Enzo Moretti had watched men lie to his face with guns under their jackets and death already decided in their eyes.

Three weeks later.

The morning sun rose bright and warm over the hills of Florence, painting the terracotta roofs of the historic city in shades of gold and amber.

On the private balcony of a restored sixteenth-century villa overlooking the Arno River, Elena Russo sat at a small iron table, sipping fresh espresso from a porcelain cup. She wore a simple white linen sundress, her dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her skin glowing with radiant health.

The financial crisis was over. The Rotterdam contracts had been signed, Carmine’s assets had been completely absorbed into the Moretti network, and the syndicate board had formally pledged total allegiance to Enzo.

A pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

Enzo pressed his face into the side of her neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of her jasmine perfume before kissing the delicate skin beneath her ear.

“You’re up early,” he murmured softly, his voice heavy with morning sleep.

Elena leaned back against his bare chest, smiling as she placed her hand over his. “I was looking at the quarterly projections. With the new Genoa lines integrated, our shipping capacity is up forty percent.”

Enzo let out a soft laugh, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re on vacation, Miss Russo. If I catch you reviewing financial projections again today, I will have to confiscate your laptop.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Moretti?” she teased, turning her head to kiss his jaw.

“It’s a promise,” he replied smoothly, turning her around in his arms so she was facing him.

He looked down at her, his dark eyes softer than they had ever been in his entire life. The cold, impenetrable marble armor he had worn for decades had been permanently dismantled by the woman standing in his arms.

A footsteps sounded behind them on the terrace.

Marco walked out, dressed in casual clothes—a linen shirt and trousers—holding a silver tray with fresh croissants and fruit.

“Good morning, Boss. Miss Russo,” Marco said cheerfully, setting the tray on the table.

Elena smiled warmly at him. “Good morning, Marco. Have you checked the perimeter today?”

“Perimeter is clean,” Marco grinned, pulling a white bottle from his pocket with a dramatic flourish. “And I brought your personal sunscreen. The real one. Sealed by your own pharmacy in Florence.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow at his chief bodyguard. “Are you volunteering to apply it again, Marco?”

Marco backed away instantly, holding his hands up in mock terror. “Not on your life, boss. My hands are strictly reserved for tactical security and holding croissants. I value my limbs too much.”