Chapter 8 - The Hostage in the Penthouse
Moretti was not a man who surrendered with grace. As the laser dots pinned his men to the pavement, a look of desperate, animal madness flashed across his face.
""If I'm going down, Belandi, I'm taking your prized possession with me!"" Moretti screamed, drawing a compact revolver from his coat pocket and lunging—not at Allesandro, but straight at Grace.
Time seemed to fracture into slow motion.
Allesandro moved with blinding, instinctual fury. He did not reach for his gun; he hurled himself horizontally across the gap, his shoulder slamming into Moretti’s chest with the force of a freight train. The gunshot went off with a deafening crack, the bullet ricocheting off the granite curb.
Both men crashed onto the wet cobblestones in a violent tangle of limbs. Moretti slashed upward with the barrel of the revolver, catching Allesandro across the cheekbone, drawing a sharp spray of crimson. Allesandro didn't even flinch. His expression turned completely savage. With two brutal, calculated strikes to Moretti’s ribs and jaw, he disarmed the rival boss, pinned him to the ground, and pressed the cold steel of Moretti’s own weapon against the bridge of his nose.
""Touch her again,"" Allesandro snarled, blood dripping from his cut cheek down onto Moretti’s trembling collar, ""and I will tear your throat out with my bare hands.""
Moretti’s men threw their weapons onto the ground, raising their hands in terrified submission as federal tactical teams flooded the courtyard through the iron gates.
""Hold your fire! Federal agents! Down on the ground!""
Sirens wailed in a deafening chorus, red and blue lights flashing against the historic brick facade. Agents in tactical gear swarmed the courtyard, pinning Moretti’s mercenaries to the pavement and snapping zip-ties onto their wrists.
Grace fell to her knees beside Allesandro, her hands trembling violently as she reached for his face. ""Allesandro! You're bleeding!""
Allesandro dropped the gun. The wild, murderous fury in his eyes vanished the instant his gaze met hers. He reached up, cupping her face with his blood-stained palm, his breathing ragged and heavy.
""Are you whole?"" he whispered, his thumb trembling against her lip. ""Did he touch you?""
""I'm fine, you idiot,"" she sobbed, tears finally breaking past her defenses. She pulled a clean handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the deep laceration on his cheekbone. ""Why did you do that? He could have shot you in the chest!""
""He could have shot you,"" Allesandro replied simply, as if that were the only justification that existed in the universe. ""A bullet in my shoulder heals, Grace. A world without you does not work anymore.""
Grace froze, the breath caught in her throat. Around them, federal agents were shouting orders, sirens were blaring, and Moretti was being dragged away in heavy chains, cursing and spitting blood. Yet in the center of the chaotic courtyard, surrounded by eighty years of history and the rubble of a war, everything went silent.
She leaned down, ignoring the blood, the dust, and the dozens of federal eyes watching them, and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss was fierce, desperate, and tasted of salt, rain, and iron. Allesandro groaned, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her tightly against his chest, refusing to let her go even as the EMTs hurried toward them with trauma kits.
When she finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, Allesandro looked up at her with a raw, undeniable reverence.
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""I believe,"" he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his bruised lips, ""that I still owe you twelve thousand three hundred and forty-six dollars for your legal defense fund.""
""Keep the money, Mr. Belandi,"" Grace whispered, resting her forehead against his. ""Just fix my roof.""
