I’ve always known I’m a monster. But it wasn’t until the end of the funeral that I felt it in my bones. I looked into her eyes and saw the man I killed. Mistake or not, his blood is on my hands—and nothing will bring him back.
I replay that day over and over again in my head. I think of ways it all could have ended differently. The information had been wrong, and Antonio had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. How was I supposed to know he was Antonio Faravelli?
I groan and rub my eyes, trying to shake the weight of sleep. After the funeral, I made my way back to my estate in Milan with a heavy heart. The deal has been made, and now it’s all but a matter of time.
The air in the study is stifling. Smoke from my cigar curls upward, a thin veil between me and the quiet judgment in the mirror across the room. I replay the conversation I had with Marcello. I gave him the deal of a lifetime. I know the offer is far too tempting to pass up. My name carries a lot of weight in this world.
Marcello Faravelli—the man I used to call a friend—trusted me. And now, his son is dead because of me.
I run a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, trying to summon the right words for a conversation I’ve been dreading since I woke this morning. The decision to do all this had been rash, but it soothes a part of my guilty conscience.
A knock comes at my door, and I pause. I lean back into my chair and roll my shoulders. It’s Daniele.
“Entra.” Enter.
The door creaks open behind me. Daniele’s heavy footsteps follow, confident as ever. He doesn’t know yet. I watch the smile slip from his lips the moment he sees the grave expression on my face. He walks over to the other end of my large desk and sits.
“Papá.” He speaks sharply, as he always does when he enters my space uninvited. “You wanted to see me?”
He wasn’t at the funeral, but I don’t blame him. If I were in his place, after everything that happened, I wouldn’t want to be in the presence of the family we destroyed, either. Hearing Marta’s voice slice through the air was nothing short of gut-wrenching. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain they must be feeling.
“I did.” I set my cigar down in the ashtray. This is a conversation I never thought I’d have with my son. Beatrice and I had always been adamant that he wouldn’t fall into the trap of an arranged marriage. We wanted him to choose.
“What’s this about?” He crosses his arms over his chest. His warm caramel eyes stare at me anxiously. He’s trying to assert dominance, but I don’t have the energy to challenge him. Not today.
“We need to discuss your future.”
His brow furrows. “What about my future?”
“You will be marrying Maria Faravelli within the next two weeks.” The words hang heavy in the room.
He straightens, his posture stiffening. “Excuse me?”
“It means you’ll marry Maria Faravelli within two weeks. After what happened with Antonio, I think this is a necessary arrangement.”
In other words, a way to ease my guilt—marry her into our family so they can reap the benefits of the Davacalli name.
Silence. It stretches between us, thick and suffocating, until Daniele laughs. It’s humorless, bitter, and cuts through the air like a blade. I know my son—and from the look in his eyes alone, I know I have a fight on my hands.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Jesus Christ, Papá.” He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I told you I don’t want to be tied down, and you agreed that I was free to make whatever choice I wanted—as long as it didn’t infringe on my duties as heir to all of this.”
He speaks the truth. But that was before everything changed. My mind flashes to the gun, the blood. So much fucking blood.
I slam my hand on the desk, silencing him. “You don’t have a choice in this, Daniele.”
He stares at me, anger simmering in his eyes. “Why? What could possibly make you think you have the right to throw me into a marriage I didn’t agree to?”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence carry the weight of my guilt. When I speak, my voice is low, steady. “Because I owe Marcello Faravelli a debt. You know this better than anyone, my son. You were there when the gun went off and Antonio dropped to the ground. You saw it. I saw it. And now we owe a debt. It’s our duty to help replace what was lost.”
Daniele’s jaw clenches. “So you want me to suffer for the sins you caused? Papá, please. Surely there’s another way to appease your guilt?”
“Antonio’s death is on my hands, and this”—I gesture to the room, to him, to everything we’ve built—“this marriage is the only way to make it right.”
Daniele’s laugh returns, harsher now. “You think marrying me off is going to fix this? Do you even hear yourself?”
“You think I don’t hate this too?” My voice rises, and for a moment, I see him flinch. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing this because it’s the only way to ensure the Davacalli name doesn’t go up in flames—and to avoid a bloodbath. Do you have any idea what would happen if Marcello found out?”
He glares at me, defiant as ever. “And what about Maria? We’d be stripping away the freedom of a girl who doesn’t deserve this.”
“She doesn’t have a choice either,” I admit, my throat tightening at the memory of her standing in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes wide with grief—and something else. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I couldn’t explain.
“She’s innocent in all of this,” Daniele mutters.
“I know.” My voice softens, betraying the storm inside me. “But this marriage will be good for her. Our name carries weight, and she’ll be far safer as a Davacalli than a Faravelli. The vultures have already begun to circle them.”
Daniele shakes his head. “You’re a coward.”
I let the insult hang in the air, unchallenged. I know he’s speaking from a place of emotion, acting on his anger. Normally I’d never let that shit slide—but today, I’ll allow it.
“Maybe,” I say, “but this decision is final, and you can’t change my mind. If you want to sit on the throne after me, then you’ll marry this girl. End of story.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
He balls his hands at his sides, the vein in his temple protruding, anger rolling off him in waves. He doesn’t say another word. He just rises from his seat, gives me one last look, and storms out of the study.
I watch him go, and I know one thing for certain—I’ll carry the weight of this guilt for the rest of my life.
And yet, despite everything, one thought lingers in the back of my mind. A thought I dare not entertain.
Maria Faravelli.
Her beauty. Her fire. The way her presence commands attention without even trying. The brush of her arm against mine shouldn’t have burned. But it did. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Damn it.
I stay in the study long after Daniele slams the door behind him. The silence is deafening—but somehow, the stillness is welcome. My glass is empty, but I don’t pour another drink. The alcohol isn’t doing its job. It’s not enough to drown the memories I wish I could forget.
Maria Faravelli.
I’ve known her since she was a child. Her father and I used to sit on the Faravelli patio in New York while the kids played in the garden. Back then, she was just a little girl with scraped knees and a shy smile.
But the woman I saw at the funeral wasn’t the same.
She stood tall despite her grief, a fire in her hazel eyes that didn’t match the black veil she wore. Even as she mourned her brother, she commanded attention. The room shifted when she walked in, and for the first time in years, I felt something crack in the armor I’ve spent decades building.
It’s wrong. Disgusting, even, to think of her this way. She’s young enough to be my daughter—and soon enough, she’ll be Daniele’s wife. But none of that changes the way my pulse quickens when I picture her standing there, her lips trembling as she spoke to me at the funeral.
This has to stop.
I push myself out of the chair and head out of the study toward the damn pool. I need to cool off. I step onto the back porch, kick off my shoes, and dive in—fully clothed—as the moon hangs high above me.
I submerge myself in the water, desperate to drown the thoughts of the woman who has somehow stopped me dead in my tracks. The only other person who ever managed that was Beatrice. And now—now the first woman to stir something in me in decades just so happens to be the one I’ve arranged to marry my son.
This is fucking great.
