The silence in the Romano estate's war room was thick with tension.
Elena sat at the head of the long, dark table—her father's seat. The room still smelled faintly of his cologne and gunpowder, memories stitched into the very fabric of the leather chairs and wooden walls. But she was no longer Daddy's little girl.
She was the boss now.
Across from her sat Lucien Blackthorn, arms folded, his wolf instincts clearly on high alert. He didn't belong here. Not among marble statues, oil paintings, and the scent of expensive whiskey. He belonged to the wild—to the shadows and the blood-soaked forests beyond the city.
Still, here he was. And she hated how he managed to look bored, powerful, and untouchable all at once.
"Let's make this clear," Elena began, her voice sharp. "This alliance? It's a formality. You don't own me. You don't command my men."
Lucien tilted his head. "Then I assume you'll handle the hybrid assault on your own?"
She didn't flinch, but the tension in her jaw betrayed her.
"They're getting bolder," Lucien continued. "Organized. Faster. Stronger. Something's changing, and your family isn't equipped for this fight alone."
"We don't need wolves to clean up our mess," Elena snapped. "Especially not arrogant alphas with a God complex."
He leaned in, voice low. "If I had a God complex, sweetheart, you'd already be on your knees."
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Try me."
"Don't tempt me."
A knock on the door broke the moment. Matteo, Elena's second-in-command, entered holding a file thick with reports. His expression was tight, wary.
"They hit another shipment," he said, laying the folder on the table. "Four men dead. Two were ours. Two were… his."
Lucien didn't react. "Told you. This isn't just your problem anymore."
Elena opened the file, flipping through photos—mangled bodies, blood splashed on shipping crates, claw marks on metal.
Her throat tightened. She hated the idea of needing anyone, especially him. But this was bigger than her pride.
"We make this alliance," she said, meeting Lucien's eyes again, "but on equal ground. You don't bark orders. And I don't fetch."
Lucien smirked. "As long as you don't bite the hand that saves you."
She stood, offering her hand across the table. A symbolic gesture. One she didn't offer lightly.
Lucien hesitated, then rose and clasped her hand.
His grip was firm. Warm. Too warm.
And something shifted in the air—dangerous, electric.
"We have a deal," she said quietly.
"For now," Lucien replied, eyes locked on hers. "But don't forget—wolves are loyal… until betrayed."
"And mafia never forget," she shot back.
As their hands broke apart, they both knew one thing:
This alliance might save their people.
Or it might destroy them both.