The night air was cold and sharp, smelling of damp earth and clipped boxwood. It clung to Sandro’s skin, a chilling premonition that seeped into the ballistic vest he wore beneath his black shirt.
Crouched behind the ornate stone wall that marked the outer perimeter of Riccardo’s estate, he watched the rhythmic sweep of a searchlight cut a brilliant white swath across the manicured lawns.
Each pass was a heartbeat. His own was a frantic, silent drum against his ribs.
Beside him, Enzo was a study in stillness, a shadow carved from the deeper darkness of the ancient oaks. He held a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes, his breathing slow and even.
Behind them, Leo and Marco, two of his father’s most loyal men Enzo had pulled from the shadows, were preparing the cutting tool, its metallic clicks unnervingly loud in the oppressive quiet.
Sandro’s gaze, however, was fixed on Juliette.
She was crouched between him and Enzo, her focus absolute as she monitored a tablet displaying the estate’s security schematics—the ones her relentless research had unearthed.
Her face, illuminated by the screen’s faint blue glow, was pale and strained, but her eyes held a fire that burned away the fear.
She wore practical black, her hair pulled back tightly, and for a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, he didn’t see the brilliant food critic who had dismantled his life and then rebuilt it.
He saw a soldier. He had done this to her. He had dragged her into his war.
The guilt was a physical weight, heavier than the pistol holstered at his hip.
“Patrol’s turning the southeast corner,” Enzo murmured, lowering the binoculars. “We have a four-minute window. Leo, now.”
Leo moved to the wrought iron fence, the hydraulic cutters whining softly as they bit into the metal. The sound was a hornet’s nest in the silence.
Sandro’s every muscle tensed, his hand instinctively going to the grip of his weapon. He scanned the grounds, the distant, muffled sound of music and laughter from the main house a surreal counterpoint to their deadly intrusion.
Riccardo was entertaining his captains tonight, celebrating his uncontested rule. A feast for a king in a stolen castle. The irony was as bitter as bile.
The fence groaned and gave way. A gap, just wide enough to slip through.
“Juliette,” Sandro whispered, his voice rough.
She looked up, her eyes finding his in the dark. “I’m ready.”
He wanted to tell her to go back. To run and hide and forget his name. But he had tried that already, and she had refused, her belief in him a shield he hadn’t known he needed.
Now, her strength was both his anchor and his greatest terror.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She nodded once, her jaw tight.
They moved like ghosts across the open lawn, using the long shadows of cypress trees as cover. The searchlight swept past, its beam passing just feet from their position, and Sandro pressed Juliette against the rough bark of a tree, shielding her with his body.
He could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his chest, or maybe it was his own. In that frozen moment, their breaths mingling in a white puff of air, the world narrowed to the two of them.
The house, Riccardo, the fight for his birthright—it all faded into a dull roar behind the overwhelming, primal need to keep her safe.
The light moved on. They ran.
Their first objective was a small, detached pump house for the estate’s elaborate fountains, nestled in a grove of magnolias. It was the blind spot Juliette had found, a single dark node in an otherwise impenetrable web of surveillance.
They slipped inside, the air thick with the smell of chlorine and ozone. It was their last moment of relative safety before the plan fractured into two dangerous paths.
Enzo stood guard at the door while Leo and Marco checked their gear. Sandro turned to Juliette, pulling her deeper into the shadows.
He took her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the sharp line of her jaw. Her skin was cold.
“You remember the route?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machinery.
“Service corridor three, past the wine cellar, to the auxiliary generator room,” she recited, her voice steady despite the tremor he could feel running through her.
“Create a power surge in the west wing. It will trigger a localized alarm and draw the internal guards away from the grand hall.”
“And then?”
“I wait for your signal. If I don’t get it in twenty minutes, I get out. I go to the fallback point.”
Twenty minutes. An eternity. He studied her face, memorizing the determined set of her mouth, the flicker of fear and love in her eyes.
