“Do you think I care who your father is?Vaffanculo. I’ll tell him his son died choking on his own lies.”
I rip the knife out.
Blood erupts from the wound, spraying across my shirt, my hands, the floor. Alfonso topples forward off the chair, convulsing, drowning in his own blood. His eyes are wide and disbelieving, like he still can’t quite comprehend what just happened.
I stand over him, watching the light fade from his eyes.
When he’s finally still, I fold the knife and push it back into my pocket.
Nico snorts with laughter. “Alfonso Galbiati has never admitted to being wrong in his entire life. His father had to pay off half of Naples to cover up his messes.”
“Then I’ve saved Don Rodrigo some money as well as the fate of having a pathetic son,” I say calmly. “Nico. Call Don Rodrigo. Tell him his son died because he didn’t know when to stop cheating.”
Nico nods. “Yes, boss.”
“And, Paulo, get someone in here to clean this up. I don’t want flies irritating the customers.”
“On it.”
I step over Alfonso’s body and walk toward the door. My hands are still sticky with blood, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve had worse on me.
“Let’s get some espresso.”
Forty minutes later, we’re seated at a busy café that overlooks the piazza where locals shop at market stalls and pigeons fight over crumbs. My men sprawl in their chairs around me, cigarettes smoldering between their fingertips, laughing aboutthings that would make ordinary people sick. Nico is telling a story about a man who owed him money and thought he could hide in his mother’s basement. The punch line involves a hammer and three broken fingers.
The sun is warm on my face, but I barely notice it. Five years in Italy, and I’ve never stopped feeling cold.
A waitress approaches our table for the third time in thirty minutes, though she only just brought us a second round. She’s pretty, dark-haired, and has a wide smile that’s just for me. At the next table, two women in summer dresses keep glancing over, giggling at something Paulo said, but their eyes slide toward me.
My men preen and perform for female attention, their smiles flirtatious as they flash their strong white teeth, and their words grow suggestive. The waitress lingers, and I feel her gaze on me, but I stare over the piazza at the fountain.
“Boss, you’re made of fucking stone,” Paulo says with a laugh when she retreats, disappointed.
“I’ve got something made of stone for her,” Nico adds, suggestively cupping his groin.
They think I’m disciplined and controlled. Focused on business above all else.
A woman crosses the piazza, dark hair catching the sunlight, a child’s hand clasped in hers. The little boy is chattering about something, pointing at the fountain, and she bends down to listen with a smile that transforms her whole face.
I look away, but memories from another life chase after me, wailing like banshees.
Memories, not hopes. Not anymore.
My phone buzzes against the table, and I glance at the screen. Tommaso Mancini. One of my father’s most loyal capos, calling from a continent away.
I take a sip of espresso and let it ring.
If it’s not Tommaso calling, it’s my sister Adora, though it’s been some time since I’ve heard from her. One year? Two? She’s a grown woman now, God help her. Because I couldn’t.
If I hadn’t been exiled, I would have killed my father.
I knew it.
And he knew it.
I’ve built something here. A life that’s mine, not his. I work for my uncle, run his operations in the south, and answer to a man who doesn’t treat me like I’m a sword to be hammered into the right shape. It’s not freedom, exactly. But it’s distance, and distance is the closest thing to peace I’ve ever known. From Malus and my father’s shadow.
And distance from her.
