Bullets & Biscotti

GEMMA

The whiskey burned going down, but I welcomed the fire. It was the only thing that felt real in the past three hours. Everything else had the surreal quality of a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

I raised my hand, signaling the bartender for another pour. The layers of tulle and silk surrounding me rustled with the movement, a ridiculous cloud of white that seemed to mock me with every breath. My wedding dress. I was sitting in a bar in my goddamn wedding dress.

The bartender, a lean man in his thirties with kind eyes, hesitated. “Miss, are you sure—”

“I’m sure.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t soften it with an apology. The hazel eyes that met his in the mirror behind the bar held no room for argument, only a fierce determination that had carried me through the last hour of hell. “Unless you’re planning to cut me off after three drinks?”

“No, ma’am. Just... checking.” He poured another two fingers of Jameson into my glass, his gaze flickering over the elaborate beading on my bodice, the cathedral-length veil I’d ripped off and abandoned somewhere between the church and here. “Rough day?”

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere dark and bitter in my chest. “You could say that.”

Rough day. That was one way to describe walking in on your fiancé balls-deep in one of the bridesmaids’ twenty minutes before you were supposed to walk down the aisle. In the coat closet of the church, no less. Very classy. Very Leonid.

Not that I’d loved him. I hadn’t. Not even close.

The marriage had been arranged, a cold, calculated business transaction dressed up in white silk and promises neither of us intended to keep. A political alliance between my family and the Bratva to strengthen ties and expand territory. I’d accepted that reality the moment my father had laid out the terms six months ago.

What I hadn’t accepted was being humiliated. Being made a fool of in front of three hundred guests, half of Boston’s underworld watching to see if the Donati principessa would go through with marrying into the Bratva.

I took another sip, letting the whiskey dull the sharp edges of rage and humiliation. The truth was, I would have married Leonid Markov even knowing he’d never be faithful. Even knowing our marriage would be nothing but a strategic alliance with separate bedrooms and carefully orchestrated public appearances.

I would have done it for two reasons.

One: the treaty. My family needed the Bratva alliance. Needed their connections, their territory, their muscle. The Donatis were strong, but we weren’t invincible. Not anymore. Not since the Calabrese family had started making moves on our territory, testing our defenses, looking for weaknesses.

And two, the reason that mattered more than any treaty was my mother’s restaurants.

Seven establishments across Boston. Lucia’s, named after her. Each one a temple to her memory, her passion, her legacy. She’d built that empire from nothing, starting with a single storefront in the North End when she was barely twenty-five. And not just restaurants. She’d perfected her signature biscotti recipe over decades, a delicate blend of tradition and innovation that had won her awards and a loyal following. Those biscotti sold as fast as she could make them, packaged in beautiful gold boxes that were now as iconic as the restaurants themselves. By the time she died three years ago, she’d created something extraordinary.

And my mother, in her infinite wisdom, had put them in a trust. A trust I could only inherit upon marriage or the age of thirty.

Marriage to an “appropriate” man. Someone who strengthened the family. Someone who brought value to the Donati name.

Someone like Leonid fucking Markov.

I’d been willing to sell myself for those restaurants. For the chance to carry on what my mother had built. To prove I was worthy of her legacy, that I could take her vision and make it even greater.

But I’d be damned if I’d do it while being disrespected.

The bartender was watching me with concern, probably wondering if he should cut me off after all. I ignored him, my mind racing through the implications of what I’d done.

I’d run. Bolted from the church like a coward, leaving three hundred guests and one very angry Bratva heir standing at the altar. Left my father to deal with the fallout, the broken treaty, the humiliation.

God, my father.

My stomach twisted at the thought of facing him. Dante Donati didn’t tolerate failure, and I’d just delivered the biggest failure of my life. The alliance he’d spent two years negotiating, gone. The treaty that was supposed to secure our family’s future was now destroyed.

And my inheritance? The restaurants I’d been willing to sacrifice everything for?