He saw the woman who had tasted his food and seen the emptiness inside him. The woman who had seen the monster he could become and hadn’t run.
“This is insane,” he breathed, the words torn from a place deep inside him. “You should be a thousand miles from here.”
“There’s nowhere I’d be safe if you’re not,” she whispered back, her hands coming up to grip his wrists. “We do this together, or not at all. You said it yourself, Sandro. There’s no more running.”
Her words were his own, thrown back at him with unwavering conviction. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.
The scent of her—something clean and uniquely Juliette—filled his senses, a stark contrast to the metallic smell of oil and weaponry that clung to him.
“After this,” he said, a raw promise. “When this is done… I’ll cook for you. Anything you want. On a quiet night, with no locked doors.”
A single tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
“A simple pasta,” she managed, her voice thick. “With the sauce your nonna taught you.”
It was a promise of a future, a fragile, beautiful thing hanging by a thread in this dark, violent night. He couldn’t bear it.
He closed the small distance between them and kissed her, a desperate, fierce claiming.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of fear and hope and a love forged in the most impossible of circumstances. It was a prayer in the dark.
He pulled back, his resolve hardening into glacial calm. The chef was gone. The capo was here. “Be safe, mia cara.”
“You too, Alessandro,” she whispered, using his full name like a talisman.
“Time,” Enzo said softly from the door.
They broke apart. The team moved to a service grate Juliette had identified on the blueprints. It was old, rusted, leading down into the network of tunnels that ran beneath the estate.
As Marco lifted the heavy iron cover, Sandro gave Juliette a final, lingering look. A world of unspoken words passed between them: I love you. Don’t die. Come back to me.
Then she turned, a small, determined shadow, and slipped out of the pump house, heading toward a different entrance, a different fate. Watching her disappear into the darkness was the hardest thing he had ever done.
He dropped into the tunnel, the cold, damp air swallowing him whole. Enzo and the others followed, pulling the grate closed above them.
They were in the lion’s den now, plunged into a silence broken only by the drip of water and their own ragged breaths.
They moved through the narrow brick corridor, their footsteps echoing softly. The air grew warmer, and the distant music from the party became a faint, percussive thrum that vibrated through the soles of their boots.
Sandro felt his senses sharpen, every lesson from a childhood he’d tried to forget flooding back. He noted the placement of junction boxes, the angle of the corridors, the way the sound traveled. His mind was a map of tactics and violence.
“Up ahead,” Enzo whispered, pointing. “The staircase leads up to the kitchens. It will be staffed.”
“But they’ll be focused on the party,” Sandro countered. “They won’t expect a threat from below.”
They reached the base of a narrow, concrete staircase. The sounds were clearer now—the clatter of pans, a burst of laughter, a shouted order in Italian.
Sandro held up a hand, signaling a halt. He closed his eyes for a second, picturing Juliette moving through her own corridor, alone.
He pushed the image away, forcing it into a locked box in his mind. He couldn’t afford the distraction.
Suddenly, the lights in the tunnel flickered once, twice, and then stabilized. A low, electronic hum sounded from a speaker in the ceiling, followed by a calm, automated voice announcing a power fluctuation in the west wing.
Juliette.
A wave of pride and terror washed over him. Phase one was complete. The clock was ticking.
“That’s our cue,” Enzo said, his expression grim. “They’ll be sending men to investigate.”
Sandro drew his weapon, the silenced pistol feeling both alien and sickeningly familiar in his hand. He looked at Enzo, at the unwavering loyalty in the older man’s eyes.
He nodded at Leo and Marco, who responded with grim determination. They were his to lead. His to protect.
He placed his foot on the first step, the promise he’d made to Juliette echoing in his soul. A simple pasta. A quiet night. A life.
It all waited on the other side of the violence to come.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sandro De Luca started his ascent from the shadows, climbing toward the cousin who had stolen his name, his family, and his peace.
He was no longer a chef hiding from his past. He was the rightful heir, coming to collect his devil’s due.