Footsteps echo from the east wing. Aria appears first, resplendent in champagne silk, diamonds glittering at her throat. Carmela follows in blue, her expression the permanent disapproval of a woman who's seen too much and forgiven too little.
"Finally," Vittoria murmurs.
Aria descends the stairs with the grace of someone who's been attending these events her entire life. Her smile is perfect. Her posture immaculate. Only her eyes betray the strain. Slightly too bright, slightly too determined.
She doesn't know about Giuseppe's secret family. Doesn't know the husband she mourned for years was living a double life. Lorenzo made that choice for her. Decided the truth would destroy what's left of her world.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe ignorance is the only mercy we can offer.
"Nico, darling." Aria reaches the bottom of the stairs, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "You look handsome. Doesn't he look handsome, Carmela?"
"He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else," Carmela says flatly.
Not wrong.
"The car's waiting," I say, offering my arm to my mother. "We should go."
Vittoria falls into step beside Carmela, still scrolling through her phone.
I guide them toward the door, past the security station.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nico
These galas are necessary torture.
I stand against the far wall, whiskey in hand, watching the room like I'm searching threats. Which I am. Old habit. Can't turn it off even when the biggest danger is death by boredom.
The Moretti Foundation's annual charity event. Crystal chandeliers throw fractured light across marble floors. Women in designer gowns. Men in tuxedos. Everyone smiling, laughing, pretending they give a damn about whatever cause we're supposedly supporting tonight. Sick kids? Clean water? I stopped paying attention three speeches ago.
This is the game. The facade.
We show up. We write checks with lots of zeros. We shake hands with politicians and business moguls who pocket our donations and look the other way when shipments move through ports they're supposed to be monitoring.
We pose for photographs that'll run in tomorrow's society pages, and everyone sees exactly what we want them to see.
The Sartori family. Construction empire. Philanthropists. Pillars of the community.
Not the guns. Not the bodies. Not the blood I scrubbed from my knuckles three nights ago.
Funny thing about civilians—they don't want to know. They see the money, the suits, the charitable donations, and they fill in the blanks with whatever makes them comfortable.
Must be old money. Must be smart investments. Must be luck.
They never ask where it comes from. They just assume they weren't born lucky enough to have it themselves.
Easier that way.
I take another sip of whiskey. At least the bar's decent.
"Nico."
I don't need to turn to know who it is.
Amelia slides into my peripheral vision like she was born to command attention. Red dress, legs that go on forever, showcased by a slit that climbs dangerously high. Dark hair swept over one shoulder. Full lips painted the same shade as the dress.
