Page 19 of Fierce Hearts

I blinked, suddenly remembering where I was. In Grayson Cassaro's car. The morning after I'd slept with him. My best friend's brother. A man connected to a world I'd spent years running from.

A world that was now reaching for me again.

"It's nothing," I lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face. "Just work. We lost a patient I was fond of."

Gray's expression softened with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. Were you close?"

"As close as you can be to someone you're trying to save," I said, the lie coming easy. I'd had years of practice, after all. "It happens in my line of work, but it never gets easier."

"I can imagine." His thumb traced a small circle on my arm. "Is there anything I can do?"

I shook my head. "No, but thank you."

His phone buzzed then, saving me from having to maintain the charade. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

"I need to take this," he said apologetically. "Business."

I nodded, grateful for the distraction. As he answered the call, his voice dropping into that smooth, professional tone I recognized, I turned back to the window.

Marco was dead.

My cousin. The one who'd stepped up when I'd wanted to step away. The one who'd protected me when I was a child from his own father alongside my own. The one who'd taught me how to shoot a gun when I was ten, his hands steady over mine as he showed me how to aim, saying I needed to know how to protect myself no matter what. The one who'd looked at me with a mixture of pride and disappointment when I told him I didn't want to stay after my father died.

"Family is forever, Sofia," he'd said. "You can't just walk away, not fully. But I know this is what you want. And I understand. You need to do this. So I'll do this."

And now he was gone.

I closed my eyes, memories washing over me. My father, Antonio Savoca, had been a force of nature. Feared and respected in equal measure. He'd taken over the family business when his own father was gunned down, and he'd built it into something formidable. Something dangerous.

And then there was my mother. Gabriella Passeri. The sole survivor of the Passeri family massacre—a massacre orchestrated by my own family. She'd been eighteen when the Savocas wiped out her family. Beautiful, terrified, and alone. My father had seen her and decided to claim her as a prize. A trophy wife from a fallen family. A reminder to all what happened to those who tried to oppose them.

He'd married her, not out of love but out of lust and a desire for control. A beautiful woman he could bend to his will. And she had bent—outwardly at least. She'd learned to be the perfect mafia wife. Silent when needed, charming when required, and gave him an heir.

But she was never fully one of them. The Savocas had made sure she knew it. Only my father's protection had kept her safe. Only his word had prevented her from joining her family in death.

Unlike the Donatis and other families who kept their women in the dark, the Savocas believed in full immersion. The women were expected to be just as involved as the men. Just as loyal. Just as ruthless if needed, although they rarely actually got blood on their hands. But also compliant, giving their bodies and lives for the family if it was demanded.

My mother had played her part well, but there was always a softness to her that the others lacked.

A softness she'd passed to me, along with her warnings.

"This life will consume you if you let it, Sofia," she'd whispered to me on countless nights. "It will take everything and leave nothing but blood and regret."

But my father had other plans for me. He'd seen my potential early, when Marco had taught me to shoot. My steady hands were an asset in his eyes. My ability to blend in, to appear harmless. By twelve, I was running errands for him. By thirteen, I was delivering messages to those who needed reminding of their debts. By fourteen, I'd made my first kill.

No one suspected the teenage girl with the innocent smile. No one saw the danger until it was too late.

My mother had hated it. Had fought with my father over it. But in the Savoca family, the patriarch's word was law. And Antonio Savoca had decided his daughter would be his secret weapon.

When he died—gunned down by a rival family when I was only seventeen, supposedly a territory dispute—everything changed. My mother, no longer protected by her husband's status, fled to Italy. Back to her roots, away from the target on her back. She'd urged me to leave too. And I’d refused.

"You don't have to be what he made you," she'd said as she packed her bags. "You can be something else. Someone else."

And I'd tried. God, how I'd tried.

My father, in what turned out to be his final act of control only a week before his death, had named me his underboss—replacing Uncle Ernesto after a disastrous decision by my uncle that had cost several Savoca lives. At seventeen, I'd been positioned to take over if anything happened to him. A contingency plan he'd never shared with me.

I found out that he'd only done it as a temporary measure while he decided on another family member more suitable for the position.

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