In six, his money slows, and by the end of the first week after he dared to raise his men and his guns against me, Salvatore Bellandi’s name becomes heavy.
Every day he calls.
And every day I refuse to answer.
And when I hear he’s been summoned back to Sicily by La Fratellanza, I send a simple text.
This is how modern men fight.
This is how I fight.
Violence is easy.
Pressure is art.
Two WeeksLater
It’s latewhen I return.
The house is quiet, but quiet does not mean peace.
Quiet means listening.
Quiet means safe.
My men nod respectfully and Caterina greets me softly in the foyer.
“She is upstairs,” she murmurs, careful.
I nod once and start to walk away, but her soft, wise voice stops me.
“Gio.”
I turn, feign patience and relaxation even though I’m neither of those things. I want my wife and I want her now.
“She’s not happy. Whatever it is you’re doing to make this right, keep an eye on the clock too. Before time punishes you.”
I despise the unease stirring in my gut, but again, I nod.
“Capisci. Buona notte.”
My feet carry me through the halls with purpose, past the security posted outside our suite, past the door that has become a boundary no one crosses without permission.
Inside, the lights are low.
Lucia is sitting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed.
She’s wearing day clothes when I expect her to be in the lingerie she likes to torment me with.
Or, in my dirtiest dreams, completely naked.
I pause in the doorway, unease intensified.
She looks… wrong.
Her shoulders are too stiff and her hands are clasped too tightly. And I know, instantly, that something has happened.
“Lucia.”
