I scan through dozens of texts from an unknown number. Some are cryptic quotes about family loyalty and revenge. Others are disturbingly intimate comments about her daily routine, what she wore to dinner, and places she’d visited.
“Jesus, Isabella. How long has this been going on?”
“Since before your wedding.” She takes the phone back, her face pale in the blue light of the computer screen. “At first, I thought it was just someone trying to scare me. Then when we ran into him at that bistro the other day...”
“He confirmed it?” My mind races back to lunch, to the charged moment between them.
She nods. “He leaned in close, said he enjoyed ourconversations,and looked forward to seeing me in person more often. The way he said it...” She shudders. “It wasn’t just family rivalry, Carmela. It was something darker.”
I feel sick. “This isn’t just about territory or business deals.”
“No.” Isabella pulls up another file—an old newspaper clipping showing a younger Antonio De Luca standing over whatappears to be a Moretti family member. “Our families have history. Blood history.”
“And now they’re targeting us. The women.” My fingers curl into fists. “Making it personal.”
“I think it always was.” Isabella’s eyes meet mine. “And Maximo seems determined to settle old scores—through us.”
I lean back in Silvo’s chair, the weight of this revelation settling over me. For weeks, I’ve been a pawn in a game I didn’t understand—moved around the board by men playing with lives like they’re expendable. But sitting here at 2 AM, surrounded by decades of intelligence, with Isabella as my ally, something crystallizes inside me.
I’m done being a target. Done waiting for men to protect me, or threaten me, or decide my fate.
The Moretti family wants war? They’ll get it—but not the war they’re expecting. By the time Silvo returns from Miami, I’ll know their operations better than they know ours. Every weakness, every vulnerability, every secret they’ve buried.
“Let’s keep digging,” I tell Isabella, pulling up another file. “I want to know everything.”
She nods, a fierce smile crossing her face as she settles in beside me. “Welcome to the family business, Carmela.”
For the first time since my forced marriage, those words don’t feel like a cage—they feel like armor.
26
SILVO
The Miami heat clings to my skin as I step out of the air-conditioned restaurant. Lorenzo, my Miami capo, follows a step behind, his normally jovial face grim.
“You’re sure about this information?” I loosen my tie, the weight of what he’s just told me settling like concrete in my gut.
“I verified it myself.” Lorenzo’s voice drops. “After the warehouse hit, the Morettis didn’t stop. They hit two of our clubs last night—Velvet Room and Crimson. Same execution-style kills, same spray-painted crests everywhere.”
I scan the busy street, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. “Let’s continue this conversation somewhere private.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re in a secured warehouse by the docks. Maps and surveillance photos cover the table. Each red X marks a De Luca business or operation that’s been targeted in the past four days since I arrived in Miami.
There are too many Xs.
Lorenzo spreads out crime scene photos. “Look at this—every single location has those crowned lion crests spray-painted in the exact same style. Same paint brand, same technique. It’s definitely coordinated.”
“This isn’t random.” I trace my finger along the pattern. “They hit the warehouse to announce their presence, then immediately started systematic strikes on our clubs and distribution points.”
Carlos, Lorenzo’s second-in-command, points to a timeline. “They’re accelerating too. The warehouse was four days ago. Then they waited—let us scramble. Now they’re hitting two, three locations a night.”
“Professional,” I admit grudgingly. “Hit hard, let us spread resources thin, then strike where we’re weakest.”
“It gets worse,” Lorenzo says, sliding over witness statements. “Three different people reported seeing what they believed were Moretti men leaving the scenes. And we found this at the Velvet Room.” He holds up an evidence bag containing a gold cufflink embossed with the Moretti family crest.
I examine it closely. It’s genuine—I’ve seen Nico wear similar ones at formal events. “They’re not even trying to hide it.”
“Why would they?” Carlos asks. “They want everyone in Miami to know the De Lucas can’t protect their own territory.”
