Chapter 4 - The Echo of Empire
It happened during a summit with the Russian syndicate at a high-end hotel downtown.
I was sitting to Salvatore's right, translating a tense negotiation about shipping ports. The Russian boss, a brutal man named Volkov, was smiling too much. The energy in the room felt entirely wrong.
While Volkov was speaking, I caught a flicker of movement in the reflection of the massive glass windows behind him. A heavy, metal service door in the ceiling catwalk was slowly inching open. A sniper barrel slipped through the crack, aiming directly at the back of Salvatore's head.
I didn't scream. I knew Salvatore wouldn't hear it, and shouting would only make Volkov signal the shooter to pull the trigger.
Under the table, I grabbed Salvatore's hand.
I squeezed his palm twice—our silent emergency signal. Then, I rapidly signed a single word against his knee where no one else could see: "ABOVE."
Salvatore's reaction was terrifyingly instantaneous.
He didn't look up. In one fluid, explosive motion, he flipped the massive oak table directly at Volkov and tackled me to the floor, covering my body entirely with his massive frame.
The sniper's bullet shattered the marble floor exactly where Salvatore's head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
Chaos erupted. Salvatore’s bodyguards drew their weapons, returning fire at the catwalk and executing Volkov's men before they could draw their own guns. The deafening roar of gunfire filled the room, but beneath Salvatore, wrapped in the absolute safety of his arms, I felt no fear.
Within ninety seconds, the room was secured. Volkov was dead. The threat was neutralized.
Salvatore pulled me up from the floor. His chest was heaving, his dark suit covered in dust. He looked at me, his hands shaking slightly—not from the adrenaline of the gunfight, but from the realization of how close he had come to losing me.
He backed me against the wall of the shattered boardroom.
"You saved my life," he signed, his movements sharp, almost desperate.
"I told you I wouldn't let you be alone in the dark," I signed back, tears finally stinging my eyes.
Salvatore let out a ragged breath. He didn't use his hands this time. He reached up, cupping my face with both palms, his thumbs wiping away my tears. He looked at my lips, and then, with a heavy, Italian accent that proved he hadn't spoken aloud in over a decade, he forced his voice to work.
"Mine," he rasped, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that sent a violent shiver down my spine.
I gasped. Before I could respond, Salvatore crashed his lips onto mine.
It was a kiss that held years of forced silence, years of isolation, and a staggering, undeniable love. He kissed me like a man claiming his territory, entirely possessive and completely devoted. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him back with every ounce of strength I had, letting go of the frightened waitress and stepping fully into the power he had given me.
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When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, he raised his hands one last time.
"They thought you were a joke," he signed, a lethal, triumphant smile spreading across his face. "They didn't know you were my queen."
