On the flight back, Lucia is silent, her gaze distant, processing the weight of what has been done in her name and with her presence, and I watch her with something that borders on reverence.
She has crossed a line but not into darkness.
Into clarity.
“This does not end it,” she says finally, without looking at me.
“No,” I agree. “It ends the illusion.”
Her hand finds mine, steady and warm.
“Then let us finish it,” she says.
22
LUCIA
It’s been months since Sicily.
Months since Isabella Bellandi was handed over like a living contract, wrapped in designer linen and consequence, to a man whose allegiance now belongs to Dragoni whether he admits it aloud or not.
Months since Giovanni bled in Red Hook, since he woke with resolute fury in his eyes and my name in his mouth, and I learned what it meant to stand inside the machinery of his world and not be crushed by it.
Giovanni wanted to heal properly before he summoned La Fratellanza Nera and I was all for it.
Also… he wanted them to wait.
To sweat in the silence, to sit in their expensive rooms and wonder what it meant that Salvatore Bellandi was still breathing and still locked inside the Dragoni Estate, and that no one in New York dared ask for him back.
That kind of patience is its own violence.
And by some unspoken agreement between Giovanni and me, we’ve not spoken too closely about the personal things either, about the omissions that still ache, about the suitcase thatnever truly left the room between us, about the fact that intimacy does not erase history.
It only makes it harder to ignore.
I didn’t fight the wait.
Partly because I wasn’t eager to step into another room full of men who believe they are gods simply because they inherited brutality.
Partly because, to my own quiet surprise that I won’t willingly share, I’ve enjoyed taking care of my husband.
I’ve loved watching him come back to himself.
His body has healed into new geography, the scar across his chest a stark reminder of what it cost him to defend what was always his, and the way he moves now carries an even sharper authority, as if pain has only refined him.
But… today’s the day.
Today, he’s going to throw down the gauntlet of his power while also proclaiming me Donna in front of La Fratellanza Nera, and yup, I would be lying if I said my nerves weren’t stretched tight beneath my skin.
Of course, Giovanni senses my churning angst.
I’m still staring at the ceiling when he rolls over, slow and deliberate, his hand sliding down my side with a familiarity that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
His weight settles over me, warm and real, his mouth finding the pulse in my throat as if he is reminding himself I’m here.
Alive.
His.
