The deafening silence before execution was broken not by a gunshot, but by the heavy, rhythmic thunder of automatic fire tearing through the haze.
The deafening silence before execution was broken not by a gunshot, but by the heavy, rhythmic thunder of automatic fire tearing through the haze.
TA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TAK!
The man standing over Aaliyah vanished—literally jerked sideways by a hail of high-caliber rounds that turned the concrete wall behind him into a spray of dust and crimson. The third attacker attempted to spin around, but a single, lethal shot caught him in the throat. He crumpled without a sound.
Aaliyah kept her body locked over Leo, her ears ringing so violently she felt nauseous. Her lungs burned from the acrid smoke of burnt gunpowder and tear gas.
Through the haze, a looming shadow materialized. Long black wool coat. Pristine leather gloves stained with fresh blood. Heavy boots stepping over the bodies with the measured, terrifying grace of a apex predator.
Roman Rossi.
His custom Sig Sauer was held at low ready, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. His dark eyes—normally cold and calculating—were wide, wild, and fixed entirely on the small bundle curled beneath Aaliyah’s battered frame.
“Marco!” Roman’s voice roared through the garage, cutting through the static ringing in Aaliyah’s ears like thunder. “Secure the perimeter! Anyone breathing who isn't ours gets a bullet in the head!”
“Boss! Clear!” Marco’s voice shouted back from the darkness.
Roman dropped to his knees. The posture was entirely unnatural for the Don of the Rossi syndicate—a man who never bowed, never knelt, never lowered himself for anyone. But he dropped onto the grease-stained floor, his hands hovering over Aaliyah and Leo like he was afraid to touch them, afraid they would shatter into dust.
“Aaliyah…” Roman’s deep voice was cracked, raw with a panic he had never shown in his thirty-eight years of life. “Leo… speak to me.”
Aaliyah slowly pushed herself up, her left arm screaming in agony from where she had taken the brunt of the grenade’s blast. She was covered in grey soot, dry blood, and gravel, but she didn't look at Roman. She uncoiled her body just enough to look down at the little boy tucked into her lap.
Leo was completely pale, his oversized jacket torn, his dark eyes wide. But his hands were still gripping Aaliyah’s sweater with a vice-like lock.
“Leo?” Roman whispered, reaching out a hand. “Leo, it’s Dad. I’ve got you. Come here.”
In the past, whenever violence broke out—whenever the shadow of Roman’s dangerous world touched his life—Leo would sprint to his father, burying his face in Roman’s coat, seeking the absolute power his father represented.
This time, the seven-year-old boy didn't even look at Roman.
Leo pulled himself tighter into Aaliyah’s chest, hiding his face against her neck, his small body trembling as he buried himself in the only person who had thrown herself between his body and a military-grade grenade.
Roman froze. His hand stayed suspended in the air, his fingers trembling slightly. The rejection cut deeper than any bullet ever could.
Aaliyah winced as she shifted her weight, coughing violently. “He’s… he’s unharmed, Mr. Rossi. I made sure… he didn't take any shrapnel.”
Roman looked up from his son to Aaliyah. He saw the black powder burns on her jacket, the blood dripping from her ear where her eardrum had ruptured, and the calm, fiercely protective fire burning in her hazel eyes. She wasn't a trained soldier. She was an underpaid, twenty-two-year-old nanny from the slums of North Chicago who had taken a bullet and a grenade for a mafia prince.
“You shielded him,” Roman said, his voice barely a breath.
May you like
“He’s just a baby,” Aaliyah gritted out, her vision swimming as adrenaline began to fade, giving way to excruciating pain. “He shouldn't… shouldn't have to die for your wars.”
As her eyes rolled back and her body went limp, Roman caught her before she hit the ground, scooping both her and Leo into his arms.
