Niccolo's POV:

I was in awe of her. In the past month, she had surprised me more than I'd been in the twenty-six years of my life. She had taken charge when my world was unravelling, stitching me together when I could barely hold myself upright. But now, as we sped toward my apartment, I saw her trembling with the gun still clutched in her hands. Her strength had cracked, and the weight of it all was sinking in.

"I almost killed him," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. Her eyes were unfocused, still trapped in the chaos we'd left behind.

Gently, I pried the gun from her shaking hands, quickly disabling it. The bullets clinked onto the seat beside Giussepe, and the empty gun was thrown into the seat next to me. 

She stared at the gun like it was a venomous snake. "I almost killed them," she repeated, her voice hollow, as though saying it aloud might make it less real.

Her entire body shook, her small frame wracked with tremors. Before she could spiral further, I pulled her into my lap, her legs draped over mine. I held her close, cradling her against my chest.

"Bellissima," I murmured, brushing my lips against her hair. "You didn't kill anyone. You just did what you had to do. You just pointed your gun," I said, trying to get her to believe me. 

Her green eyes, glassy with unshed tears, searched mine for something—absolution, forgiveness, perhaps. In my eyes, she couldn't do any wrong. But in her eyes, I saw guilt eating away at her. It shattered me. What had I done to her? What had my world done to her?

Her trembling didn't subside. "I almost killed a man," she choked, her voice breaking.

"But you didn't," I said firmly, gripping her hands. "You didn't."

Her gaze dropped to her palms, and I could see the war raging inside her. I could almost hear her thoughts, screaming at her, at her palms for even picking up the weapon. The part of her that was horrified at what she'd done battled the part that knew she had no choice. She stared at her hands as though they were stained with blood only she could see.

I wrapped my hands around hers and brought them to my lips. I pressed soft kisses to her knuckles, one by one, hoping to soothe the storm inside her. "You saved our lives," I whispered. "Thank you."

Her head snapped up at my words, her expression raw with surprise. It was as though she'd forgotten I was even there.

"But... But I almost killed a person," she was on the verge of crying. I hated it. 

"But you didn't," I said sternly. "You didn't. You did what you had to do. You didn't kill anybody," I repeated, waiting for her to comprehend the situation. 

"Say it, say it. You need to say it if you want to believe it." I whispered while closing my eyes, hoping she would comprehend. 

"I didn't kill anyone," she whispered finally, her voice quivering. "I... I just wanted to get us out alive."

"That's right," I said, my voice steady. "You didn't do anything wrong."

She buried her face in my chest, and her small sobs tore through me. She was saying goodbye to a piece of herself between my arms — a piece of her innocence that my world had stolen. All I could do was hold her, letting her cry as the weight of what had happened pressed down on her.

In the rearview mirror, Giussepe's eyes met mine. He looked away quickly, but not before I saw the guilt flicker in his gaze. He'd screwed up today—badly.

After the stunt he pulled, he should be ashamed. My father didn't keep him by his side for years just for him to betray me now. When the shots were fired, he just stood there, like he was waiting to see which side would come out victorious before deciding at which table he wanted to sit. I knew he didn't approve of my relationship with Lorenzo. I knew he was scared of the boy, but that didn't give him the right to say what he did about him. Lorenzo was his own person, and he was going to do what he wanted. I wasn't keeping him on a leash like his father was.

His hesitation, his poorly chosen words, his inability to act when the bullets started flying... all of it had nearly cost us our lives. My father's consigliere had proven himself unworthy of my trust. If I hadn't brought a weapon to the meeting, Isabella would be dead—or worse, a plaything for Mazzini's men. The thought made my blood boil, but Isabella's soft voice pulled me back.

"I'm okay," she said, her voice steadier now. She lifted her head from my chest, wiping at her tear-streaked cheeks. "I'm going to be okay."

