There’s a buzz of death in the air—clinging to my skin like static as the storm rages outside my bedroom window.
It’s morbid as hell, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming for us—something that wraps around my throat and won’t let go.
I can’t focus. I paint to quiet the noise in my head, but tonight, the storm outside is louder than usual—and so is the silence inside me. Something crawls beneath my skin, whispering that everything is about to change.
The wind gusts into my room—and then comes the thump. A sharp, clustered snap in my chest, like something breaking in my heart.
“Oh,” I gasp, nearly spilling my wine on the easel. “Well… that was strange.”
I inhale slowly, pushing the chill out of my chest. Fear doesn’t get to live here. Not in this body. Not with the last name Faravelli.
I stare out at the dark clouds that loom ever closer to the manor. I can smell the scent of rain in the air as it wafts through the open window. I close my eyes and allow the scent to calm me. It’s not the storm I find peace in—it’s the first breath of rain, the brief hush before everything breaks.
My family and I have been living in Florence ever since I was ten years old. This is the place that shaped me and created the ideas and dreams that lay in my chest. I was not born here, but it feels more like my home than New York.
I draw my glass back to my lips to take another sip. But just as the glass kisses my lips, a rippling scream shatters my eardrum, and I drop my glass onto the floor. Small little shards scatter everywhere, and another wail makes its way into my room.
What in the world is going on?
My heart pounds in my chest. I jump over the small shards and make my way to the door, running with bare feet and heart in hand.
The screams come from the foyer, echoing through the hallway like a prophecy already fulfilled. The dread cements itself onto my bones, growing heavier with each step toward the top of the stairs. I stop and stare down at the scene unfolding below.
Three people stand in the middle of the foyer.
My father’s second, Elliot, stands drenched in blood and pale as a sheet. He stares at my papa with somber eyes. My mother rests at his feet, her body collapsed on the floor. Her face is red as she screams Bloody Mary, her cries echoing into the foundation of the home.
Death. Just as I had felt.
I swallow hard as I try to release the lump that has lodged itself in my throat.
Breathe, Maria. Breathe.
“Papá…” I don’t even recognize my voice. It feels more like that of a stranger.
The two men turn their heads to where I stand at the top of the stairs. All the color has drained from my father’s face. My mother continues to wail on the floor, and Elliot looks like a broken man.
I open my mouth to ask what has happened, but deep within my soul, I know. I felt the tether snap—I believe I knew before they all did.
“Antonio is dead, cara.”
Four words. That’s all it takes to shatter my world.
“He’s gone, cara.”
I hold onto the railing to steady myself, to keep from falling over. I press my hand over my heart and will myself to breathe.
He’s… but… I just spoke to him this morning. There is no way that my twin is… No. No. No. This isn’t real. Antonio was just here. Laughing. Breathing. Living.
The world tilts beneath me. My knees hit the cold marble floor, the impact barely registering over the crushing weight in my chest. My breath comes in short, jagged gasps, my ribs caving in as if the air has been punched from my lungs.
My lips part, and like my mother, I let out the most gut-wrenching wail—one that comes from the mist-broken and bitter parts of my soul.
My brother is dead.
48 hours later
My brother is dead. I will never again hear his boisterous laugh moving through the empty hallways. I will never share a coffee with him in the morning after our runs. This world— all it does is take from us.
I try not to let the bitterness of it all consume me, but it’s hard. I bat my eyes and try to push back the tears that threaten to spill. I’ve cried enough to fill Lake Como. It has been nothing but tears and heartache for the past forty-eight hours.
“Il mio bambino, Dio ha preso il mio bambino.” My baby, God took my baby. My mother’s cries can be heard throughout the cemetery. She clings to my father for dear life, his sunglasses on, his face stoic and unchanging.
The cries pierce right into the deepest chambers of my heart. I hear it crack, the soft flesh-like thing shattering like glass under the weight of a mountain. Tears streak down my face as I stand beside my wailing mother, a single white rose in hand.
