A motorcade of six black armored SUVs idled at the curb. Men in dark suits with earpieces scanned the crowd with surgical precision. They didn't just look lethal; they looked like apex predators waiting for a command.

And in the center of them stood the Alpha.

Lorenzo "Enzo" Falcone.

He was leaning against the hood of the lead car. He was taller than Dante, broader in the shoulders. He didn't wear Italian silk; he wore a tactical black shirt that strained against the muscle of his chest. A scar ran through his eyebrow, giving him a dangerous edge that made civilians instinctively cross the street to avoid him.

Then, he saw me.

He didn't smile. He pushed off the car and strode toward me. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before a storm.

He stopped a foot away. His dark eyes scanned my face, searching for regret, searching for the slightest crack in my resolve.

"You came," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke.

"I told you I would," I said. "Seven days."

"You look like hell, Elena."

"I feel like hell."

He reached for me. I flinched-a sharp, involuntary reflex born from the last time a man had raised a hand to me in anger.

Enzo froze. His jaw locked until a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. "I will kill him," he said softly. "I will peel the skin from his bones for making you flinch."

"Not yet," I said. "Marry me first."

He didn't hesitate. He snapped his fingers.

One of his men stepped forward with a bouquet of black roses. Another opened the car door.

"This isn't a romance novel, Elena," Enzo said, taking the flowers and shoving them into my hands. "I don't do soft. If you marry me, you marry the war. You marry the blood on my hands."

"Good," I said, clutching the black thorns until they bit into my palms. "I want a war."

He grabbed my nape, his thumb brushing the frantic rhythm of my pulse. "Then let's go."

We didn't go to a church. We went straight to the Civil Bureau.

The clerk looked terrified as Enzo Falcone marched in with his entourage. He slammed his passport on the counter.

"Marriage license. Now."

"Sir, there is a waiting period-"

Enzo merely stared at him. The clerk swallowed hard, his face draining of color, and started typing furiously.

Ten minutes later, we were standing in front of a judge.

"Do you, Lorenzo Falcone, take this woman..."

"I do," Enzo growled, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Do you, Elena Vitiello..."

I looked at the man who had kept my photo on his desk for ten years while I bled for his enemy. I looked at the man who had offered me an army when I had nothing left to lose.

"I do."

We signed the papers. The stamp hit the paper with a heavy, final thud.

Mrs. Elena Falcone.

Enzo took the certificate. He folded it and slid it into his pocket like it was a weapon.

He turned to me. He didn't ask for permission. He swept me up into his arms, mindful of my injury, holding me against his chest like I was made of glass and he was the titanium vault.

"You are safe," he whispered against my hair. "You are done bleeding for him. You bleed for me now, and I bleed for you."

We walked out into the sunlight. Cameras flashed in a blinding staccato. His men had tipped off the press.

Enzo wanted the world to know.

He kissed me in front of the paparazzi, a claiming, possessive kiss that stole my breath and replaced it with his fire.

The headlines hit the internet five minutes later.

The Falcone-Vitiello Union: A Declaration of War.

Chapter 8

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