So I show up. I teach. I laugh when they tell dumb jokes. I let the smallest, truest parts of me live in a room full of paint and second chances. It’s not salvation. It’s survival, and right now, survival is enough.
Three years after the wedding…
Stephano summoned me to his headquarters. Over the past years, I've done more and more work for him and started building my own organization behind his back. I named it Omertà Infernale—Hellbound Silence. Since it started with taking out men and women who betrayed the code of Omertà. Omertà Infernale has grown from Mario, Leo, and me to over a hundred men and women. Men and women who had been forgotten or disgraced by the people they used to work for. Some came from other families, but most worked for the military or the government. Highly trained ex-CIA, FBI, police officers, and special forces members who walked the gray line a little too close to the edge for the government to keep on their payroll. Their loss is my win. As long as I keep a long leash and let them do what the government didn't, they remain loyal and trustworthy.
Last year, I finally cut ties with Carlos for good. Stephanoboughtme from him, and as much as I resent being Stephano'sdog, it’s much better than being under Carlos's thumb. With my mind on Leo, who is digging into Lex Carter—I've not forgotten the slimy YouTube bastard who nearly snared the girls into a horrible trap—I'm fully unprepared to be running intoher.
I’ve stayed away, but I’ve never let her out of my sightline. My men log when she leaves, where she goes, who walks her to a car. I’ve drawn hard lines—no walls, no beds, no after-hours lenses. I tell myself that it’s respect. But it’s also self-preservation. I’m not sure I could keep away if I were to see her kissing him again. It sounds cowardly when you strip it down, but it isn’t. I want her whole, and I want her tochooseme, when the time comes, not to be hauled away because some soldier couldn’t resist proving a point. I've seen enough of her to know that she's in love with Roberto—something that still churns my guts—I don't need to know what happens in their house in private. I respect her too much for that; besides, it would only hurt like a motherfucker.
One day, I want to walk up to her with a kingdom to offer, not a promise and trembling hands. So I keep my eyes where they matter, and I burn the rest into a ledger I’ll pay off later.
This morning, I was told she left the house as per usual, going shopping with some of the other girls—the same ones from years ago and a few new ones, as well as the wives of othercapos or mid-ranking officers. So why the hell is she here? In Stephano Conti’s house?
Sophia fucking Giordano looks like the perfect mafia wife. Poised and coifed. My mouth goes dry so fast it tastes like blood. For a second, the world narrows to the click of her heels and the way her laugh rolls out like an invitation. She looks alive—impossibly, unbearably alive—and every sensible piece of me wants to stride across the lawn, take her hand, and never let anybody put that life at risk again.
I can’t.
Seeing her is a shot through the sternum. It’s not just want; it’s a grief that buries itself deep into my bones like acid. I feel a weight slam into my ribs, like someone’s wrapped a garrote around my throat and is tightening it slowly. It steals my breath and leaves a raw, hot hollow where my chest should be. My fingers curl into the leather of my jacket until my knuckles scream.
She’s not the scared girl in the alley. She’s the goddess they groom for photographs: hair curled, skin the perfect olive color, legs that end in heels built to kill. God help me, she makes it look effortless. Roberto stands at her side, hand possessive at the small of her back—that lazy, titled ownership that makes my teeth ache. She smiles at him like it’s a private joke and then at Gustave, who laps it up with the appetite of a man rediscovering youth. The official head of the Conti family grins, and it’s the kind of vanity that makes me want to punch glass. She doesn’t belong in any man’s trophy case. She belongs in sunlight.
And yet.
She is there, in Stephano Conti’s garden, like a pearl dropped into a bowl of gravel. My hands unclench, and I force myself smaller, a shadow along the hedgerow. I am good at being invisible. Tonight, I need to be better.
She turns. The whole motion like a hinge lifting. Her face tilts and then—God—she looks straight at me. Even behind dark lenses, the look is a blade. For a breathless second, I think she won’t know me. But then I feel her gaze. It's like a ray of sunshine when you step out of the cold. It warms me from the inside out. It makes breathing easier, and for the fraction of a second, it's just her and me. Standing there, staring at each other like long-lost lovers. Heat roars through my body, hot and stupid and dangerous. Every plan I’ve buried under servers and ledgers riots to the surface.
Take her. Run. Take her now, before anyone can claim her. Take her and make a place where men like Roberto don’t exist and where rings mean what the wearer wants them to mean, not what a book says.
I taste the cheap bourbon that’s been my companion lately, and it tastes like cowardice. I remember the promise I made to myself, to bring a kingdom, not trembling hands. I remember the reasons I keep distance: patience, cover, the ugly math of power. I remember the ledger I’m building and the cost of pulling at it too soon.
She holds my gaze a second longer. Maybe she wonders why a shadow is watching her. Maybe she thinks of thealley and a man who appeared out of nowhere that night. Maybe she thinks of that kiss. Maybe she thinks nothing at all. The ambiguity slams against me harder than any certainty could. Roberto says something, and her head swivels away from me. I'm being dismissed like I have been by the likes of her since the day I was born.
On lead-laden legs, I turn in the direction I came from—making myself a promise that from now on, I will use the kitchen entrance. My hands are shaking by the time I reach the door, but the queen on my ribs hums like a metronome. One day, I will walk up to her with a kingdom, not a promise. One day, I will not be the man who watches from shadows. But that day isn't today. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckedy fuck.
Once inside a hallway, I ram my fist into the wall; the pain is nothing to the emotions twisting my guts. Fuck!
My breathing is labored and painful, as if somebody beat the shit out of me. Seeing her was more than a punch to the gut. It felt like my lungs collapsed in on themselves.
Seeing her—right there, standing so close I could smell her perfume—was a blow I wasn’t braced for. I've been so fucking careful. So disciplined. Years of staying in the shadows, following her through public mentions, discreet surveillance, social pages, never close enough to touch. Just close enough to protect.
And now?
Now she is in Stephano’s house, in my world. Smiling. Worse… she was smiling at him.
AtRoberto.
The fucker whispered something in her ear, and she laughed. Laughed. Like he was charming. Like he deserved her. Like she loved him. My vision blurs. I clench my fists until my knuckles crack. And then I hit the wall.Hard. Again.I’m not a fool. I’ve seen the evidence. But for the first time, I let myselffeelthe brutal truth that maybe she’sin lovewith him. Maybe she actually fucking chose him. Maybe she’llalwayschoose him. I double over, my forehead presses to the drywall, and my breathing is ragged.
I’m unraveling.
This isn’t who I am.
I don’t lose control.
Not anymore.
But she looked… ethereal. In a soft ivory blouse, cream heels, hair swept back in loose waves. She always had that kind of beauty that haunts people. Now it’s matured into something untouchable. Regal.