The breeze blows, weaving through my hair and kissing my cheeks as if the heavens sent it to wipe my tears.
“And so from dust you were formed, and to dust you shall return.” The pastor holds his hand in the air and makes a cross. The coffin begins to lower into the ground, and my mother’s wails increase. “We lay you to rest, Antonio Marcelo Faravelli. May the Lord open His arms to you at the gates of heaven, and may you find everlasting peace.”
The soft strumming of the violin begins to play. The gathered crowd watches in sorrow as my brother finds his new home in the dirt.
Fuck. I thought I could make it through this day. I thought that somehow I would manage, but now… I realize I’m holding on by a mere eyelash.
Pain. This can only be described as the most gut-wrenching pain I have ever experienced in my entire life. I want to be strong. I want to hold fast, but…
I lift my gaze—and freeze.
Across from me, a pair of dark brown eyes lock onto mine. Cold. Calculating. They’re an electric storm, raging and roaring in silent dominance, promising destruction without a single word. My breath catches. My pulse stutters.
I’m staring into the face of a man I haven’t seen since I was ten—a man from the past, now cloaked in flesh and power. A name that shifts the air in any room, stilling every breath.
Feared like a god. Obeyed like a king.
They call him the Warlord.
Matteo Davacalli.
And not without reason. Because he doesn’t negotiate. He annihilates.
They say he once wiped out an entire rival family in a single night. No survivors. No mercy. Just blood and silence.
What is he doing here? I knew that back in the day, he and my father had been friends. But as the years passed and we relocated to Florence, the man had turned his back on us. As far as I remember, he looked down on my father for wanting to pull us out of New York before the turf wars that nearly took his son—Daniele.
So why is he here now? Maybe it’s simply a courtesy, an obligation of sorts that he wants to fulfill to honor his old friend.
My parents step forward, and my mother’s wails have now dropped a few volume levels. They throw their roses into the grave and step back.
His gaze lingers a second too long, like he’s searching for something beneath my grief. I rip my eyes from Matteo Davacalli and step forward. I stare down into the hole, the coffin now resting at the bottom. I never imagined this is how my year would unfold. Antonio just never seemed like the dying type. He is—was—invincible in my mind. My superhero brother who defeated all the bad things that went thump in the night.
And there he is, in a box, six feet deep in the ground.
“Mi hai lasciato il cuore spezzato, fratello.” You left me brokenhearted, brother. The tears trail down my cheeks again. The wind blows once more, lifting the wisps of hair that hang against my face. “I love you for all eternity.”
I step away from the grave and allow the others to throw their roses inside. My father has taken my mother off to the side, giving her the privacy and decency to break away from the proximity of the crowd.
I lift my head again, and like before, he is watching me. His eyes are like lasers—precise and deadly in their sharpness. His expression is blank. I can’t get a good enough read on him to guess what he could possibly be thinking.
All I know is that this man’s presence alone is enough to make me feel uneasy. If the Warlord is here, it means that death and chaos are not far behind.
I splash my face with cold water, trying to wake myself up. The chardonnay has finally caught up to me, and my body is beginning to feel the downhill effects. I lift my head and stare at my now bare face in the mirror.
My eyes are bloodshot from all the tears I’ve cried. My neatly pinned bun has stayed in place all day. My cheeks are flushed from the icy water, but other than that, I don’t seem too off-putting.
“Smudged mascara, red eyes—time to paint over the wreckage.” I reach under my bathroom sink and pull out some concealer. If I didn’t have to go back down and mingle with the rest of these people, I would be on my second bottle of chardonnay. It’s what my brother would have wanted.
Antonio always used to say, “Every second is a good time for bubbly.”
I choke out a laugh as I apply my concealer. Tears brim in my eyes, but I do my best to hold them back. The last thing I need right now is to ruin my makeup for the second time.
