I turn to her, taking her hands in mine. “You were right. About Valeria, about building bridges, about all of it.”
She squeezes my hands. “We were right. Together.”
I pull her close, breathing in her scent. “Let’s go home,amore mio. Tomorrow we will deal with the traitors. Tonight, I just want to hold my wife.”
39
CARMELA
Islide into the corner booth at Café Artiste, a tiny French bistro exactly halfway between De Luca and Moretti territories. The neutral ground we’ve claimed as our own over the past week. Through the window, I spot Tony idling across the street in an unmarked sedan—my security detail keeping a respectful distance.
Valeria arrives first, her dark hair swept into a messy bun. She smiles when she sees me, though tension lines her eyes.
“Another attack on your family’s shipment last night?” I ask as she sits.
She nods, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. “Dad barely stopped Maximo from retaliating against your western warehouse. Old instincts die hard, even when you know better.”
“Silvo traced the shell casings to the same Russian supplier,” I say firmly. “Tartarov, same as always. Driving wedges wherever he can find them.”
“I know. Dad knows.” She sighs. “Knowing and feeling are two different things when it’s your men taking the hits.”
Adele arrives, sliding in beside Valeria with an apologetic smile for her lateness. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight,and I notice the subtle hickey at her neckline that she’s tried to conceal with makeup. I file that away without comment.
“I brought the shipping manifests,” Adele says, sliding a folder across the table. “Nico thought these might help Silvo identify which routes are being targeted next.”
I take the folder, nodding my thanks. These meetings have become almost routine now—intelligence shared over coffee, two families learning the unfamiliar language of cooperation.
“How’s Isabella?” Valeria asks, stirring sugar into her coffee.
“Still furious about your brother,” I laugh softly. “But she helped analyze those surveillance photos from the waterfront. You’ll find her notes in here too.”
Our conversation flows easily now, unlike our first awkward meeting. We’ve developed a rhythm; these thrice-weekly meetings have become essential to maintaining the fragile peace between our families.
“The men are too stubborn to admit it,” Valeria says, lowering her voice, “but this intelligence sharing is the only reason we’ve managed to identify Tartarov’s patterns at all.”
I nod. “Silvo would never say it, but he was impressed by your father’s analysis of the supply chain vulnerabilities.”
“And Dad actually acknowledged Federico’s security protocols were solid,” Adele adds.
What started as necessary communication has evolved into something more—genuine friendship forming across battle lines. These women understand my world in ways no one else can. We’re all trying to survive in families built on violence while maintaining our humanity.
“My father still doesn’t fully trust your father-in-law,” Valeria admits over coffee. “Every time something goes wrong, his first instinct is to blame the De Lucas.”
“Silvo’s the same,” I confess, tracing the rim of my cup with my fingertip. “Old habits die hard.”
I glance over at Adele, noticing she’s quieter than usual. She stirs her latte absently, her gaze unfocused. There are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can’t quite conceal, and I catch how she flinches when a barista drops a mug behind the counter.
“How are you really doing?” I ask gently, leaning forward.
Adele’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine. Everyone keeps asking that.”
“Because we care,” Valeria says, squeezing her friend’s hand.
I observe the gesture between them, the unspoken language of friendship that reminds me of Sophia. As my gaze drifts past them toward the window, something catches my attention—a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street. It wasn’t there when we arrived. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Life with Silvo has taught me to recognize the warning signs. The car is positioned with a clear view of the café entrance, engine likely running, no visible driver. My pulse quickens as I process what I’m seeing.
“We need to leave,” I say quietly but urgently. “Now.”
