oak door creaked open. Andrew stepped inside, moving with a silent economy of motion that reminded me he was the best in the business.
He didn't look at me; his eyes were fixed on Francesca, scanning her for threats the way a hawk scans a field.
For a moment, the air in the room shifted. The sheer terror on Francesca's face seemed to fracture, replaced by a flicker of relief. She looked at Andrew not as a guard, but as family.
Andrew stepped fully into the room, his presence instantly shifting the atmosphere from familial anxiety to fortress-like security. He stopped a respectful distance from Francesca, his hands loose at his sides, but his eyes were scanning the room, checking the locks on the windows, assessing the shadows.
"Francesca," he said softly, his voice a low rumble, "Salvatore has assigned me to your protection detail."
Francesca looked up at him, her fingers still clutching the crumpled envelopes against her chest.
For a second, I saw the resistance flare in her eyes, the natural instinct of a woman who already felt like a prisoner to rebel against a jailer.
She looked from Andrew to me, a spark of defiance flaring in her wet eyes.
"A protection detail? So, I'm a prisoner now? I can't even go to the grocery store without a shadow?"
"It's not a prison, Francesca," I said, keeping my voice even. "It's a shield."
She let out a shaky, humorless laugh and looked back at Andrew.
"And you? Are you going to follow me into the bathroom? Stand outside my bedroom door?"
"Yes, if I have to," Andrew said, he said staring her down and winning the eye challenge, although, his tone unfailingly polite, with his posture relaxing slightly to seem less like a soldier and more like a man.
"I respect your privacy. My job is to ensure the space around you is safe before you enter it, and to remain close enough that if anyone intends to harm you, they have to go through me first."
He took a half-step closer, his eyes softening in a way I hadn't seen from him in years. It wasn't the look of a mercenary; it was the look of a man who hated seeing a woman cry.
"And I am not your jailer," he added gently.
"I am the person who stands between you and the people who want to hurt you. That is all."
Francesca's lower lip trembled, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had arrived. She looked at Andrew, really looked at him, and saw something solid in a world that had turned to quicksand.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore," she whispered, the confession barely audible.
Andrew took another step closer, slow and deliberate, giving her all the time in the world to pull away.
You won't be," he said, his voice dropping an octave, private and intimate.
"Not while I'm breathing. You have my word."
Francesca let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders dropping as she finally allowed herself to lean back against the chair.
The terror was still there, shadowing her eyes, but the panic had receded, replaced by a fragile trust.
I watched the silent exchange between them, the way she looked to him for an anchor, the way he positioned himself between her and the door.
It wasn't just duty in Andrew's eyes. It was personal. I filed the observation away in the back of my mind; right now, I didn't care if he was in love with her, as long as he kept her alive.