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Allegra’s villa sits atop a hillside overlooking Como, featuring a terrace reserved for a select few. She has seated us at a small, picturesque table—her in cream silk, with the lake as the backdrop—creating a scene that underscores what I don’t have. Lunch has been served, and since she’s dismissed her staff, it suggests she plans to speak freely about things she prefers to keep hidden.

Is she doing this behind her brother’s back?

“You look tired,” she opens, delighted. “Marriage, or Matteo?”

“Both are demanding lately.”

“Family,” she agrees, pouring. “It never lets a man rest. You look like you haven’t rested since June.”

“I sleep fine.”

“You sleep alone, or you sleep fine. Never both, with you.” She smiles at her own accuracy, and I let her have it, because the alternative is correcting her, and I don’t have the patience for her games today.

“What is lunch all about, Allegra?”

She laughs and serves the fish herself. “The Genoa unpleasantness—the seizure, the little newspaper paragraph, all of that. Matteo… overplayed. He’s a hammer, my brother, and every problem a nail.”

She sets down the serving fork, sits and folds her hands. “This disagreement doesn’t have to escalate, Lupo. One word from me and the freight is no longer an issue. The Finanza loses interest. Old alliances renewed. Nothing else goes wrong for you.”

“You’re generous today.”

“I’m practical. Wars are expensive, and I’ve grown fond of my things.” She tops off my glass I haven’t touched.

“Worried I’ll come after you?”

“Every battle carries costs.” She lets the lake hold a silence. “So does every truce.”

Ah. Here we are. “And what will this truce cost me?”

“It’s simple, really. You end your American arrangement, and you come back where you were always going to end up. With me.”

I’d sooner shoot myself in the foot. Not a metaphor. “And the houses?”

“The Brancati and Sartorre go back to being one thing nobody moves against. It’s not even a sacrifice, tesoro. Just a course correction.”

There it is, laid on the linen between the bread and the wine. The cost of keeping what I have built in this life is Veda.

A year ago, I’d have taken the deal without finishing the fish. Peace with the Brancatis, the houses reunited, the freight clean, all of it bought with a woman I’d hired and would have released regardless.

The math was never simpler or more obvious. Say yes, and life goes back to normal. Allegra will fix this in the blink of an eye.

The thought is dead on arrival. “You’ve mistaken my marriage for some kind of arrangement, Allegra. She is my wife. Not a player in this.”

“Is she.” Not a question. “Mm.” Allegra tastes her wine, unbothered, holding cards she’s already counted. “Here’s the thing about your wife, Lupo. I went looking for her. Any bride of yours becomes my business, of course.”

“That’s not how this works. She is not your business. She is not your anything. Don’t worry about her.”

She sets the glass down. “The funny thing is, there’s no marriage record. Not in Boston, not in Massachusetts, not in Italy. A courthouse wedding leaves paper. Yours left none. Peculiar, don’t you think?”

The lake glitters behind her under the midday sun, and I know it’s deep enough to drown her in, so I’m not sure why she insists on going down this road.

I smile, ice in my veins. “What a funny way to say congratulations on your marriage.”

“And your doctor,” she continues, “vanished from her hospital. Seems no one knows anything about where she went to. Top of a promotion list one week, gone the next. Poof. No resignation, no forwarding. Even her colleagues don’t know, and trust me, they were asked.”

She’s spread her reach. Fuck me.

But I don’t let her see it on my face. “People take leave, Allegra. Happens all the time.”