“You’ll be free of your father,” he adds.
I nod once. That much, at least, is true. And it’s more than I’ve ever had.
“You’ll live in my house. You'll be under my protection. You’ll want for nothing.”
I look up at him finally. That’s what this is to him. A transaction. A promise of comfort in exchange for a life.
But for me, it’s a risk. It’s jumping off a ledge, blindfolded.
My silence is heavy. And I think he feels it, because he doesn’t say anything else. He gives me a final look that I can’t decipher, then turns back toward the house.
He leaves me there, alone in the garden. The wind stirs the petals at my feet. My chest rises, then sinks, as I press a hand over it, trying to settle the ache that won’t go away.
I don’t know what to do with the strange quiet Giovanni leaves behind. I don’t understand his angle. I don’t like that he didn’t gloat, that he didn’t twist the knife. Men like him are always sure of themselves, always playing some deeper game. And yet, when I said yes, he looked at me like he saw something I hadn’t shown him.
That terrifies me more than anything. Because if he sees me, if he really sees me, then all the walls I’ve built are at risk. And I don’t know who I am without them.
But whatever… I gave my consent. I’ve made my choice. I’ve stepped out of the fire and straight into the unknown.
And I have no idea what it will cost me.
5
GIOVANNI
Tomasso leans back in the leather chair across from me, one leg thrown over the other in his usual sitting style, smoke curling from the cigar pinched between his fingers like it belongs there. He’s telling me about the warehouse cleanup—a routine bust turned absolute mess when the new recruits got trigger-happy.
I listen, a glass of Vecchio Amaro resting in my palm, the bitter tang biting the back of my throat just the way I like it.
“They froze, Gio,” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Two seconds too long. Idiots nearly got themselves killed.”
I nod, not because I’m surprised, but because I’ve come to expect it. We recruit faster than we train. Risk breeds sloppiness.
I swirl the dark liquid in my glass, not because I’m thinking, but because it’s what I do when I already know what comes next. “Pull them out. Retrain them properly or send them to Pietro in Palermo. Let him whip them into shape.”
Tomasso smirks. “You’re getting soft.”
“You’re getting sloppy,” I say, sipping my drink.
He grunts at that, then leans forward to stub the cigar into the tray. “You look like hell, by the way. Still smelling like jet fuel. Sicily wear you out?”
I give him a look. “They needed to see me in person. My father’s allies. Some of them weren’t convinced I was ready. Now they are.”
“You make them kiss the ring?” he asks, only half joking.
I don’t smile. “I made them remember who they were loyal to.”
He whistles low. “And now you’re back, planning a wedding like some lovesick schoolboy. Life’s funny.”
“It’s not funny,” I mutter.
He nods in understanding. “Want to call the wedding off yet?”
I glance at him over the rim of my glass. “No.”
It comes out flat, too quick, even for me. He raises a brow. I don’t explain, I don’t need to.
He reaches for the decanter and pours himself a measure of whatever he feels like. “So, it’s still two days from now,” he says. “That’s quick, even for you.”
