Chapter 8: The Princess and the Protectors
By the end of the week, the Verrone estate had undergone a bizarre transformation. The heavily guarded compound, usually filled with grim-faced men discussing turf wars and shipping routes, was slowly being conquered by a five-year-old girl.
It started with the crayons.
Rafael Conti, a man who had broken fingers for a living, was currently sitting cross-legged on the floor of the main living room. He was intensely focused on coloring a picture of a purple dragon, guided by Mia's strict instructions.
"No, Mr. Rafael, dragons have to have pink spots. Otherwise, they aren't magic," Mia scolded gently, handing him a pink crayon.
Rafael sighed heavily, his lethal reputation crumbling into dust. "Yes, Miss Mia. Pink spots it is."
Damiano stood in the doorway, observing the scene with a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Elena came up behind him, carrying a tray of coffee.
"He's going to ruin his suit," Elena whispered, smiling at the sight of the terrifying underboss taking orders from a child.
"Rafael would take a bullet for her at this point," Damiano replied softly, taking a cup of coffee from the tray. He looked down at Elena. She was wearing a simple, elegant beige cashmere sweater and dark jeans—part of the new wardrobe he had ordered for her. She looked stunning, radiant, and entirely out of place in a house built on blood money.
"We need to talk," Damiano said, gesturing toward his private study.
Once inside, the heavy doors sealed out the noise of the house. Damiano walked to his desk and picked up a thick manila folder, handing it to Elena.
"What is this?" she asked, opening the flap. Inside were official documents, passports, and banking information.
"It is security," Damiano explained, leaning against his desk. "I have set up trust funds for both you and Mia. The passports are under new names, completely untraceable. If anything ever happens to me, Rafael has instructions to get you on a private jet to Switzerland. You will never have to work a day in your life again."
Elena stared at the documents, her vision blurring with tears. "You are planning for your death?"
"I am planning for your survival," he corrected gently. "Marchetti is dead, but the other four families are restless. They see my attachment to you as a liability. They will eventually test the fences. I cannot guarantee I will always be here to catch the bullets."
Elena slammed the folder down on the desk, startling him. "I don't want your money, Damiano! I don't want a fake passport to Switzerland!"
Damiano frowned, confused by her anger. "Then what do you want, Elena?"
She stepped right up to him, closing the distance, her brown eyes blazing with fierce determination. "I want you to stop acting like you are already dead. I want you to fight for us. Not just protect us, but be with us. You made a promise to my daughter, Damiano. You don't get to buy your way out of it with a trust fund."
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Damiano stared down at her, mesmerized by her courage. In his world, women were either decorative or collateral. But Elena was a warrior.
Before he could process the thought, he reached out, his hands framing her face. He crashed his lips against hers in a desperate, searing kiss. Elena gasped against his mouth but didn't pull away, her hands tangling in his dark hair as she kissed him back with equal fire. It was a collision of two lonely souls, a promise sealed not in blood, but in passion.
