The smell hits me first. Gun oil and metal shavings. Sweat and grime.
I stand at the entrance of the warehouse, watching fifty men transform my vision into reality.
They move with military precision—cleaning weapons, loading ammunition, studying blueprints spread across makeshift tables.
My army.
The thought sends electricity down my spine, followed immediately by a twist of nausea that has nothing to do with being pregnant.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ettore asks. He’s been here since dawn, coordinating the final preparations.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Because it is impressive.
And terrifying.
And everything I never wanted my life to become.
But here we are.
“Walk me through it,” I say, stepping deeper into the chaos.
We move between stations, reviewing the troops before battle. At the first table, three ex-military contractors field-strip assault rifles. They look up as I approach.
“Ma’am,” the leader says. “Weapons are clean and sighted. Every man gets a primary rifle, sidearm, and enough ammunition for extended engagement.”
Extended engagement.
Such clinical terms for what we’re planning.
“Body armor?” I ask.
“Kevlar vests for everyone. Helmets for the assault teams.”
He gestures to neat rows of tactical gear. “We’ve got flash-bangs, smoke grenades, breaching charges. Everything you requested.”
Everything I requested to tear apart Marco’s world.
My stomach lurches again, and I force it down.
Focus.
This isn’t about him anymore.
This is about justice. About the future my child deserves.
“Good work,” I tell them, moving on.
The next station houses our communications setup. Banks of radios, headsets, monitoring equipment.
“Each team gets encrypted radios. The central command station here will have real-time updates on positions, obstacles, casualties,” Ettore explains.
Casualties.
The word hangs in the air like smoke. People are going to die tomorrow night. Maybe Marco. Maybe me. Definitely others.
I push the thought away.
Ettore guides me toward the planning area where massive blueprints cover three folding tables. The Bianchi estate sprawls across the paper.
The estate that used to be my home.
Another twist in the gut.
“These are the approach routes,” he says, pointing to red lines drawn across the layout. “Three teams, three entry points.”
I trace the lines with my finger. “When do we start?”
“At the stroke of midnight, forty-eight hours from now,” Ettore reconfirms.
That fucking soon?
Well, I was the one who wanted fast. And here we are.
Ettore’s voice drops. “Salvatore Bianchi is priority one. Marco Bianchi is priority two.”
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach. Half Bianchi. Half DeLuca. The product of love.
“Aria?” Ettore’s voice pulls me back. “You all right?”
“Fine.” I straighten my spine. “Before we continue, I need you to remember: Marco can’t be killed.”
Ettore furrows his brows, but doesn’t fight me. I can sense what he’s thinking. Something he shared with me in the past—if I’m acting too rash. But he won’t ask that again.
“Fine,” he says, not pressing any further. “Escape routes are mapped already. If things go sideways, we have options.”
I nod, noting the careful placement of getaway cars and backup routes through the city’s industrial district.
Ettore thinks of everything.
It’s what makes him valuable.
It’s also what makes this real.
“The Russians came through?” I ask.
“They came through.” His hazel eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Petrov’s people were very accommodating once we met their price. Surprising…considering how loyal they are to the Bianchis.”
There it is. That nagging suspicion. Marco told them to be accommodating.
The thought ambushes me because I know Marco well enough to recognize his hand in this.
The Russians don’t sell to DeLucas.
They never have.
But suddenly, when I need heavy weapons, they’re willing to deal?
He’s helping me destroy him.
But why?
Maybe it’s an elaborate trap.
Maybe it’s not.
On the latter thought, my chest tightens with something dangerously close to affection.
Stupid. Sentimental. Exactly what I can’t afford.
“Ma’am?” One of the weapons specialists approaches, holding a tablet. “Final equipment count for your approval.”
I scan the numbers. Fifty assault rifles. Two hundred grenades. Enough ammunition to level a city block.
All pointed at the man who held me two nights ago. Who made me come apart in his hands, whispering what I am to him.
“Approved,” I say, handing back the tablet.
Because what choice do I have? Salvatore Bianchi wants me dead. Which means he will want my child dead.
Marco might love me, but will he ever stand against his father? Probably not, given how he hasn’t so far.
