The wine hit Salvo Romano’s shoe like a gunshot in a room full of secrets. He insulted me in Sicilian, certain no American waitress could understand a word.

For the next three days, the library became our war room.

While armed guards patrolled the grounds outside, Salvo and I worked late into the night, dissecting old letters, photographs, and childhood memories my mother had left behind in her bank safety deposit box, which Bernardo had successfully retrieved.

I discovered a side of Salvo Romano that the headlines never reported.

He wasn't just a ruthless underworld leader; he was a master strategist who spoke three languages, read classic literature, and cared deeply for the families living in his neighborhood in Brooklyn. He had taken over the family business at twenty-six after his father was assassinated by the Maranzanos, forced into a life of violence to protect his people.

Late on the third night, a storm raged against the high windows of the library.

A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the mahogany furniture as we leaned over a vintage architectural blueprint of an old chapel in Castellammare del Golfo.

"Look here," I whispered, pointing a finger at a small geometric design drawn in faded red ink near the chapel's bell tower. "This pattern... it matches the notches on my key."

Salvo leaned in close beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine. The heat of his body was comforting in the drafty room.

"The Chapel of St. Rosalia," Salvo murmured, his breath brushing against my hair. "It's been abandoned since the 1980s. The Maranzanos control that territory now."

"That's why she hid it there," I said, turning my head to look at him.

Our faces were only inches apart.

In the dim light, I could see the tiny gold flecks in his dark eyes, the small scar near his eyebrow, the gentle curve of his lips. The tension between us, built over days of shared meals, quiet conversations, and late-night research, hung heavy in the air.

"You shouldn't be here, Clara," Salvo whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips. "You belong in a university, in a bright laboratory, far away from men like me."

"I don't regret spilling that wine, Salvo," I said softly, my voice barely above a breath.

Salvo lifted his hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb resting against the pulse point on my neck, which was fluttering wildly.

"If we go to Palermo, there is no turning back," he warned, his dark voice laced with raw emotion. "If Maranzano finds us there, I will have to burn the city to keep you safe."

"Then let it burn," I whispered.

Salvo leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss was slow, deep, and intoxicating—a sudden explosion of passion that burned away the fear, the cold, and the uncertainty of the last week. My hands found their way into his dark hair, pulling him closer, while his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me against him as if I were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.