I nodded, offering her a small smile. But then her gaze fell to my shoulder, and her face paled. I couldn't hide it anymore. The blood covered the larger part of my white shirt. 

"Niccolo, you're hurt," she said, her voice tinged with panic. "You're bleeding."

I glanced down at the crimson stain spreading across my shirt. I'd almost forgotten about the gunshot wound, the adrenaline dulling the pain.

"It's nothing," I said dismissively, cupping her face in my hand. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," she insisted, her fingers gently peeling back the fabric to inspect the wound. I hissed at the sudden sting as the cool air hit my skin.

"Niccolo, you'll bleed out. Just call the doctor. Or let us take you to a hospital?" she urged, pulling down my shirt further to get a better look at the bloody mess underneath it.

"Bellissima, I can't go to a hospital," I said, shaking my head. "It's too risky. I'll be fine."

I had heard that same answer countless times from my father. He liked to say that the family is only as strong as its strongest link, not its weakest. It was my fate to be that strongest link. All my life, I exuded strength. A broken bone? I still used the arm. Shot? I stitched the wound myself. Just as I'd seen my father do countless times before. Pain was for the weak, and I wasn't allowed to be one of them. I didn't have that luxury in life.

She sighed, her head tilting slightly as she searched my face for any trace of defeat. "You don't feel any pain?" she asked again, warily.

"It's a normal amount of pain considering the wound, but it's nothing major. I don't feel lightheaded or sick. I just feel pain; it will pass," I shrugged it off. In my line of work, this would be considered a minor wound—nothing worth fussing over. Yet her concern for something so small made my cold heart grow fonder.

The car came to a stop in front of my building. Giussepe turned to me, awaiting orders. "Burn it all down," I said coldly. "The entire place. If Mazzini retaliates, kill him. And make sure Marco knows I want an invitation to his table. Keep me updated."

Isabella looked at me, her fingers still gently placed on my chest. If she was surprised at my orders, she didn't show it. Giussepe nodded, and I stepped out of the car, Isabella at my side. Before I closed the door, I turned towards Giovanni, "Oh, and Giovanni, I'll call you. We need to go over the security measures."

Isabella wrapped her arm around my waist, giving me the support I didn't know I needed. But as soon as she took some weight off me, I realised how tired I was. From trying to keep my anger in check during the meeting to fighting Mazzini's men, my body was being torn apart. 

Isabella didn't say anything, she just helped me into the elevator. Her touch was grounding, her presence a balm for the chaos raging inside me.

Once inside the apartment, she guided me to the couch, her movements quick and efficient. She didn't say a word as she retrieved the first aid kit, but the silence was comforting. It gave me space to reach for the strength slipping between my fingers. The calmness allowed my thoughts to rearrange themselves, replaying our conversation with Mazzini and how she spoke to him—how she took him head-on when the conversation shifted to Lorenzo.

She probably didn't even know who he was—not entirely, at least—or what he was capable of. I wondered if I should tell her. She seemed fierce, calculating, and rational. Maybe if she knew the dangers those two posed, she would stay away from them. It would mean far less work for me to keep her safe.

She returned with warm towels and bandages, her expression determined. As she cleaned the wound, each gentle stroke of the cloth reminded me of how close I'd come to losing her. The pain I felt wasn't just physical—it was the ache of knowing how easily she could've been taken from me.

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against her stomach. Her hands stilled for a moment before resuming their careful work. I could hide from the world and the pain for a couple of moments. 

I noticed the light summery pants she wore, with small green lines that complemented her eyes, and the tight shirt she had tucked up. "You're wearing pants today," I murmured, the lightness in my voice a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest.

She nodded absentmindedly as she grabbed another towel. 

"Pants to keep me away," I joked, squeezing her thighs as she placed her hands on me again. A blunt pain shot through my shoulder, and I winced. She gasped. I was probably hurting her, so I released my grip.

She chuckled at my words after a moment. "You've got a big ego." Her small smile still held a shadow of worry. I needed to cover up my pain to put her at ease.

