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.

The private jet sliced through the starry night sky high above the Atlantic Ocean.

Inside the luxurious cabin, low leather seats, muted lighting, and the quiet hum of jet engines created an illusion of absolute peace.

Salvo sat across from me, reviewing tactical reports on a secure tablet while Bernardo checked a crate of suppressed firearms stored in the luggage compartment.

I stared out the oval window at the endless dark sea below, my thoughts racing.

"Are you afraid?" Salvo asked, setting his tablet aside and walking over to sit beside me on the plush leather sofa.

"I'd be a fool if I weren't," I admitted, turning to him. "I'm going back to a country I haven't seen since I was six years old, to rob a chapel controlled by a man who wants us both dead."

Salvo reached out and took my hand, intertwining his long fingers with mine. "My men have already established a perimeter around the chapel. We land at a private airstrip in Trapani at 4:00 a.m. We move under the cover of darkness, retrieve the ledger, and fly directly to Washington D.C. to hand it over to the Federal Prosecutors."

"And then?" I asked, looking into his eyes. "What happens to us after the prosecutors take the ledger?"

Salvo fell silent for a moment, his gaze turning serious. "You get your five million dollars, your new identity, and your freedom, Clara. Just like we agreed."

A sharp pang of sadness tightened in my chest. "Is that what you want, Salvo? For me to disappear?"

Salvo lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles gently. "I want you to be safe, Clara. A life with me is a life of bulletproof glass, armored cars, and endless wars. You deserve sunshine, a real home, and peace."

"Maybe I don't want peace if it means living without you," I confessed, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Salvo’s breath hitched. He pulled me closer, resting his forehead against mine. "Don't say that, cara. Don't make me fall deeper than I already have."

Before I could answer, Bernardo stepped into the main cabin, his expression grim.

"Don Salvo," Bernardo reported, his voice tight. "We just received a satellite intercept from our contact in Brooklyn. Marco Maranzano left New York two hours ago on a private charter. He knows we're heading to Palermo."