“Return him.”
Giovanni answers without pause. “Maybe I will consider it. In one year.”
This time the movement around the table is unmistakable. Every man here understands exactly what a year signifies. A controlled delay. A sentence postponed. A clock placed where everyone can see it.
Mancuso watches Giovanni closely. “One year,” he repeats. “And then?”
Giovanni’s gaze does not waver. “And then our agreement holds, or it does not.”
Mancuso’s attention returns to me, lingering longer now, and the danger clarifies itself in that moment. It is not his questions that threaten. It is his restraint.
I understand, with unsettling certainty, that Bellandi will not survive the year, and that the year itself was never meant for him.
It is meant for us. For Giovanni. For what we will become before it runs out.
This isn’t peace. It’s containment.
Mancuso rises slowly and extends his hand.
My husband takes it, the handshake precise and controlled, a contract sealed without ink. Mancuso’s voice remains quiet when he speaks again. “Your wife changes the game.”
Giovanni’s grip tightens. “She does. Because she’s the board on which the players thrive. Or perish.”
Something unreadable flashes through Mancuso’s eyes before he releases Giovanni’s hand and turns away.
The men begin to leave without ceremony, no congratulations offered, no relief expressed, only the shared understanding that something has been delayed, not resolved.
My husband guides me towards the exit, his palm steady at my back, possessive and certain without apology. Outside, the night presses in cold and sharp.
“One year,” he murmurs.
I look up at him. “And then?”
His expression does not soften. “Then we finish it.”
I believe him, and that belief settles deep and heavy in my chest.
The agreement has been reached. Hands have been shaken. Everyone walks away knowing this was never peace.
It was a countdown.
And the clock has begun.
24
LUCIA
It all starts with the cheap trainers.
One month after we send La Fratellanza Nera off to freeze their tits off in Chicago.
The trainers sit on the edge of the polished gym floor like an insult, scuffed canvas and worn rubber in a room that cost more than most people’s houses, a room of gleaming machines and perfect mirrors and Dragoni luxury engineered to make everything feel controlled.
They don’t belong here. Neither did I… at the start. I’d like to think that isn’t the case anymore. And yet…
Why is throwing them away so hard?
I drive my fist into the heavy bag again, the impact jolting up my arm, sharp and satisfying, my breath loud in my own ears, sweat dampening the back of my neck. The rhythm is vicious, deliberate, something I can count on when my mind refuses to settle.
