Chapter 10 - The Dragon's Bride
A massive Russian mercenary in black tactical gear burst through the broken frame, holding a short-barreled assault rifle.
Before he could raise his weapon, I stepped forward with every ounce of strength, rage, and love inside my body, swinging the heavy iron poker like a baseball bat.
CRACK!
The iron bar struck him directly across the side of his helmet, shattering his visor and sending him stumbling backward into the hallway, groaning in agony.
A second mercenary stepped over his fallen comrade, raising his sidearm toward my chest. "Bitch—"
THWIP! THWIP!
Two silenced gunshots echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
The second mercenary froze, two neat red holes appearing in the center of his chest, before he collapsed heavily onto the marble floor.
I gasped, dropping the iron poker, stepping back into the doorway.
At the end of the long hallway, walking through the smoke and red emergency lights, was a man.
His tailored suit was shredded, covered in dirt, salt water, and deep red blood. His left arm hung slightly limp, but in his right hand he held a smoking tactical pistol.
His dark hair was wild, his scarred jaw set in granite, his storm-grey eyes burning with an absolute, terrifying, divine fury.
It was Vincenzo.
"Vincenzo!" I screamed, tears blinding my vision as I flew down the hallway toward him.
He dropped his weapon onto the carpet, catching me in his good arm, lifting me completely off my feet and slamming me against his chest with a power that took my breath away.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his blood-stained collarbone, sobbing uncontrollably.
"You're alive... you're alive..." I wept hysterically.
"I promised you," Vincenzo rasped against my hair, his chest heaving as he held me with terrifying strength. "I promised you I would come home."
Behind him, Gabriel and six heavily armed Leonardi operators moved efficiently through the West Wing, securing the remaining rooms and clearing the house of threats.
"Pier 4 is completely secured, Don Vincenzo," Gabriel reported, stepping up to us, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Don Moretti is dead. The Russian cartel leadership has been wiped out. The war is over."
Vincenzo didn't look at Gabriel. He kept his arm tightly wrapped around my waist, his head resting against mine, his breath warm and steady against my skin.
Mrs. Gable stepped out of the bathroom, holding Leo in her arms.
The moment the baby saw his father, he let out a joyful, breathy squeak, reaching his small hands toward us. “Pa-pa! Ma-ma!”
Vincenzo let out a quiet, wet laugh—the first time I had ever heard him laugh—and reached over, pulling both me and Leo into his broad, powerful arms.
The baby nestled happily between our chests, resting one hand on my collarbone where my star-shaped scar was hidden, and his other small hand resting on his father’s dark dragon tattoo.
The darkness had failed. The past was paid for.
ONE YEAR LATER.
The summer sun over the Mediterranean Sea was brilliant, golden, and warm.
On the private cliffside terrace of the Leonardi estate in Naples, Italy, white silk curtains drifted softly in the warm ocean breeze. A long wooden dining table was laid out with fresh pasta, grilled seafood, and glasses of sparkling champagne.
Sitting at the head of the table was Vincenzo.
He wore a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark dragon tattoo glowing in the sunlight. His scar was still there, but the cold, haunted shadow that had lived in his eyes for years had vanished completely, replaced by a deep, unshakeable serenity.
Beside him sat me.
I wore a simple, breathtaking yellow sun dress, my dark hair falling in soft waves over my shoulders, the black diamond dragon ring glittering on my finger.
On the soft green grass near the table, two-year-old Leo was chasing a chubby orange cat—Barnaby—giggling hysterically as he tumbled over his own small feet.
Beside him, sleeping peacefully in a white wicker bassinet under the shade of an olive tree, was our three-month-old daughter, Elena.
"She has your dimple," Vincenzo whispered, setting his champagne glass down and leaning over my chair, wrapping his arm around my waist.
I leaned back into his chest, resting my head against his shoulder, looking out at the endless blue ocean below us.
"And she has your eyes," I smiled, turning my head to kiss his scarred cheek.
From the end of the terrace, Mrs. Gable walked out carrying a fresh plate of warm bread, smiling warmly at our small, perfect family.
"Don Vincenzo," Mrs. Gable said softly. "The financial reports from the legitimate shipping lines have arrived. The board is asking for your signature."
Vincenzo didn't look at the papers. He didn't reach for his phone.
He simply tightened his arm around my waist, pulled me closer against his heart, and looked down at his son playing in the grass and his daughter sleeping under the olive tree.
"Tell the board to wait," Vincenzo murmured softly, his lips pressing a long, warm kiss against my temple. "The Don is busy living."
I smiled, taking his dark, dragon-inked hand in mine, locking our fingers together under the golden Italian sun.
My mother had told me to walk away from the dragons.
May you like
She was wrong.
Because sometimes, the dragon isn't the monster waiting in the dark. Sometimes, the dragon is the man who builds a fortress to keep you safe, gives you a home when you are lost, and loves you until the end of time.