Go down. Talk to parents—mainly my father. Then drink my sorrows away in my bed.
That is my game plan, and a solid one at that. I’m sure the wine will be a better conversationalist than the people currently in my home.
I come out of my room after about twenty minutes. I walk to my parents’ door and open it slightly. There, I find my mother lying on the bed, her chest rising and falling gently.
The pills worked.
I am not in favor of drugs helping her cope, but I popped a Xanax this morning to get through the day. If this is what helps her sleep and keeps her from being hysterical, then it’s a win for all of us. I hate hearing her bloodcurdling scream. I hate not being able to soothe her pain.
“Fuck, Antonio,” I curse my dead brother as I make my way down the stairs in search of my father. There are still people lingering around the house to ‘console’ us. But I know this world like the back of my hand. These people are just circling sharks who linger because they can smell blood.
The Faravelli heir is dead, and their family is weakened.
The anger pours into my system all over again. I have been robbed of my brother because of nothing but greed and a thirst for power. I have this undeniable bloodlust that fills my system. I am murderous. Whoever killed Antonio will rue the day they ever laid a hand on a Faravelli.
“Maria, a moment, please?” a woman I don’t recognize calls out as she sees me walking down the hallway.
“I need to go and call my father,” I say with an apologetic smile, though truly, I don’t want any more of their fake condolences. “I’ll be back.”
Her shoulders sag in disappointment, but I could give two shits what makes her sad or not. I’m in mourning. Not her.
I round the corner and come to a halt when I see my father and Matteo Davacalli walk into his office. They’ve been having hushed conversations all day. At first, I thought they were simply catching up, but now my little spider senses are tingling—something isn’t right.
“What are you up to, Papá?” I whisper under my breath. I wait for the door to close, then tiptoe toward it, wanting to hear what they’re saying.
I stand outside my father’s study. I can hear the muffled voices of the two men inside. There’s something about Mr. Davacalli that stirs something in me. I don’t know if it’s fear or something else. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of anything that could otherwise be considered inappropriate.
I am at my brother’s wake, for God’s sake.
I step closer to the door and strain my ears to catch what’s going on inside. I hear the words, urgent and necessary. As far as I know, my father has been staying clear of any heavily connected links within the mafia—particularly the Italian sector, which just so happens to be Matteo Davacalli. So why is he meeting with him? What could this man possibly have to say to my father?
“This will be for the betterment of your family, Marcelo.” I hear Matteo Davacalli’s deep voice seep through the door. Heavy footsteps follow, and I stiffen. I step away and quickly rush around the corner to hide.
Seconds later, the door opens—and out walks the mafia king himself. As before, his stature is domineering and demands attention. It’s almost impossible to look away. My lips part as I gaze at him, but this time from behind the shield of the wall.
He easily towers over the majority of the men who attended today’s funeral, including my father. His short black hair is slicked back, the style revealing the sharp features of his face—chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that look like they could cut diamonds. Not to mention the way his tailored suit hugs his body, leaving you wondering just how chiseled he really is.
A rush of heat moves throughout my system, and I catch my breath, embarrassed at how intensely I’m staring. There is no way in hell that I am… ogling my father’s old friend. There is no way I can—shit.
Matteo rounds the corner and smacks right into me. His hand shoots out and helps to steady me so that I don’t completely lose my balance. Little sparks of electricity move from the place where his palm touches my back.
He smells like expensive whiskey and something darker—something dangerous. His grip is firm, warm, steadying. I pull back, resisting the urge to shiver, and avert my gaze to the floor. His eyes scan me—slow, assessing.
“Careful, Miss Faravelli. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there, Mr. Davacalli. I was on my way to see my father.”
Why am I explaining myself? This is my house. I live here. If anything, he should be the one explaining why he was—
“That’s all right,” his deep voice filters into my ears, and I all but lose my shit. It’s this silky, textured kind of symphony that kisses my eardrum.