"I've earned it," I said with a smirk, squeezing her thigh lightly. "I know my effect on you."

She tilted her head and studied my expression with a bloody towel in her hand. A small smile tugged at her lips as she said, "And what about my effect on you?"

Her question caught me off guard. What was I supposed to say? I couldn't possibly tell her she had been living in my mind as she had been living in my apartment. Most days, I didn't think of her outside of her sole presence in my life. Like an apartment, I knew she existed. Like the apartment, I wanted to come home to her every night. But I knew apartments and places to live could change, and I hoped she wouldn't.

The realization hit me hard just as she was rolling a new bandage across my shoulder blade, her scent engulfing me. She always smelled of peaches and apricots, and I didn't even like fruit. But because of her scent, I was beginning to think peaches and apricots might be my forbidden fruit.

"I've got some secrets, Bellissima, and I just decided that my feelings for you will be one of them," I said finally. It was a secret, after all—a secret even to me.

She sighed, brushing a stray curl from my forehead, her fingers lingering, her touch soothing. I leaned back, feeling the weight of the day pressing harder against me now that I had spoken so much aloud. "Everything we do is a gamble, Bellissima. One misstep and the whole house of cards collapses."

Her hand stilled in my hair, and she looked down at me with an intensity that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "You're not a gambler, Niccolo. You're a protector. That's why you carry this weight, isn't it? For everyone else?"

Her words struck a chord I hadn't expected. My chest tightened as I met her gaze. "You make it sound noble," I said with a hollow laugh. "But there's nothing noble about any of this."

She shook her head, her expression unwavering. "There is. Maybe not in the world you live in, but in the way you care. You took Lorenzo under your wing. You shield the people you care about. Even me."

I reached up, brushing my thumb against her cheek. "You don't belong in this world, Isabella. You're too good for it. Too good for me."

Her hand found mine, pressing it gently against her cheek. "Maybe I don't belong here, but I'm not going anywhere, Niccolo. I've made my choice."

Something inside me softened at her words, but I couldn't let her believe it was that simple. "You don't know what you're signing up for," I said, my voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "There's so much you haven't seen yet."

She tilted her head, a small, defiant smile tugging at her lips. "Then show me. Let me decide what I can handle."

The vulnerability in her voice, the unwavering determination in her eyes—it was a kind of bravery I hadn't expected. It wasn't the loud, flashy kind that came with guns and power plays. It was quiet, steady, unshakable.

I sighed, brushing a kiss against her knuckles. "You're impossible," I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward despite myself.

Her soft laughter was like a balm to my frayed nerves. "You'll thank me for it someday," she teased, though her gaze grew serious again. "Niccolo, you need to rest. Promise me you'll take it easy tomorrow. You can stay home until your doctor checks on you. It's the middle of the week, and I doubt the business will crumble if you take a day or two off."

I hesitated, the idea of stepping away from my responsibilities gnawing at me. But the worry etched into her features was impossible to ignore. With the blood I'd been losing, it seemed like a good idea. But...

"What's in it for me?" I asked, leaning back slightly, testing her resolve. I could see she'd go to great lengths to persuade me to stay home, but I wanted more. Not just rest. I wanted her—her presence, her company. Someone to fill the void while the world spun without me.

Her eyes flickered nervously between mine as if trying to decipher my intentions. "What do you mean?" she asked cautiously, though I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was already constructing a list of things she thought I might demand, weighing her options.

I let my gaze linger on her lips, catching the brief flick of her tongue as she exhaled. It was maddening, that memory of her mouth on mine, still so vivid. I smirked slightly, savouring the effect she had on me. "What's in it for me?" I repeated, my tone low and deliberate. 

Then, with a seriousness that made her pause, I added, "You're bargaining, Bellissima. That means you must have something to offer."