And I won’t spend my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment Salvatore decides Marco’s protection isn’t enough.
“Aria.”
Chiara’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She approaches from the far end of the warehouse, her face pale and drawn.
She’s opposed this from the beginning, but she’s here anyway.
“Chiara.” I force a smile. “Come to inspect our progress?”
“Come to talk sense into you.” She stops an arm’s length away, close enough that our conversation stays private. “Before you do something you can’t undo.”
Ettore takes the hint, melting back toward the planning tables. Smart man.
“This is already done,” I tell her quietly. “The wheels are in motion. In two days, this ends.”
“This?” She gestures at the organized chaos around us. “Or us? Because I’m not sure we’ll survive what you’re planning, Aria. Any of us.”
“We survive by winning.”
“And if we don’t win? If Marco’s men are better trained, better equipped?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “If we’re caught, captured, what happens to your baby?”
The question hits like a physical blow. I’ve been so focused on protecting my child from Salvatore’s future threats that I haven’t fully considered the immediate danger I’m walking into.
But then I remember the newspaper article. My face on the front page. Salvatore knows who I am now. Knows where I am. The only safety lies in ending this before he can move against me.
“The baby is exactly why I have to do this,” I say.
“So you’re going to war? You’d risk making your child fatherless before it’s even born?”
“I’m making sure my child has a future.”
Chiara steps closer, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Are you? Or are you trying to prove something to Marco? Trying to show him you’re strong enough to hurt him?”
The accusation stings because it carries a grain of truth I don’t want to examine.
How much of this is about justice for our parents?
How much is about protecting my child?
And how much is about making Marco pay for the lies, for the choice he made to protect his father over me?
“It doesn’t matter why,” I say finally. “What matters is that it’s necessary.”
“Is it?” She grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “Because I saw the way you looked two mornings ago, Aria. You looked like a woman who’d been reminded why she fell in love.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I? You’re carrying his child, and you’re planning to destroy his world, and you think that won’t destroy you, too?”
I pull free from her grip.
“You can’t admit you still love him, can you?” Chiara whispers sadly.
The words hang between us, sad and heavy.
“Don’t,” I hold back a choked sob.
“You love him, Aria. And he loves you. You’re so twisted in your pride, you’d sooner turn the world to ash than speak the truth that’s killing you.”
“Just…stop!” I hiss, stepping back. My head hurts enough already.
“What if there’s another way?” Chiara steps forward.
“What way?” The question explodes out of me, raw with months of suppressed longing. “What magical fix do you see that I don’t? Marco won’t turn on his father. Salvatore won’t stop hunting us.”
“Maybe if you went to Marco, he’d step in. Give you what you want. But he doesn’t even know what you want, Aria. Because you refuse to speak to him! Because you refuse to be honest with yourself!”
The accusation cuts deep because it rings true. Because some small, secret part of me has been hoping Marco would find a way to stop this. Would prove that love can conquer the sins of the past.
But he hasn’t. Won’t. Can’t.
And I can’t keep waiting for miracles.
“Make sure this is what you want, Aria,” Chiara says quietly.
I look around the warehouse again. Fifty men preparing for war. Weapons designed to kill. Plans drawn in blood and vengeance.
So I close my eyes and imagine the alternative—going back to Marco. Asking him to choose us over the man who made him.
Hoping Salvatore’s mercy extends to his son’s pregnant wife. Raising my child in the shadow of the man who ordered my parents’ execution.
Teaching my son or daughter to curtsy to the family that destroyed ours.
Never.
When I open my eyes, something has hardened inside me. Crystallized into diamond certainty.
“There’s nothing left between Marco and me,” I say, and for the first time, I almost believe it. “And I’ll be damned if I let his father remain strong.”
Chiara’s shoulders slump in defeat.
“Then God help us all,” she whispers.
I turn away from her, back toward the men who will end this tomorrow night. My army. My choice. My war.
In forty-eight hours, everything changes.
The Bianchi empire burns.
Even if some part of me still hopes he’ll come through the smoke for us. Even if I want him to.
Some prices are worth paying. Even if they break your heart.
