A faint tug pulls at my chest, one I’ve been feeling for a while now. I glance at Beatrice. The thought of another little one with her eyes, her spirit, her defiance… one I could protect from the world instead of avenge inside it…
It hits harderthan I expect.
“Though I love seeing you, Matteo,” Marta calls out, already circling the counter like a woman on a mission, “I need some girl talk with my friend.” She loops an arm through Beatrice’s and tugs her away from me. “You two go… discuss your business things.”
I follow Marcello into the sunroom at the far end of the house.
“Drink?” he asks.
“A whiskey, please.”
I sink into the chair, letting my gaze drift through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The vineyard rolls out behind the house in long green rows, sloping gently toward a lake that glitters under the afternoon sun. It’s quiet here. Still. Almost untouched.
Peace. A word I’ve never trusted, yet somehow crave more now than I ever have.
The estate I built was supposed to give me this—distance from the world, safety carved from stone—but even that fortress is beginning to feel like a gilded cage closing around the people I love most.
Movement flickers in my peripheral vision.
I turn my head and find the same pair of pigtails from earlier, hovering just inside the room. Maria stands half-shadowed, half-brazen, watching me with those wide eyes.
I lean forward but don’t approach her.
“Ciao, bella,” I say softly.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t run either. She just watches.
“I think you’ve grown a whole five centimeters since I saw you last,” I add, lowering my voice, smoothing the edges. “Don’t you want to come and show me how tall you are now?”
She shakes her head,as if even the thought of stepping closer might crack something fragile inside her.
“You wound me, M,” I murmur, clutching my chest in mock agony. “You don’t want to be my friend anymore?”
Another violent shake of her head—and then she disappears again, bolting from the doorway like my shadow alone is enough to frighten her.
Marcello returns with my drink, lowering himself into the armchair opposite me. I take a slow sip, letting the cold burnsettle deep in my stomach. It’s not the whiskey that leaves an ache behind; it’s the ghost of that little girl’s fear still hanging in the doorway she abandoned.
“Since when is Maria so… quiet?” I ask, eyes drifting back to the empty space where she stood minutes ago.
Marcello’s gaze sharpens immediately. “You’re telling me you didn’t hear?”
I stay silent.He tilts his head, truly studying me now, and something shifts in his expression—confusion curling into disbelief.
“You don’t know,” he says, more statement than question.
I shake my head.“Marcello, I run an entire syndicate. I don’t get updates unless you give them. If something happened to your family, how the hell would I know unless you lifted the phone?”
A silence stretches between us, heavy, loaded, the kind that only exists between men who’ve bled side-by-side. For a moment he looks almost… lost. Then he speaks.
“My daughter was kidnapped two weeks ago.”
The words punch the air out of my lungs. I set my glass down slowly, my fingers tightening around the armrest until the tendons strain.
“What?” The word is a growl before I can stop it. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Then he blinks and realization dawns across his face like a slap.
“You didn’t know,” he says again, softer this time.