Her brows furrowed as she studied my face, trying to gauge how far I was willing to push this. I could see her calculating, sifting through possibilities. "You know this is for your own good," she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. "Tsk, wrong answer. Try again."

Her head tilted slightly, and for a moment, she seemed to debate whether I was teasing or not. She must've realised I wasn't because she sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Niccolo," she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and plea.

"Bellissima," I countered, my tone lighter now, teasing. "What's in it for me?

She hesitated, her resolve faltering for just a moment before she exhaled. "Fine," she relented, her voice quieter now. "I'll listen to you in the future—when you think I shouldn't be somewhere."

I chuckled softly. She knew exactly what to offer, didn't she? Relief washed over me, knowing she wouldn't be near men like Mazzini again. But beneath the relief, a nagging thought surfaced, tugging at me. What if he tried something anyway? What if I wasn't there to stop it?

"Maybe," I said, feigning nonchalance as I mulled it over. "Let me think about it." My thoughts, however, were far from casual. Her safety wasn't something I could take lightly. The more I thought about it, the more I realized she needed to know the truth. If Mazzini and Marco were planning something, she had to be prepared.

She must've sensed the shift in my mood because her hands stilled as she secured the fresh bandage over my wound. "What's wrong?" she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

"You read up on Mazzini and Marco?" I asked, meeting her gaze.

She nodded and left the silence to do the talking. "So you know Mazzini is just a pawn in Marco's game, right? Marco's the one with real power."

Another nod, and then she spoke. "Yeah, but that power—it isn't rightfully his, is it?"

A faint smile tugged at my lips. She was sharp, always putting the pieces together. "It was supposed to be his brother's," I confirmed.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she pieced it all together. "But he's dead," she concluded, her voice steady, though her gaze didn't waver from mine.

I nodded, leaning forward slightly as I began to tell her what no article or report would ever reveal. "Marco had an older brother, Massimo. He was everything Marco wasn't—steady, compassionate, a natural leader. Sure, he could be hot-headed at times, but he kept the family and the business running smoothly. Even when he and Marco fought, which they often did, things never fell apart. When their father was diagnosed with dementia, Massimo took over seamlessly. For a while, everything seemed fine."

Her hand moved to my shoulder, her fingers tracing slow circles as she listened intently. The gentle motion grounded me, giving me the strength to continue.

"Then, Massimo died in a car crash. His body was so mangled their father couldn't even recognize him. Marco stepped in, and their father—confused in his dementia—thought Marco was Massimo. He treated him like he was still the eldest, still the rightful heir."

Her brows furrowed as she processed my words, her silence urging me to go on.

"It wasn't even a year after the accident that Lorenzo was born, Marco's 'rightful heir.' On the surface, everything seemed fine. But my father—he did some digging. Turned out, that the car Massimo died in wasn't registered in his name. It was Marco's. And that's when I started wondering if it was all a ploy. A way for Marco to take the power."

Her fingers stilled, and she drew in a slow breath, her gaze searching mine. "You think he killed his own brother?"

"I don't know what to think," I admitted, my voice heavy with the weight of old suspicions. "But I know Marco. And I know he wouldn't let anything—or anyone—stand in his way."

She stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again, her voice soft. "What about Lorenzo's mother? She must've known something."

I shook my head, closing my eyes briefly as memories stirred. "She was my aunt. I don't remember her well, just that she was kind and wholeheartedly committed to our family. Always ready to help, always ready to play with me. But she died while giving birth to Lorenzo."

Her sharp intake of breath made me open my eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

I shrugged, though the weight of it lingered "I didn't know her well enough to miss her. I shouldn't feel like I miss her because I have no right. Lorenzo... he probably does. Or maybe he resents her for leaving him. I never know with him,  what he thinks, or what he does. He's a closed book."

I realized I'd said more than I intended, but with Isabella, it felt natural. Safe. She wouldn't tell anyone. And for once, I didn't feel the need to hold it all in.