Page 5 of The Don’s Omega

My eyes burn but I don’t cry. I stay where I am for a long time. Long enough that my back hurts from the cold, my legs go stiff, and the flickering light above me becomes something I don’t notice anymore. I stay until the math stops looping in my head, not because I’ve found an answer, but because my brain has finally accepted that there isn’t one.

Not one I can see.

But that isn’t acceptable.

So I start running through everything all over again.

Chapter One

Marcello

It’s Sunday dinner with the family. My mother is suspiciously quiet, which can only mean one thing: I’m about to be ambushed by her and my sisters, Ginevra and Noemi.

Bring it on, dear mother. I’m ready.

We’re in the formal dining room because Mama insists on using it for our Sunday night meals. The chandelier above us is dimmed, casting a warm golden glow over our small group. Mama prefers soft lighting. She says it makes the food taste better, but I suspect she just likes the way it softens everyone’s faces.

Our world doesn’t have much softness.

Being part of the Foschini syndicate requires sacrifice, commitment, and a spine of steel. Mama chose this life when she married into it. At least she had a choice.

I didn’t.

I was born into it, and there are times when I wish I hadn’t been.

Ornella, our housekeeper and cook, moves around the table, clearing the soup bowls. She’s a sturdy, compact woman with steel-gray hair pulled back tight and a face that suggests she has very little patience for nonsense. She’s run our household for decades. She’s good at her job. Solid. Efficient. Loyal.

She adored my late brother, Adriano. She respects me, but I don’t get the feeling she’s particularly fond of me. It’s fine. I don’t need her affection. I need her to run my household, and she does that beautifully.

“So.” My sister Ginevra sets her wine glass down. She’s pretty, but not in a soft, feminine way. She has dark hair cut to her shoulders, dark eyes, angular features. “Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room, or are we going to keep pretending like everything is fine?”

“I’m fine with the second option,” I murmur.

“Of course you are.” Ginevra gives me a chiding look. “Mama, do you want to start, or should I?”

Mama gives Ginevra a wry glance. “Tact is not your strong suit, Ginevra.” Mama is a petite woman with silver hair pinned up elegantly, and even at sixty-one she’s lovely.

“Where did tact ever get anyone?” Ginevra shrugs.

“You don’t have to jump down his throat,” my youngest sister Noemi says quietly. “You catch more bees with honey than vinegar.”

Ginevra gives Noemi an impatient glance. “I’m not trying to catch bees. I’m trying to talk some sense into Marcello.”

“All right, that’s enough. I’ll handle this, girls.” Mama folds her napkin carefully and sets it beside her plate before looking at me. Her eyes are the same dark brown as mine. They hold a soft perseverance that has gotten her through three syndicate wars, the loss of her beloved husband, and the raising of four children, one of whom now lies in a marble vault on the property.

“Marcello,” Mama begins. “Despite how inelegantly Ginevra has opened the conversation, it’s one we need to have. We’ve been dancing around a particular problem long enough and can ignore it no longer.”

I sigh. “What’s this problem, Mama?”

“You’re the problem, dear brother,” Ginevra interjects with a smirk.

“Ginevra, be nice,” Mama says.

“I’m tired of the whispers.” Ginevra scowls. “He’s not taking the situation seriously.”

Mama purses her lips. “I’m tired of the looks and the subtle digs as well, but I want to discuss this with Marcello calmly.”

I frown. “What digs do you get because of me?”