Chapter Eight: The Choice Everyone Saw
784 Words
The attack didn’t come at night.
That was the first mistake.
In Sicily, violence usually waited for darkness—when guilt felt easier to hide. But this time, it arrived under the sun, bold and deliberate, meant to be seen.
Serafina realized something was wrong the moment the street fell quiet.
She was standing outside a small gallery near the harbor, invited by Alessio’s people under the guise of art and charity. The crowd had been light—wealthy donors, polite smiles, expensive indifference. Now, those same people were drifting away too quickly, excuses whispered, phones suddenly urgent.
Alessio stood beside her, calm as ever, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back.
Too light.
Too careful.
“What’s happening?” she murmured.
“Walk,” he said softly. “Don’t look around.”
Her pulse spiked. “Alessio—”
“Now.”
They took three steps before the sound cracked through the air.
Not a gunshot.
A bottle smashing against stone.
The crowd froze.
Then chaos erupted.
Men surged from the alley—four of them, faces uncovered, reckless with intent. One shouted her name.
That was the moment Serafina understood.
This is about me.
Alessio moved instantly, pushing her behind him, his body a shield without hesitation. His voice cut through the noise—sharp, commanding, furious.
“Get down.”
She didn’t.
She watched.
Watched the men circle. Watched the way Alessio’s composure didn’t break—but tightened. Like a blade being honed.
“This is a warning, De Luca,” one of them sneered. “You don’t own her.”
Alessio smiled.
It was the most frightening thing she had ever seen.
“No,” he said evenly. “But you will die for touching what is under my protection.”
The first man lunged.
Everything happened too fast and too slow at once—bodies colliding, shouts, the sickening sound of bone against stone. Alessio fought with brutal efficiency, movements precise, almost emotionless.
But there were too many.
Serafina saw it then—the hesitation. Just a fraction too long as he checked her position, his focus splitting.
A crack in his power.
A man broke through.
Straight toward her.
Fear surged hot and paralyzing.
“Alessio!” she screamed.
He turned.
Too far.
Too late.
The man grabbed her arm, fingers biting painfully into her skin.
And something inside her snapped.
“No,” she said—not begging, not screaming, but choosing.
She twisted free and ran—not away—but toward Alessio.
She threw herself against him, hands clutching his jacket, her body pressing against his back as if proximity itself were protection.
“I’m with him,” she shouted, voice shaking but loud. “Whatever this is—I’m with him.”
The words rang across the street.
Public. Undeniable.
The men froze.
So did Alessio.
He turned slowly, staring down at her as if she’d just rewritten the rules of the world.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
“I know,” she replied, breathless. “But I did.”
The gunshot came from behind them.
One of Alessio’s men.
The attackers scattered.
Silence fell, heavy and stunned.
⸻
Later, inside the car, Serafina’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Alessio sat beside her, silent, fury coiled tightly beneath his skin. He reached for her arm, inspecting the red mark left behind.
His touch was gentle.
Too gentle.
“You were hurt because of me,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I was hurt because I chose to stand with you.”
His jaw clenched.
“You didn’t have to claim me,” he said. “Not like that. Not in front of them.”
She met his gaze, heart pounding. “Then why does it feel like I saved you too?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was rough.
“Because you did.”
The car moved through the city in silence.
Finally, she whispered, “What happens now?”
Alessio turned to her, eyes dark, intense, unguarded.
“Now,” he said, “they know you are not a weakness they can use.”
“And what am I?”
He leaned closer, his forehead resting briefly against hers.
“You are my choice,” he said. “And tonight, you made it publicly.”
Her breath caught.
“I still hate parts of you,” she admitted.
A faint, dangerous smile curved his lips.
“Good,” he murmured. “If you ever stop, that’s when I’ll worry.”
Because love, in Sicily, was never clean.
And now—
Everyone knew she belonged in his world
- Writer