Is it hot in here? My chest heaves up and down, trying to take in as much air as possible before I finally release my breath. A shiver travels up and down my spine until I steel my back and remember where I am.
“Um, thank you for… uh… coming to the funeral. I’m sure my papa appreciated your presence.” I force a smile onto my lips and look into his eyes.
He stares into my pupils as if searching for something. His gaze is unnerving—it feels like he has me under a microscope. I clear my throat and break eye contact, unable to take the heaviness of his presence.
This man is intimidating. I’ve met many dangerous and ruthless men in this world, but there’s a silent danger about Matteo that gnaws at my chest.
“Safe travels back to the States.” I give him one last smile, then sidestep him toward my father’s study. I’m almost at the door when he starts to speak again.
“Actually, I believe I will be staying a while. Some matters require my urgent attention here in Florence.” He says to my back, “I will be seeing you, Miss Faravelli. Quite a bit, I imagine.”
I don’t know why, but his words slither down my spine like a premonition. A promise. A threat. Whatever this man wants, it is more than just a courtesy visit.
I look over my shoulder at where he stands, but the man is no longer there. I stand in place for a few seconds and wait. The interaction with Matteo is not something I had been anticipating. I try to shake him from my mind and continue toward my father’s study.
I stand at the door, raise my fist, and knock.
“Entra.” Come in. I hear his muffled voice from inside.
I let out a shaky breath, preparing myself for whatever awaits me inside. Mamá is always the easier one to handle of the two.
I open the door. I find my papa by the small bar cart, pouring himself a whiskey neat on the rocks. From the drink choice alone, I know he’s deep in his sorrow—Papá only ever reaches for the whiskey when something’s broken inside him.
“Papá, stai bene?” Dad, are you okay? I walk in cautiously, as if I’m approaching a wild boar. My heels click against the hardwood floors, and the strong scent of oak and cigar smoke filters into my nose.
He grunts his reply and then takes a sip of his drink. He turns to look at me. His dark brown eyes smolder with despair—and something else I just can’t place. He gestures for me to sit by the loveseat in the center of his study. I make my way over to the expensive leather seat and settle into the cold fabric.
The air is thick, and my heart hammers with anticipation of what lingers in it. I have a feeling that whatever he’s going to say is likely to shift the entire trajectory of my life.
I try not to let my mind get ahead of itself, but I can’t help it. There’s something that isn’t settling well within my soul.
“How is your mother?” Papá leans against the bar cart and stares at me. He’s stalling. “Is she asleep? The doctor said he gave her one of those pills to calm her.”
I nod my head once. “I just left her room before I came here. There are still some guests who have lingered behind, waiting to speak with you, I’m presuming.”
Back straight. Chin up. Legs crossed.
This is the posture that has been drilled into me from the moment I could speak. I have been raised to be the perfect woman. In our world, the class and elegance of a woman is a father’s pride. I am a reflection of the success of my father and my mother. I can never afford to walk out of step or speak out of tone when it matters most.
“And you? How are you keeping?”
“My twin brother is dead, Papá. I think it’s safe to say I am between deep depression and suicide.” There is no humor in my voice because I am deathly serious. The only reason I was even able to make it through today is because of chardonnay and Xanax. “I saw Mr. Davacalli walk out of here before I came in.”
My father and I never speak of mafia business. That was something he always did with Antonio. But now, with my brother gone, maybe I could fill the hole that has been—
“I’ve been made an offer that I can’t refuse.” My father kicks off the bar cart and walks to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the grounds. The sun has just begun to set beyond the horizon, drawing a close to a day I hope to forget. “An offer that will, hopefully, soften the blow of losing my heir.”
I gulp and wait for him to continue.
“You will marry within the coming days,” my father utters as he sips on his expensive whiskey. “Matteo has proposed a deal that I can’t refuse.”
My heart stops dead in my chest.
“You can’t be serious, Papá.”
