The Alpha's Mafia Luna novel Chapter 20

The gun felt heavier than I expected.

I turned it over in my hands, blinking at the metal like it might

suddenly grow teeth and bite me.

“It won’t shoot itself,” Damian said from behind, voice like warm

velvet.

I exhaled through my nose. “I’m more of a claws–and–teeth girl, not

bullets.”

“You’re a werewolf,” he said, stepping closer. “But you’re also

surrounded by people who won’t fight fair. You need to learn both.”

The private shooting range beneath his estate was dimly lit and

smelled faintly of gunpowder and leather. I could hear the faint hum

of the underground air system, the click of my own breathing.

Damian moved behind me–close. I felt his presence before I saw it.

His chest almost brushed my back, and I stiffened when his hands

came around to gently adjust my grip on the pistol.

“You’re holding it too loose,” he murmured, fingers brushing over

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mine. “Like you’re scared of it.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Butterflies don’t count as fear, Selene.”

I froze.

Did he know? Could he tell how warm my skin was getting, how my

heart had picked up speed?

He gently guided my arms forward, his body pressed lightly against

mine as he aligned me with the target. I could feel his breath near my

ear, slow and calm. He wasn’t even trying to do anything—and maybe

that made it worse. Or better.

My wolf stirred beneath my skin, unbothered by the closeness. If

anything, she leaned into it.

“This isn’t just about aim,” he said, voice low. “It’s about control.

Breathe with it.”

“I am breathing,” I whispered.

“Not enough.”

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His hand slipped to my waist–just for a second–to adjust my stance.

My spine straightened instinctively.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

A short vibration against the silence.

He paused. Exhaled. Pulled back slowly.

“Stay here,” he said, voice a little tighter now. “Don’t go anywhere

until I come back.”

“What is it?”

But he was already gone.

The door closed behind him with a low click, leaving me standing

there, pistol in hand, breath still shallow, wondering what the hell

just happened.

I looked over to find Mira casually standing by the door, a slice of

pear in one hand, sunglasses on her head like she was vacationing in

Tuscany,

“How long have you been there?”

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“Long enough to watch you feel the heat.”

I threw my towel at her. She caught it with a grin.

“Where’d he go?” she asked, plopping down beside me.

“No clue. Mafia emergency. Maybe someone spilled espresso on the

wrong table.”

“Classic Italian offense.”

We were silent for a moment before she clapped her hands suddenly.

“Okay, enough shooting and dying. Come on. You, my dear

traumatized Luna, are about to indulge.”

“Indulge in what?”

She grinned like the devil. “Luxury. Food. Italian chaos. Come with

me.”

–

Ten minutes later, I found myself in the estate’s massive kitchen,

surrounded by fresh ingredients, loud opera music, and Mira dancing with a wooden spoon like she was starring in a cooking show no one

asked for.

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“Mira, we don’t even know how to cook half this stuff.”

“That’s what the staff is for,” she said, motioning to the three chefs who watched us with the kind of silent horror only people in fine

culinary arts could express. “We’re just creative direction.”

“I don’t think the staff appreciates us ‘directing‘ them to make–what did you say again? Truffle pasta, tiramisu with extra alcohol, and a

dish you made up called ‘Selene’s Soothing Lasagna“?”

“It’s emotional support food,” she said seriously. “You almost died

last night. You deserve a dish.”

The chefs were already chopping, mixing, and ignoring us to the best

of their ability. I wandered to one of the counters and dipped my

finger into some mascarpone cream.

“Delicious,” I muttered. “Might cry.”

“You will cry when you try the pesto,” Mira said dramatically.

And I did.

Somehow, Mira convinced the staff to set up a long table out on the

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terrace overlooking the courtyard. Platters of fresh Italian dishes

were placed down like offerings to the gods. Truffle risotto.

Handmade pasta. Warm focaccia with olive oil. Grilled vegetables that

smelled like heaven.

“You know Damian is going to kill us, right?” I asked, biting into a

tomato bruschetta.

“Kill you, maybe. I’m an employee.”

“You’re technically his assistant.”

“I’m emotionally your assistant now.”

The food was incredible. The sky was turning a shade of golden pink,

the kind of sunset that made even the birds pause. I kicked off my

shoes and leaned back.

“This is the first time I’ve relaxed since I got here,” I whispered.

Mira looked over. “It shows.”

That’s when it happened.

The fountain behind us sputtered and started spraying water into the

air in a weird, aggressive angle. Mira shrieked. I ducked.

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“What did you do?” I yelled over the sudden downpour.

“I tried to turn on the soft lights! Not activate the freaking geyser!”

One of the staff came running, muttering something rapid in Italian and slapping the controls. Mira, now soaked, looked like a wet cat.

I was crying laughing.

“Damian’s gonna think we threw a rave,” I gasped.

“Or a garden baptism,” Mira muttered.

We got everything shut down eventually, and the chefs retreated with

the dignity of people who knew better than to ask questions. Mira

and I collapsed onto the patio chairs, dripping wet and wheezing with

laughter.

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like life before everything

changed.

Before the mafia.

Before the blood.

Before Damian Wolfe and his intense eyes and his unspoken wars.

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But then the front door opened.

And in walked Damian.