Still locked away in that goddamn trust.

I could see it now, my father’s face when he found out. The cold fury in his eyes. The disappointment would cut deeper than any anger. He’d raised me to be strong, to be strategic, to put family first. And I’d just thrown it all away because I couldn’t stomach being cheated on, or at least that's what he would think.

Maybe I should have stayed. Smiled through the ceremony. Pretended I hadn’t seen Leonid with his hand up Bridesmaid Number Three’s dress. Played the dutiful daughter, the perfect principessa.

But I’d looked at myself in that church bathroom mirror, at the carefully applied makeup and the designer dress and the woman I was about to become, and I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t marry a man who’d disrespected me before we’d even said our vows.

Even for Lucia’s. Even for my mother’s legacy.

The whiskey was making everything fuzzy around the edges, softening the panic that had been clawing at my chest since I’d fled the church. I should call my father. Should face the music. Should start figuring out how to salvage this disaster.

But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I’d figured out what the hell I was going to do next.

I’d grabbed my keys, hiked up approximately forty pounds of designer fabric, and driven without thinking. Without planning. I hadn’t even realized where I was going until I’d pulled up outside and seen the sign.

Bellucci’s.

Of all the places in Boston I could have gone, I’d ended up here. At my childhood nemesis’s establishment. At Benedetto Bellucci’s bar.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

The bar itself was beautiful, I had to admit—all dark wood and leather, with low lighting that created an intimate atmosphere. Expensive. Exclusive. Very Benedetto. The man had always had impeccable taste, even when we were kids competing for the top spot in every class, every competition, every goddamn thing.

I hated that I’d come here. Hated that some part of my subconscious had driven me to the one place I shouldn’t be. To the territory of a rival family. To the man who’d been my nemesis since we were eight years old.

But another part of me, the part that was three whiskeys deep and running on pure adrenaline, didn’t care.

Maybe that was exactly why I’d come here. Because it was wrong. Because it was dangerous. Because for once in my carefully controlled life, I wanted to do something that wasn’t calculated or strategic or designed to please my father.

I wanted to do something that was entirely mine.

“Another,” I said, pushing my glass forward.

The bartender glanced toward the back of the bar, then back at me. Something shifted in his expression, a decision being made. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched him disappear through a door marked “Private,” and a cold realization settled over my whiskey-warmed thoughts.

He was getting Benedetto.

Of course he was. This was Benedetto’s territory, his kingdom. And I’d just walked into it wearing a wedding dress like some kind of deranged Cinderella.

I should leave. Should grab my keys and get the hell out before...

“Well, well, well.” The voice came from behind me, smooth as aged bourbon and twice as dangerous. “If it isn’t Gemma Donati. And in a wedding dress, no less.”

My spine stiffened. I’d know that voice anywhere. It had been taunting, challenging, and driving me crazy since we were eight years old.

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his presence affected me. Instead, I raised my glass in a mock toast to my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“Benedetto,” I said, proud that my voice came out steady despite the way my heart had started racing. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but we both know I’d be lying.”

I heard his footsteps, felt the air shift as he moved closer. And when I finally let myself look at him in the mirror, I saw exactly what I’d been afraid of seeing.

Benedetto Bellucci. Even taller than I remembered, with broad shoulders that filled out his tailored dress shirt like he’d been born wearing it. Dark brown hair, perfectly disheveled in a way that took effort to achieve. But it was his eyes that caught me—sharp blue, intelligent, and focused entirely on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. There was a small scar along his jawline that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him, adding to the dangerous edge of his features. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the edges of the intricate tattoos that crawled up his arms—sleek lines and Italian iconography that spoke to his heritage and his power.

He moved with the confidence of a man who owned everything he touched. And right now, he was looking at me like I was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him all week.

Benedetto Bellucci, looking like sin incarnate and wearing a smile that promised nothing but trouble.

This was either going to be the biggest mistake of my life, or the beginning of something I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Probably both.