I just shrug because no words will come out. I let out a small laugh. “Really emotional, apparently.”
Bianca’s eyes flicker with understanding and sympathy.
Elena adjusts Alessandra, then looks at me with a small, decisive nod.
“Hopefully, we can make this a little less miserable,” she says.
Stephano tugs at Bianca’s hand, impatient, and Bianca bends slightly. “Yes, yes, you can see if Uncle Antonio has snacks,” she murmurs to him, then looks back up at me. “May we?”
I blink once, then nod again, feeling awkward about the whole thing.
They come fully into the apartment, the toddlers’ small shoes making soft taps on the floor, and for the first time in five days, the place feels less like a safe house and more like a home.
And I realize, with a sudden sting behind my eyes, that I didn’t just open the door to two visitors.
I opened it to more of Antonio’s world.
Chapter Forty One
Antonio
Vito’s place, just like Giovanni’s, is on the same floor as mine. Just on the other side of the hallway.
It’s as normal as normal comes, which is kind of surprising for him, because looking at him, you’d expect something a bit more spartan. More built for function.
But it just looks like the apartment of a single man who’s surprisingly neat.
There’s a worn leather sectional that’s seen late-night games and too many takeout dinners. A big TV mounted across from it, a throw blanket half-folded over the armrest, a stack of mail on the console by the door, a bowl with keys and loose change.
On the wall, framed photos caught in candid moments: kids on shoulders, someone laughing mid-toast, a holiday table too crowded for the camera to capture all at once.
The kitchen is open to the living room in that open concept kind of way. Clean counters, a coffee maker. Everything else put away in cupboards or drawers.
The curtains are open. Daylight pours in from the windows and turns the wood floor warm. Luca is near the island with his hands braced on the stone, head slightly bowed like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
Giovanni is standing at the window silently. Vito paces, then forces himself to stop, leaning against the counter. Roberto sits in a chair with his jacket still on, posture tight, expression hard. He wants to get this done so he can get back home to Olivia and Isabella.
Isabella is hardly three months old, and he thought it would be safer if he didn’t drag them out into public spaces with Bellandi stirring up trouble.
Nico’s face peers out from the tablet propped on the counter because he’s not here. He’s not even in the country. He and his still-very-new wife, Erica, were taking the opportunity to make up for the fact that they hadn’t had a honeymoon, so they took off to Conti Cay, our private island.
As soon as he heard what happened, he was ready to jump on the plane and come home, but I convinced him not to. I told him to stay where he is. Not that we couldn’t use him, but it’s better that they’re out of the way of any danger. Especially with Erica being pregnant.
This meeting is about what comes next.
Luca finally breaks the silence.
“Bellandi doesn’t get Northstar,” he says, certainty in his voice.
Roberto nods. “Even if we don’t get it.”
“Especially if we don’t,” Giovanni adds quietly.
Roberto’s fingers flex once on his knee. “Any movement from Bellandi since the Northstar incident?”
“Not in Jersey,” Vito says. “Nothing on our perimeter. But we’ve got eyes on Northstar’s building and exits.”
“What about the other execs?” Nico’s voice comes through the tablet speaker.
