She Whispered Her Regrets at His Grave — Not Knowing the Mafia Boss Heard Every Word

The next morning broke clear and freezing cold.

The rain had stopped, leaving the pine needles coated in a thin layer of glittery white frost.

By 6:00 a.m., the living room of the cabin was filled with six men—Aleandro’s most loyal lieutenants, men who had gone underground with him six months ago, waiting like sleeping shadows for his command.

They stood around a large oak table covered in tactical maps of the Duca family’s main estate in the rolling hills outside the city.

I sat in an armchair near the corner, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, watching Aleandro work.

He wore a tight black tactical shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders, a leather holster strapped across his chest holding two custom handguns. He was commanding the room with effortless, lethal precision.

"Marco has thirty men stationed around the perimeter," Frank said, pointing to a red marker on the blueprint. "He brought in extra security from the waterfront crew after yesterday’s incident at the cemetery."

"Let him bring sixty," Aleandro said coldly, tracing a line along the eastern wall of the estate. "The eastern gate uses an older electronic relay. The code hasn't been changed in ten years. Marco was always too lazy to update the security protocols."

"Do we take them quietly, Don Duca?" another lieutenant asked.

"No," Aleandro growled, his gray-black eyes flashing with dark fire. "We take them loud. I want every captain in this city to hear the noise. I want them to know that when you strike at Aleandro Duca, there is no survival. There is only fire."

He rolled up the maps and turned toward me.

The lieutenants immediately bowed their heads and backed out of the room, leaving us alone in the quiet sunlight filtering through the frost-covered windows.

Aleandro walked over to my chair, kneeling before me so his eyes were level with mine.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in dark velvet.

He unfolded the velvet, revealing a small, sleek silver handgun—no larger than the palm of my hand, beautifully engraved with white scrollwork along the slide.

"Aleandro, no," I said, shrinking back slightly. "I don't—"

"Take it, Emma," he commanded gently, pressing the cool metal frame into my hand. His fingers closed my palm over the grip. "This is a Walther PPK. The safety is here. It is loaded. I hope to God you never have to pull this trigger, but if anyone other than me or Frank opens the door to this room while I am gone... you shoot them in the chest."

I stared at the gun in my hand. It was light, cold, and heavy with lethal purpose.

"You're leaving me here?" I asked, panic rising in my throat.

"It’s the safest place in the state," Aleandro said, reaching up to gently cup my cheek. "Frank and four men are staying behind to guard the cabin. I will be back before sunset."

He stood up and leaned down, pressing his lips against mine in a long, lingering kiss that tasted of iron, determination, and promises written in blood.

"Wait for me, bellissima," he whispered against my mouth.

"Come back to me," I begged, clutching his tactical vest. "Don't make me mourn you twice."