I don’t have an answer for that. And worse, I don’t have answers for the questions that have begun surfacing since Elena shoved that damned book in my face.
Why wasn’t I killed too? Why only Matteo?
Was it guilt over my father’s death? Fear of rocking the boat too far by taking us all out at the same time? A miscalculation? If my father’s most trusted men were the ones truly responsible, and if Elena’s theory is true, then why in the world would they allow me to live? Why place me on the throne, even if by circumstance, instead of eliminating the last remaining heir?
The questions stack one on top of another until the weight of them becomes unbearable.
And then, as if summoned by my unrest, the world around me begins to unravel too.
It starts quietly with a delayed shipment, a missed check-in that stretches a few hours too long before the delivery window comes and goes. I chalk it up to outside circumstances, the kind of disruptions that happen often enough in this life because of incompetence from another port’s crew or simply bad luck.
I should know better than that by now when it comes to the Bellanti syndicate. They’ve never been subtle when they want something. When they move, they do it with the intent tobleed their enemies dry and force a response regardless of the outcome.
I don’t think they’ve ever cared whether their actions could ignite a turf war or destroy them before they can get their hands on whatever they wanted in the first place. Either outcome suits them just fine if it means disrupting the status quo.
The first real report comes in just before dawn, three days after that initial disturbance. I’m already awake when the phone rings, sitting in my study with a cup of untouched coffee growing cold on the desk. I know something is wrong the second I hear the tension in my captain’s voice after answering.
Two of our cargo trucks are ambushed along the coastal road outside Palermo, Carlo Toselli’s territory.
The drivers never stood a chance. Spiked barricades had been dragged across the road at a narrow bend along the coast, forcing the convoy to slow to a crawl with nowhere to turn or backtrack. Gunfire erupted the moment the engines dropped speed, shredding the windows of the cabs before either man could even reach for their own weapons.
By the time my men arrived to investigate the delay, the damage had already been done.
The trucks were smoldering husks pulled half onto the narrow shoulder, smoke curling into the early morning air like a signal fire. Crates had been split open and emptied with surgical efficiency with nothing actually being taken. This wasn’t a robbery fueled by greed. It was a statement.
Someone wanted me to know exactly how exposed I’d become and had proved as much with this little stunt.
Another hijacking occurs only a day later, and this one never even makes it to the port. I’ve trained with most of them myself, watched them rise from boys into soldiers alongside me. I know their names, their families. Seeing them laid out in twisted, blood-soaked positions hits harder than I expect when I arrive on the scene, and a cold fury settles deep in my chest.
But it’s what is carved into their flesh that turns my blood to ice.
The Bellanti family crest.
The cuts are deep, etched into their skin like a brand. Not one of them looks hurried or sloppy, meant to be a clear message written confidently and with absolutely no remorse.
It’s a clear sign the Bellantis believe the Cosenza empire is vulnerable. They sense weakness. In me, in my syndicate, and whether what started it all were the whispers about Elena’s return with our child or something else, I haven’t yet figured out, but it doesn’t matter. In this world, perceptionisreality. If I appear unstable and with it my authority looks compromised for even a moment, then every rival with a set of balls and a grudge will come crawling out of the shadows to take their turn at carving a piece of my empire away for themselves.
I’ve built this syndicate back from ashes once already. I bled for it, buried my father and my brother for it. I clawed my way into the Don’s chair with my teeth clenched around my grief. Now they think I’ll let it fall because of a woman. Because of a child who looks strangely like me.
The irony would be almost amusing if the consequences weren’t so deadly.
While they may have mistaken my silence for hesitation and my restraint for weakness, they will soon learn that is the most dangerous mistake they could have ever made.
11
ELENA
The attack comes two nights later.
Luca is tucked against my side, a book open in my lap as I read to him in a soft voice. My throat aches from holding back everything I want to say, to apologize for, but I can’t. He’s too young to understand any of this, let alone why his father and I are at such odds lately.
His head rests on my arm, his eyelids fluttering as he fights sleep with the stubborn determination only a toddler can muster. One of his small hands clutches my shirt, knuckles whitening whenever my voice slows when I think he’s falling asleep, almost as if he’s afraid I might disappear the second he lets go.
He’s been like this for days now.
Refusing naps, fighting bedtime, sometimes even waking up in a panic the moment he realizes I’m not immediately beside him and screaming for me until one of Dante’s staff comes and rouses me out of bed. He knows instinctively that sleep means separation, that once his eyes close, I’ll be taken from him again and locked away in another room out of reach.
I hate it.
