They’ll bring too many men. They’ll bring smiles. They’ll bring their underboss or a cousin or a consigliere with soft eyes and sharp teeth. They’ll ask for “respect.” They’ll push for concessions. They’ll look for the moment I hesitate.
My fingers twitch. My hand wants my ear. I keep it down.
I stare out the window, but I’m seeing Lucia’s face. The way she looked at me when she asked if it was a trap. Worried. Furious. Trusting me, anyway.
I’m seeing Nico’s eyes. The way he askedhow long.The way he clung. The way he saidcome backlike it was a prayer.
I’ve had power for decades. I’ve had money. Territory. Men who would die if I told them to. None of it made me careful. It made me arrogant.
Now I have something worth coming home to. That makes me careful in a way bullets never did.
It also makes me dangerous. Because any man who threatens my family isn’t just threatening my empire. He’s threatening the only soft thing I’ve ever allowed myself.
And I will tear the world apart for it.
Gianni glances at me from the front seat, catching my expression in the rearview mirror. He knows not to ask if I’m all right. He knows better than to offer comfort. We don’t do comfort in cars on the way to war. We do readiness.
“We’re five minutes out,” he says.
I nod once. My mouth is dry. My pulse is steady.
That’s always the sign. Not panic.
Clarity.
The funeral home comes into view, squat and pale, tucked between buildings like a secret. A place designed to look quiet, respectable, inevitable.
Rossi men are already there. Too many. I see them before we even stop. Bodies in suits, scattered near the entrance, looking casual. Hands near waistbands. Eyes tracking our vehicles.
They’re not hiding. They want us to see. They want us to count. They want us to understand the message:we know you’re bleeding.
We pull in. My men fan out in practiced formation. Controlled. Clean. No wasted movement.
I step out last. The air outside is cold enough to bite. The funeral home smells faintly of lilies and disinfectant even from the curb. Death dressed up in perfume.
Across the lot, a Rossi man smiles at me. Polite. Predatory. Behind him, more men linger than any “peace meeting” requires.
My jaw tightens. My fingers flex.
This isn’t a sit-down. This is a stage. A trap dressed in diplomacy. I feel it settle into my bones, heavy and familiar.
I glance once at the building. At the dark windows. Then back to the Rossi men. My face remains calm. Stillness is authority. But inside, the countdown starts ticking louder.
Because now the question isn’tifthey’re trying to kill me. It’s how.
And somewhere back at the estate, Lucia is sitting with my son, in a wing full of guards and locked doors, telling him that Papa will come back because Papa promised.
I promised.
I adjust my cuffs. Take one measured breath. And walk toward the funeral home like I’m not stepping into a knife.
Because the only thing worse than dying in there is surviving and coming home empty-handed.
And I’m not doing that.
Not again.
