Vane's end was as messy and poetic as I'd ordered. Viktor oversaw it personally. The message was delivered not just to Vane, but to every corner of the city: an attack on Don Rossi was an attack on the very concept of order, and the retaliation would be biblical.
The physical wounds healed quickly. The gash at my temple closed into a thin, pale line soon hidden by my hair. The bruise on my ribs faded to a yellow ghost. But the psychic shift in Ava was more permanent. She stopped asking "how was your day." Now, when I came home, her eyes would perform a swift, head-to-toe scan, a silent diagnostic for new damage. She had become a sentinel, her love armored in a new, watchful steel.
I thought I'd contained the knowledge of the attack. The members at the club were discreet, and a dead assassin tells no tales. But I'd forgotten the oldest, most pervasive network in my world: the gossip of loyal soldiers. Word traveled up the chain, from the enforcers who cleaned the bathroom to their captains, and from there, on swift, worried wings, to a villa in Sicily.
Three days after the incident, my father returned to the city.
He didn't call. His black Maybach simply appeared in the private garage, disgorging him and two of his most ancient, fearsome retainers. He took the elevator directly to the penthouse, his face a mask of stormy calm.
Ava and I were in the middle of a late breakfast. She was reading the financial section, trying to understand the markets I sometimes manipulated. I was scrolling through security reports. The elevator's soft chime was an anomaly at this hour.
When the doors opened and Enzo Rossi strode out, the air in the room changed. It became heavier, charged with a paternal authority that predated my own reign. He was dressed for travel, a slight rumple to his impeccable suit, his eyes zeroing in on me with laser focus.
"Papà," I said, standing. "This is a surprise."
He ignored the pleasantry. He crossed the room in long strides, his hands coming up to frame my face, his thumbs tilting my head gently to the side. His gaze was not worried, but forensic, examining the faint, nearly invisible scar at my temple that no one else could see.
"They told me you were jumped. In a bathroom. With a wire." His voice was deceptively soft. The Sicilian accent thickened with his anger.
"It was handled," I said, pulling my head back gently but firmly. I was a Don, not a child. "The man is dead. The one who hired him is… creatively deceased. The lesson has been taught."
"The lesson," he seethed, finally dropping his hands, turning to pace like a caged lion. "The lesson is that a maggot like Silas Vane thought he could get to my daughter! That he saw an opening!" He whirled on me, his blue eyes blazing. "This is what happens, Ling. This is the price of distraction!"
Ava, who had been sitting perfectly still, slowly put her newspaper down. The sound was quiet, but it drew my father's furious gaze.
"You think this is about her?" he said, gesturing toward Ava, his tone not accusatory toward her, but toward the situation.
"This is about respect," I countered, my own voice turning to ice. "And respect has been restored. With extreme prejudice."
"Respect?" He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Respect is not having to prove your strength in a toilet, figlia mia! Respect is them being too terrified to even think your name in the context of harm!" He stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping slightly, the anger giving way to a profound, weary fear I rarely saw in him. "When your mother… when I lost her, the only thing that kept me from burning the world was you. A tiny, fierce thing in a crib. I built this empire not for power, but for a wall around you. And now…" His eyes went to Ava again, and the anger didn't return, just a deep, complex sorrow. "Now the wall has a gate. And they are shooting arrows through it at you."
The truth of his fear hung in the air, raw and undeniable. He wasn't angry at Ava. He was terrified for me. The attack had confirmed his deepest paternal nightmare.
Ava stood up. She didn't speak. She walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with water from the filter, and brought it to my father. She held it out to him, her expression calm, unflinching.
He stared at the glass, then at her face. The simple, domestic act in the midst of his tempest seemed to disarm him. He took the glass.
"Mr. Rossi," she said, her voice clear and steady. "The gate isn't a weakness. It's a new guard tower." She looked at me, then back at him. "I'm not an arrow they can shoot. I'm the reason she sees them coming. I'm the one who checks the perimeter every night. Not with a gun. With this." She tapped her temple. "I see the patterns they don't think a woman like me can see. The financial trails, the nervous tells, the gaps in the story. Silas Vane made a mistake because he was looking at her and seeing a woman in love. He wasn't looking at me and seeing the detective who would have connected him to the assassin through a shell company and a laundered payment within forty-eight hours."
She paused, letting her words sink in. My father watched her, his fury replaced by a dawning, shrewd assessment.
"The attack happened," Ava continued. "And it will probably happen again. This is the world you both live in. But she's not just protecting me anymore. We're protecting each other. And an empire guarded on two fronts is stronger than a wall with only one set of eyes on it."
The silence that followed was profound. My father took a slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving Ava. I saw it—the moment the shift occurred. He wasn't just seeing my lover, my "distraction." He was seeing a potential asset. A partner. A new, unexpected piece on the family board.
He set the glass down carefully. "You would do that?" he asked, his voice quiet now. "You would look into our shadows? For her?"
"Not for her," Ava corrected softly, her gaze finding mine, warm and fierce. "With her."
A slow, genuine smile, one of deep, weary relief, finally broke through the storm on my father's face. He looked at me, and I saw the fear recede, replaced by a pride so vast it filled the room.
"Bene," he murmured. "Alright." He walked to me, placed a hand on my undamaged cheek. "You are hurt, but you are standing. And you are not standing alone." He kissed my forehead, the way he had when I was small and had scraped a knee. Then he turned to Ava, and to my shock, he opened his arms.
After a heartbeat, she stepped into the embrace. He held her tightly for a moment, a benediction and a welcome. "You watch her back, bella," he said gruffly. "And I will watch both of yours from across the ocean."
He left as suddenly as he came, the purpose of his frantic journey fulfilled. Not to scold, not to take over, but to see with his own eyes that the foundation still held. And he had seen more than that. He had seen it reinforced.
When the elevator doors closed, Ava let out a shaky breath and leaned against me. I wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her head.
"You called me a guard tower," I murmured.
"You are," she said, her voice muffled against my chest. "And I'm the radar system. A little less glamorous, but just as necessary."
I held her, feeling not the fragility my father feared, but a formidable, united strength. The attack had been meant to isolate me, to show a crack. Instead, it had brought my father rushing back to our side, and it had unveiled the true mettle of the woman I loved. We weren't just a Don and her consort. We were a syndicate of two. And the city, still reeling from Vane' very vivid demise, had no idea what was coming for it next.
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