“That place is annoying,” he mutters, finishing the water. “Besides, I’m needed here. I’m your second, and I?—”
“Valerio, you just took on a bomb. I don’t expect you back on your feet mere hours later.”
He shakes his head. “There shouldn’t have been a bomb in the first place. I should’ve sensed it.”
“Don’t do that to yourself.”
He ignores me. “How is she?”
I exhale, knowing there’s no winning this argument. “She’s… as expected. Shaken. Scared out of her mind. But she’s grateful you were there. She said it would’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t shielded her.”
He looks away, jaw clenching like he’s biting down on the blame.
“This is not your fault, Rio.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s not,” I repeat, firmer. “You couldn’t have foreseen that. You can’t plan for every move he makes. What we’re dealing with is… chaos.”
He drags a hand over his face, but it doesn’t soften the tension carved into him. “I let her down again, boss.”
I lean in. “You did your job. Do you hear me? This is not on you. I should’ve put a bullet in him years ago—fuck the code. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”
My father taught me to honor the code, to live by it. To keep our world balanced.
But following that code is now putting everything I care about at risk.
“Giacomo will pay,” I say into the quiet. “We just need to move our chess pieces carefully.”
And this time, I’ll choose my queen over the code.
30
BEATRICE
It’s been a few weeks since the bombing, and I have barely left my bed.
My health has taken a turn.I’m tired all the time, though I can’t tell if it’s stress or some sickness lurking on the horizon.
“Socialite Beatrice Davacalli flops without even debuting her first ever collection.”
The headlines are everywhere—my failed fashion week debut, how much of a disappointment I am. I sip my tea and sink deeper into the porch chair.
The wind whips across my face as dark clouds roll in.
Giacomo. The fashion house. The fear that has left me paralyzed.
It all feels like it’s crashing down, and I’m barely treading water. The waves feel far too high.
“It’s all going to be okay in time,” I whisper to myself. I’ve faced storms before—bigger ones—and I survived.
The porch door opens behind me, but I don’t turn. I don’t need to. The scent of pine hits me before his tall frame enters my periphery.
“You need to stop hovering, my boy.” I lower my cup but keep my gaze on the lake. “Between you and your father, you’re making me feel like a ticking bomb.”
“I just worry,” my son says, taking the chair beside me. “Looks like rain’s coming.”
Right on cue, thunder cracks through the sky, shaking the earth beneath us.
