Page 6 of Mafia Heir's Broken Vows

"Your brother—" I start, but the words catch in my throat. The weight of his name is a noose tightening around my neck.

"Don't you dare." Her voice trembles, her rage barely masking something else—grief. "You don't get to use him as an excuse. The blame game will not fly with me."

There are things she doesn't know, and there isn't time tonight to explain them. It hurt me to hurt her, and she'll never forgive me. I don't blame her for that.

I exhale slowly, dragging the guilt deeper into my chest. "It was never meant to be like this." Weak. Pathetic. A man like me should never sound like this. But it's all I have.

"No," she says, her laugh bitter, humorless. "It wasn't. But you made your choice."

Her words are a blade twisting in old wounds. I didn't have a fucking choice. My hands were tied, my path already carved in blood long before I even met her. But none of that matters now. Not to her.

She steps closer, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. "Now it's too late to come stick your nose in my life."

I meet her glare, refusing to flinch. She thinks it's too late. She thinks I'll let her go. But she doesn't understand—there's no world, no life, no future where she isn't mine.

A server glides past,his silver tray reflecting the soft glow of the chandeliers. My eyes catch a folded note slipped discreetly under a crystal glass at Serafina's place setting. I snatch it without hesitation, my movements sharp and purposeful.

Unfolding it, the elegant scrawl is brief but damning:

He knows. Run.

I feel her presence beside me before I hear her. She leans in, reading over my shoulder, her breath catching audibly. "It's rude to read notes that aren't addressed to you," she snaps, her tone venomous as she snatches the paper from my hand.

Her gaze flits over the short message, her fingers trembling slightly as she grips the note too tightly. I watch her swallowhard, the mask she wears slipping just enough for me to see the fear she's trying to hide.

"Marco?" I murmur, my voice quiet but firm.

Her silence speaks volumes. She doesn't confirm it, but her gaze flickers to the edges of the room, where Marco's men linger like shadows. Her fingers tremble as they clutch the note too tightly, bending the edges as if she's trying to keep herself from unraveling. I don't need her to say it—I can piece it together easily enough.

My grip on her arm tightens, steady but commanding. "You're not leaving my sight," I growl, each word deliberate.

Her posture stiffens, her back straightening as she glares up at me, the fire in her eyes unmistakable. She rips her arm free, the sudden movement full of defiance.

"You lost the right to touch me years ago," she bites out, her voice rising just enough to attract a few glances from nearby tables.

I step closer, my tone dropping low enough to stay between us. "I didn't lose anything. But you're about to lose everything if you keep pushing me away."

Her breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling with unspoken words. I see the turmoil in her expression—fear, anger, maybe even desperation—but she refuses to let it surface.

"He's dangerous, Serafina," I say, my voice low, biting.

Her eyes blaze as she snaps back without hesitation. "Look who's talking."

The words cut deep, sharper than she probably intended, but I don't flinch. Instead, I meet her glare head-on, holding it steady as my thoughts churn. What does Marco know? Why the hell is she not running? Every instinct in me screams to get her out of here, but she's too damn stubborn to listen.

Her jaw tightens, her defiance hardening with every passing second. I watch her carefully, searching for a crack, a sign of thefear she's trying to bury. It's there—in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the tension in her shoulders. She's terrified, but of what? Him? Or me?

The note crumples in her hand, trembling with the same energy that's radiating off her in waves. She's not just scared. She's trapped, and for some reason, she won't let me pull her out.

I scan the room, my eyes catching the subtle movements of men in dark suits lurking near the edges of the crowd. Marco's men. The storm is closer than I thought.

Her voice finally breaks the quiet. "This isn't your problem, Alessandro. Leave it alone."

I laugh, cold and humorless. "Everything about you is my problem, Serafina. Don't forget that."

I step back, giving her just enough space to breathe, though my gaze remains locked on her.

She thinks I'll let her walk away. She's wrong. She doesn't understand—she never has. Marco knowing means she's already a target, a pawn in a game she's not equipped to survive. If she walks away now, I'll never get another chance to protect her, to fix the damage I've already caused.

---