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A moment later, the doors to the salon open, and the Shadow beckons us in. Maestra sits regally on her pale green silk-covered settee as usual, regarding us with an inscrutable expression as we enter. And then I see Sandro Castellani standing by the window overlooking the garden. He turns to face us with one eyebrow raised.
“Gentlemen,” Maestra greets us evenly. “Please, have a seat.”
We sit on the sofa across from her. Max’s knee bumps mine reassuringly as we settle.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Maestra—and Don Castellani,” I begin respectfully. “We have something we need to discuss with you. With both of you.”
Maestra folds her hands in her lap. “Yes, we gathered as much. It is highly irregular, requesting a private audience with both Don Castellani and me. But I trust you have good reason.”
Her tone is neutral, but there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes. Sandro moves to stand beside her, looking down at us. His face gives nothing away. I resist the urge to fidget under their combined gaze.
Max clears his throat softly. “Don Castellani. Maestra. Bricker and I have developed a close bond in the time we’ve worked together.”
I catch the minute widening of Maestra’s eyes, the rise of Sandro’s eyebrows. They understand immediately what Max is alluding to. Still, protocol dictates we state it plainly.
“We’ve fallen in love,” I blurt out. “I know it goes against tradition. That organizations like ours aren’t meant to mix in this way. But…it is what it is. And we want to be together.”
For a long moment, the room is silent save for the ticking of the antique desk clock. Maestra exchanges an unreadable look with Don Castellani. I resist the urge to fill the silence with nervous babbling, letting our confession sink in.
Maestra sits back with a thoughtful, though not angry expression. “Well. Thank you for being honest.”
“To say the least,” Sandro mutters. He eyes Max with a tiny frown before schooling his features.
“I hope you both know we didn’t intend for this to happen,” Max says earnestly. “My orders were only ever to serve both Families’ interests, and I think I can say I’ve done that, regardless of what developed between Bricker and me.”
Anna-Vittoria holds up a hand. “Please, Signor Pedretti. I do not doubt your integrity, nor Bricker’s.” She sighs. “The heart simply does not obey orders, it seems.”
Her eyes hold a touch of sadness. I wonder if she’s remembering her own youth, her own relationship with my father.
If she, too, had to weigh love against duty.
“You have my blessing,” she says after a moment, “if Don Castellani will supply his.”
Sandro clears his throat sharply. “I asked you to build trust with the Espositos, Pedretti, but I didn’t mean…” He gives a gesture, and though he has a half-smile on his face, I can tell he’s troubled.
“Believe me, Boss, I didn’t seek it out,” Max says. “But now that it’s happened, I can’t ignore my feelings. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that Iwon’t.”
Sandro turns away with a little huff of frustration. I brace myself for his anger, but when he faces us again his expression has softened slightly. “No. I don’t suppose you will.”
“If it makes it easier all round,” Max says, “I’m happy to retire. I’ve given a long service to the Family, but—”
“There is no question of that at all,” Sandro says immediately, and I know now what card Max had in mind to play.
Retirement.
As if he’sanywherenear that old.
Castellani looks between us contemplatively. “The heart wants what it wants, as they say. And your loyalty cannot be questioned, Pedretti. If you believe this is what you truly need…I will not stand in the way.” But he fixes Max with a piercing stare. “Therewillbe conditions.”
Max dips his head. “I understand, Boss, and we’re both happy to follow them. All we want is a chance. But you command the way, and I’ll follow, like always.”
The corners of Sandro’s mouth twitch upwards briefly. “Loyal as ever. Commendable.” He turns to Maestra. “However, Iwouldappreciate a closer relationship with the Espositos, too, if we are sanctioning this.”
Anna-Vittoria gives a nod. “I don’t see how that would not be possible, Don Castellani. Fabrizio is my son, you see. So there are added layers.”
I’ll give Castellani this: he’s got a poker facealmostas good as Max’s. “He’s your son,” he says at last, looking at me. “I see.”
I’m surprised my mother mentioned it at all. I’ve never objected to people knowing or not knowing as she deemed necessary. But her words come back to me from the other day:I have done you and Niccolo both a disservice.
