“How’s Fed treating you?” I ask. “He’s not driving you crazy, is he?”
“He tries,” she says with a soft laugh. “But Isabella keeps him in line. Your sister’s been... amazing. I didn’t expect to find an ally in her.”
I chuckle, picturing my baby sister managing both Fed and Carmela. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“I’m learning that.” Carmela pauses. “Silvo, the research Isabella and I are doing—it’s helping us understand the Morettis’ patterns, their operations. We’re building a dossier.”
Pride swells in my chest at how quickly she’s adapted to thinking strategically. “Smart woman. That’s my girl.”
“This separation—” Her voice wavers slightly. “It might be exactly what the Morettis wanted. To divide us, make us vulnerable.”
“I had the same thought,” I admit, glancing at the bloodstained jacket. “But we’ve got a leak here in Miami—someone in Lorenzo’s crew fed the Morettis information about our meeting location. I need to root them out before I can come home.”
“A traitor,” she breathes. “Be careful, Silvo. If they’re that deep in your operation...”
“I will be. Two days, maximum, then I’m coming home to you.”
“Just be safe,” she whispers. “I’ve barely gotten used to being your wife. I’m not ready to be your widow.”
Something shifts between us in that moment—something profound. What started as an arrangement, a businesstransaction between families, has become so much more. The fierce, beautiful woman who fought me at every turn has become essential to me.
“Nothing could keep me from coming back to you,” I promise. “Not the Morettis, not anyone.”
27
CARMELA
The light from Silvo’s desk lamp casts long shadows across the scattered papers as I dig deeper into the Moretti files. Isabella left an hour ago to get some sleep, but I can’t stop now. There’s something here—something beyond the business rivalry and territory disputes.
I pull open another drawer and find a weathered leather portfolio tied with a string. Inside, yellowed newspaper clippings and photographs spill onto the desk. One black and white photo catches my eye—two young men in suits, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.
I flip it over. Written in faded ink.
Salvatore De Luca & Vincenzo Moretti, 1952.
“Grandfathers,” I whisper, tracing their faces. They look like brothers, not enemies.
The next photo shows the same two men with a striking woman between them. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent—remind me of Silvo’s. On the back:
Salvatore, Maria, & Vincenzo.
I spread out more documents, piecing together fragments of history. Letters between Salvatore and Vincenzo hint at a deep friendship turned bitter. Court records show business partnerships dissolved in acrimony. But it’s a water-damaged diary page that makes my breath catch.
May 15, 1953: Maria chose Salvatore today. Vincenzo will never forgive this betrayal. Blood has been spilled. There can be no reconciliation.
“Holy shit.” I slump back in the chair.
This wasn’t just business. This was love and betrayal—the most primal of wounds. Maria chose Salvatore De Luca over Vincenzo Moretti, and decades later, their grandchildren are still killing each other.
I find a wedding announcement: Salvatore and Maria De Luca. The bride’s full name stops my heart: Maria Rossetti Moretti.
“She was already married to him,” I breathe, the pieces clicking into place. “She left Vincenzo for Salvatore.”
I trace a family tree penciled on thick parchment. Salvatore and Maria had Antonio, who had Silvo. Vincenzo Moretti remarried and had a son, who fathered Nico Moretti.
This isn’t about territory or profit margins. This is about vengeance, spanning three generations.
I’m still digesting this revelation when my phone vibrates on the desk. Silvo’s name flashes on the screen.
