“I love the rain.”
He hums softly. “You always have. Is that why you’re out here? To watch it?”
I turn to him. His eyes gleam like ice crystals. “That, and I needed to escape Emily. She’s been force-feeding me soups and meals on your father’s orders. Apparently I’m not eating enough to his liking.”
His lips pull into a thin flat line. “You aren’t, Mama.”
My brows knit. “I am. I had toast this morning.”
“And after that? Did you eat your lunch?”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out—because he’s right. I didn’t eat a damn thing after that single slice of toast.
So instead,I pivot.
“You’ve been doing well with your training, I hear.”
“Mama.”
“Daniele.” I mimic his pointed tone. “Don’t look at me like that. I am the parent here. I’m not some delicate egg that’s going to crack if you breathe too hard.”
“And I’m the son trying to protect his mother,” he counters, giving me the same look Matteo gives when he’s worried. “You’ve been through a lot lately—not to mention the issues with your fashion line. It’s understandable if you’re feeling a little bit… fragile right now.”
Fragile. That word hits me like a slap.
I’ve spent my entire life fighting that label—my father’s gaze, Giacomo’s control, society’s expectation that I wilt. Fragile is the one thing I refuse to be.
“I’m fine, baby.” I reach out, wanting to smooth the fear from his face. No matter how tall he gets, how broad his shoulders become, he will always be my baby. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
“I hate when you and Papa treat me like I’m a child who can’t see what’s happening,” he fires back. “You’re both trying to keep me out of this, but as your son, I’m already part of it.”
I shake my head gently. “This is not your fight, Danny. Your father and I have been tangled in this long before you were born.”
“Mama, respectfully,” he says, voice low, steady,manlikein a way that breaks my heart, “as a Davacalli, your wars become mine. I’m in this whether I want to be or not. And I want to put a bullet in Giacomo’s head just as much as Papa does.”
My stomach twists. I hate the sound of that name in my son’s mouth. I hate what it does to him.
“No,” I say firmly. “I will not have you dragged into this war. Leave Giacomo to your father and me.”
His frown deepens, jaw tightening with a resolve that is so painfully Matteo it steals my breath.
“Mamma, I love you. But you don’t understand what this looks like for me. That man tried to bomb you. He hurt Uncle Valerio. He hurtyou.That demands a response. And now that father’s enemies see me as the next head, I can’t appear weak.”
He leans forward, eyes burning.
“What kind of capo would I be if I let what happened to you go unanswered? You’re my mother. Your safety is my responsibility. If I let this slide, our enemies will think I’m soft. They’ll test me. They’ll testus.”
The prideand horror twist together inside me. He sounds just like Matteo, right down to the way he makes vengeance sound like duty.
I swallow hard.
Because even though my instinct is to protect him from all this darkness—I know he’s right.
I know the code.
His last name is Davacalli. And whether I like it or not, this world—its violence, its loyalty, its brutal inheritance—belongs to him too.
He is his father’s son. Never more than in this moment.
