Knowing that if I continue to stay, I might melt from the red-hot anger simmering through me, I don’t give him the chance to respond. I turn. And I walk away. Again.
I don’t look back. Not once. But my fingers are trembling as I curl them into fists at my sides. And my heart is beating so hard, it feels like it might betray me.
Still, one truth clings to me as I disappear down the path between the hedges. This won’t be the last time I see Giovanni Renzetti. I know it with a certainty that's unnerving.
And God help me, I don’t know if that scares me more than it thrills me.
3
GIOVANNI
Five days.
It’s been five days since I stood in Renato Marchelli’s study and saw her. Five days since her silence stirred something in me I haven’t been able to shake. I’ve tried. The universe knows I’ve tried. But her image slips in through the cracks of my carefully stacked wall, through moments I’m meant to be focused. And now, I’m here, trying to pretend I’m not haunted by a girl I shouldn’t be thinking about.
The room is thick with the smell of espresso and cigarettes. My men are arguing over territory lines in Livorno. A shipment went missing last week, and everyone has a theory. I sit at the head ofthe long table, listening to them go back and forth. Their voices clash like against each other.
Short tempers. Bruised egos. But I don’t speak. Not yet.
Tomasso is seated on my right. His expression is calm and unreadable. He's the only one who’s not participating in the verbal brawl. He's my consigliere for a reason. He's the only man I trust with the full breadth of my thoughts. He catches my eye once, just briefly, and I know he’s watching me closely.
One of the men—Dante, too impulsive for his own good, hot-headed bastard—raises his voice, cutting across another. “We should retaliate immediately. Burn their dockyard and make a message out of it.”
A few others nod. More bravado than strategy. My father was a great strategist. This man makes a mockery of his leadership, and it angers me. He'll be rolling in the grave at this obvious stain on his legacy.
I lean forward. My voice is quiet and still as it cuts across the room, silencing every one of them.
“No.”
One word that makes the room fall silent. You could hear a pin drop. I nod silently, acknowledging the quiet authority I hold. Even though I've been preparing for this my entire life as the only surviving son of my late father, I’ve come to the realizationthat becoming Don involves always making decisions that can alter several lives.
“No one touches Livorno until I say so,” I continue. “We don't retaliate on emotion. That’s what children do. Not men. Leverage means nothing if we lose the port. You forget who controls the customs office now. You move too soon, you blow the whole damn operation.”
Silence folds into itself as I rise slowly. “Here’s what happens. Vincenzo, you’ll track the inventory logs again, quietly. Stefano, I want eyes on Rafaello Bassini’s crew. Discreetly. If Bassini is behind it, I want proof before we make our move. Not guesswork. Proof. I do not want to start an unnecessary war.”
They nod, one by one. There's no hesitation whatsoever on their part. Not because they’re afraid, though fear plays its part, but because they know I don't waste breath. When I speak, I speak with precision. My plans are foolproof; they don't fail. I don’t allow them to.
I let the silence stretch for a while before I ask, “Anyone got a problem with that?”
They all chorus their nos. Good.
I dismiss them. They rise and file out without another word. If they have something else to say, it's not to my face. All except Tomasso. He lingers behind, arms crossed, eyes trained on me like he’s waiting to read a confession off my face.
I glance up. “Something wrong?”
He tilts his head. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”
I arch a brow. “What are you talking about?”
There's a permanent smile on his face all the time. It's what makes him deadly, a silent killer. This time, he doesn’t smile. “You’ve been off since you came back from Marchelli’s estate.”
I hold his gaze. I school my expression into a blank one, but he sees through it anyway. Of course he does.
I shrug in a slow, deliberate way meant to dismiss the conversation, but Tomasso doesn’t take the bait. He never does. He just watches me with that quiet knowing in his eyes, like he’s already sifted through every possible answer and is waiting for me to pick the one closest to the truth. I hate that look. I hate how familiar he is with my silences.
“Is it because of the girl?” he asks, finally, voice low, careful. “Marchelli’s daughter.”
I don’t respond. Not with words. He doesn’t need them. He already knows. I’d told him the bare minimum after that first encounter. Enough to keep the questions at bay.
