DANGEROUS DEVOTION ( MAFIA ROMANCE).

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LUCA

The first thing I did after I made sure Iris was safe was burn the map of every route the east warehouse used to receive shipments into my head. I tasted ash at the back of my throat—habit from too many fires, too many betrayals—and I let the memory of the smoke drive me into motion.

Men moved when I barked orders. Phones lit up. Engines started. Names were given and crossed off. The men who reported to me were efficient, precise; they knew the sound of my anger and how quickly it could become a blade. But none of it mattered in comparison to the way Iris clung to me, small and warm beneath my arm, the pulse at her throat beating like a drum against my palm.

“Stay close,” I told her, not asking. My voice had steel in it; there was no room for argument. She nodded, eyes wide, trusting and terrified in equal measure. The sight stabbed something raw and dangerous inside me—a hunger to shield, to never let that look appear on her face again.

We went to the warehouse before dusk. The place still smoked; charred pallets rimmed the concrete yard like black teeth. My men had cordoned off the area, uniforms and muscle making the scene orderly enough for public consumption. I stepped in, moving through the smoke and the soot, and listened. The forensics guys spoke in clipped tones—accelerant, point of origin, careless flame or deliberate strike. The word deliberate tasted like poison on my tongue.

Elena had the skill for subtlety. She didn’t need to send men with guns when she could send men with matches. She liked her strikes to sting with humiliation, to remind me of what was at stake. But she had miscalculated one thing: she’d used me as a target, and I didn’t bleed in silence.

I turned away, scanning the scene until I found Matteo—my right hand, my shadow, the closest thing I’d ever had to a friend.

He was already watching me, his expression hard but steady. Matteo had been with me since the beginning, before blood soaked our hands, before my name carried the weight of fear. If there was one man I trusted to speak without flinching, it was him.

“Matteo,” I said, my voice low, lethal. “I want a trail. Every supplier, every van, every bastard connected to this job. I don’t care how small the thread is—follow it until it bleeds.”

He inclined his head, sharp, precise. No questions. No hesitation. That was why he stood at my side while others only bowed at my feet.

“ meaning it more as an order than a suggestion. Trace them back to whatever nest she hides in. I want names and I want them tonight.”

He nodded. He understood the math: offense and retribution. But I didn’t want my men reckless; I wanted their heads clear. Violence would absolve nothing. It would only draw lines, and I preferred to fracture my enemies the way a surgeon cuts—quick, clean, lethal.

When the reports came in—smokers in the alley who’d seen a black van, a name on a delivery manifest, a cash flow that funneled through a dead account—my jaw tightened. Elena’s signature was everywhere. She liked to announce herself; it made her feel dangerous. It made her feel in control. Foolish of her to forget that I didn’t relinquish control.

Iris stayed wrapped in my coat the entire time, the scent of her hair in the crook of my neck, a fragile thing I wanted to guard with everything I had. Every so often she would look up at me, uncertain, asking without words if any of this was worth it. I would press my hand to the back of her head and kiss her temple and promise, silently, that I would make it right.

At the temporary command post, my men ran the numbers. Forensics had preliminary results: deliberate ignition, most likely planted on the inside where old packing material met fuel. Whoever did it had experience. Whoever did it did not fear consequences.

“Then they don’t know us,” I said simply.

They looked at me—loyalty lines hardening into something like devotion. I wanted them to see what I was about to do. War is a language my family has always spoken, but this was not the time to murmur it; this was the time to declare it.

I walked to where the men stood in a tight cluster and stopped, bringing Iris with me by the small of her back. The movement was deliberate. Heads shifted; a quiet ripple moved through my crew. I had not intended a display, but I recognized its power as my hand settled on her hip and I drew her to my side. It was an intimacy meant for me alone, but there was a statement in it that every man present could read.

“Boss,” one of them began, throat tightening—wordless protocol for reporting. I cut him off with a look that held promise and threat in equal measure.

I slid Iris into my lap—half possessive, half protective—so that when I spoke, every eye found us. Her breath hitched, and she rested her cheek against my chest as if the world had narrowed to the sound of my heartbeat and the press of my palms.

“Listen up,” I said, each syllable edged like a blade. “This—this was meant to send a message. Whoever touched our property thought they could frighten us. They were wrong.”

Some men shifted. Others tightened fingers on the holsters at their hips. The air tasted like smoke and adrenaline and something darker that I’d built my life on.

“If anyone under my roof, under my protection, disrespects what’s mine,” I continued, my voice lowering so that only the closest could hear the full force of it, “they will lose their head. Not a suggestion. Not a metaphor. If you let them laugh at her, if you let them look at her and think they can take what they please—your head will be on that same block. Understand?”

There was a silence like a held breath, then a chorus of grunts and sharp affirmations. I allowed a small, savage satisfaction at their reaction. Loyalty isn’t bought; it’s carved out with rules and consequences. I had made mine painfully clear.

I nuzzled my face into the top of Iris’s hair and placed a soft kiss on her temple. The action was half comfort, half claim. In front of them all, I was showing her what she meant to me. I was showing them that the soft thing in my arms was the fulcrum around which I tilted the world.

Her fingers trembled as they found the edge of my shirt, curling into fabric as if to steady herself. I tightened my hold without crushing, a measured pressure that said I would break a thousand things before I let even a single hair on her head be touched.

“Remember this,” I murmured into her hair, not bothering to hide the possessive roughness in my voice. “You are mine. I will not let anyone hurt you.”

She lifted her face and met my eyes, and for a heartbeat there was no distance between us. The look she gave me was raw—equal parts fear, trust and a dizzy sort of surrender. It was terrifying, and it was everything.

I felt my men watching, cataloging the promise. I wanted them to know I meant it. I wanted them to move with the cold efficiency I demanded. I wanted them to understand that the house had been built to protect me, but now it existed for her as well.