The Garrison pub had gone stone-dead silent.

Not because of the Shelby brothers—though they were all present: Tommy sipping his whiskey with a raised brow, Arthur tense, John halfway to lighting a cigarette, and Finn looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

No—this silence? It was because of her.

YN. Round, flashing black top hugging her curves like it was tailored by sin itself, denim flared jeans swinging with every playful move. Deep cleavage unapologetically on display as she filmed a TikTok trend right in the middle of the Shelby turf—laughing, glowing, owning the room.

And standing in the background, like a mafia god about to set the entire city on fire?

Luca Changretta.

6'5", burly, 36 years of raw Sicilian menace in an expensive tailored coat, arms crossed, face carved from stone—but those eyes? Locked on her. Icy, possessive, deadly.

The second a bartender dared glance too long, Luca leaned forward just enough for his voice to cut through the room like a knife:

“If another pair of eyes lands on her tits, I’ll be servin’ your ribs in a wine sauce back in Brooklyn. Capisce?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

She was his weakness, his softness, his f**king redemption.

And God help anyone who forgot she was his.