The car turns off the main road, heading into an industrial area I don't recognize. Warehouses and shipping containers and empty lots stretch out on both sides, everything dark and abandoned-looking. The streetlights are fewer here, many of them broken or burned out, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of sickly yellow light. Graffiti covers the wallsof buildings we pass—tags and territorial markers and crude drawings. My heart rate kicks up another notch.
"Where are we going?" My voice comes out thin and shaky in barely more than a whisper.
Alessandro glances back at me, and in the dim light from the dashboard, his face looks almost kind, concerned. It's the same expression he wore during our engagement, when he was playing the role of the perfect suitor. "Somewhere private," he says, his tone gentle. "Somewhere we can have a conversation without interruption."
I swallow hard. "What kind of conversation?"
"The kind that determines whether you and your baby live or die." His tone doesn't change, still conversational and pleasant, like he's discussing dinner plans instead of my murder. The casual disconnect between his words and his delivery makes my stomach turn violently.
The car pulls up to a large warehouse, its metal exterior rusted and weathered, paint peeling in long strips. There are no lights except for a single bulb above the entrance, casting everything in harsh shadows that make the building look even more menacing.Oh God. Oh God, this is real. This is actually happening.
"Out." One of the men beside me opens the door and grabs my arm, hauling me from the car before I can even think about resisting. The night air hits me, cold and damp, filling my senses with the smell of rust and old oil.
My legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand, my heels catching on the uneven pavement. The man keeps his grip on my arm, steadying me, and I hate that I need his support.
Alessandro comes around the car and takes my other arm, his touch almost gentle, protective. If someone were watching from a distance, they might think he was helping me, caring forme. "Walk with me, Giulia," he says softly. "And remember—your baby's life depends on your cooperation."
The warehouse door opens with a screech of metal on metal that echoes in the empty lot, and the interior is even worse than I imagined. It's massive—a cavernous space with concrete floors stained with God knows what and exposed metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Industrial lights hang from chains, casting pools of harsh white light that leave the corners in deep shadow. The ceiling must be thirty feet high, maybe more, and the space feels oppressive in its emptiness, designed to make anyone inside feel small and insignificant. And there are men everywhere.
At least a dozen of them, maybe more, lurking, and all armed—I can see the weapons openly displayed now. No need for concealment here. Handguns, rifles, and even what looks like a shotgun leaning against one of the support pillars. All of them are watching me with expressions that range from curiosity to something darker and more predatory. Some of them are young, barely older than me. Others are older and harder, more violent-looking. I can feel that they don’t see me as a person but as an object, a commodity. Something to be used and discarded. One of them, a heavyset man with a shaved head, actually licks his lips as I pass, and I have to swallow back bile. My skin crawls.
Alessandro guides me toward the center of the warehouse, where someone has set up a makeshift seating area—a few chairs that look like they were stolen from an office building, a folding table, and some equipment I don't recognize. Recording devices, maybe. The thought that they might be planning to film whatever happens here makes my stomach drop.
"Sit." He gestures to one of the chairs. It wobbles when I lower myself into it. The chair is cold through the thin fabric of my dress, and I can feel every imperfection in the plastic pressing against my skin.
My hand finds my stomach again, pressing against the small curve. I imagine I can feel that tiny heartbeat we heard at the ultrasound.Please. Please be okay. Please survive this.
Alessandro pulls up another chair and sits across from me, crossing one leg over the other like we're having coffee at some café instead of whatever this is. He takes his time settling in, adjusting his jacket and smoothing his tie. Making me wait, making me suffer.
"Let me explain the situation," he says finally, his voice calm and measured, like he's presenting a business proposal. "So there's no confusion about what's happening here."
I can't speak. I can barely breathe. My throat feels like it's closing up, my tongue thick and useless in my mouth. So I just nod.
"The Ciresa family humiliated mine." He says it matter-of-factly. "Your father rejected our marriage alliance. And then he married you off to one of his soldiers. That was the first insult."
His eyes are cold and flat, empty of anything resembling humanity. "The second insult," he continues, leaning back in his chair, "was the coordinated strike tonight. While you were at your little charity gala, playing the perfect mafia wife, smiling and making small talk with the other wives, your family was killing my people.”
My stomach drops, the nausea intensifying.
Luca. That's what Luca was doing tonight. That's why he was so tense this morning, why he couldn't sit still, why he kept checking his phone. He was preparing for this.
He pauses, studying my face, watching my reaction. "Twelve of my people are dead, Giulia. Twelve men who were loyal to my family, who trusted that we could protect them. And your family slaughtered them like animals."
"I didn't know—" The words come out as a whisper.
"Of course you didn't know." Alessandro waves a hand dismissively. "You're just the pretty wife, right? Just the ornament on Luca Moretti's arm. You're not supposed to know about the business." The condescension in his voice is almost worse than the threats.
"So now we have a problem," he continues, his tone shifting slightly and becoming more businesslike. "The Marchesi family has been disrespected. Our operatives are dead. Our plans are in ruins. And someone needs to pay for that."
"What do you want?" The words come out as a whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"Compensation." He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "Territory first. Specifically, the docks and everything that moves through them. Do you know how much money flows through those docks every month, Giulia? Millions. Tens of millions. And your family controls it all."
I can feel myself shrinking further into the chair.
"Business concessions," he continues. "A percentage of the Ciresa family's gambling operations in Brooklyn. Twenty percent, I think. That seems fair. And a formal apology from your father. Public acknowledgment that the Marchesi family was wronged, that the Ciresa family overstepped, and that there will be consequences if it happens again."
I feel sick. My father will never agree to this. It would be seen as weakness, as capitulation. It would undermine everything he's built, everything he's fought for. The other families would smell blood in the water and start circling, testing boundaries, pushing for their own concessions. The Ciresa empire would crumble.