“It is done.”
“No. No, you always said—I was free to choose who I marry—”
“That was before Antonio died.”
“So I’m nothing more than a bargaining chip?”
Every cell in my body screams to fight this, to run, to burn it all down. And I stare at my father, waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for him to tell me this is all some sick, grief-stricken joke.
But he doesn’t. His face is unreadable, cold and final. Like a tombstone sealing my fate. I am being traded like I am nothing. And worst of all… I have no way out.
I blink and watch my father by the window. His eyes are cast out toward the backyard of the manor. I have never seen my father so downcast before. He is always a man of few emotions and even fewer words. But within the last forty-eight hours, I have watched the big, strong man I grew up with barely hold onto his composure.
Truth be told, I want him to break. I want him to shatter and come undone like the rest of us.
We all lost Antonio. He is allowed to grieve—he doesn’t have to be the big, strong capo.
“I don’t understand, Papá.” I grit the words from my lips. “Marry who?”
My father sips on his dark liquor again, wincing as the liquid travels down his throat. “Daniele. You will marry him within the next two weeks.”
Daniele. I haven’t seen him since I was ten, and he was the shadow in the corner, always two steps behind Antonio. And now he is to be my husband? What kind of man has he become? The thought sends ice trickling down my spine.
“This union will join the Faravelli and the Davacalli names as one. With my heir gone, I need to secure our power somehow and allow our legacy to live on. You will marry Daniele, and in exchange, Matteo will offer his resources and protection to help us rebuild and sustain what decades of our bloodline have built.”
I ball my fists at my sides. I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from speaking. The last thing I want is to speak out of turn, but the situation begs me to do so. I am not some meek little woman without a backbone—I am not my mama. I do not take shit lying down, but I know that, in this moment, my father just needs to be allowed to speak. But only for a few moments.
“Your marriage will protect the legacy that is now left without an heir. You will marry Daniele, and you will produce an heir for me—a son. I will groom him, and he will carry the name Faravelli to continue our bloodline.”
“This all sounds so archaic,” I mutter under my breath—then my voice rises before I can stop it. “You want me to marry a man I don’t even remember, to save a legacy I didn’t ask to carry? What about what I want, Papá?”
When I catch my father’s cool gaze, I clear my throat and look him dead in the eye. “Papá, you have an heir. You have me.”
“You are a woman, cara. You cannot lead this family. We will be the joke of society. Don’t act like you don’t know our customs and our ways.”
“All those people live in New York, Papá. We have our dealings here. We pulled out of the States a long time ago—why must we care what they think of us?”
“Maria, my word is final. You will marry Daniele within a fortnight. The arrangements are already in place.” He downs the rest of his drink and walks to the cart again to pour another. “If you want to truly help me, then you will do this. You will marry this boy, and you will save our family.”
“I didn’t realize our family was under threat, Papá.”
I hear him curse under his breath as he slams the glass down onto the cart. “Do you think these people are here to console a man who just lost his son?”
The silence that forms is deafening. I know the answer already—no. These people are here to deliver their final blows to my papa. A family without an heir is like a castle with no wall.
“They are here to see the easiest way to end me. Our family has been around for almost a century, Maria. Your ancestors built our name from the ground up, and I thought that by getting you out of New York—by pulling us out of the depths of that war—we could continue that legacy in peace. But I was wrong, and here we are. I… I need to protect what is left of my family. You and your mother are the most important things to me on this earth. You are what I live for. What I will always be willing to die for.
“We need Matteo. He is powerful and connected, and no one will dare to touch us under his watch. You will marry Daniele and move back to New York, where you will live with your husband and bear your children.”
I gasp. “Papá, I can’t leave you and Mamá. She just lost one child—you cannot ship her last one across the ocean.”
“And if you remain here, you will die.” My father doesn’t mince his words. “And if you die, Marta will kill herself in all her agony, and I will be left alone—with no children, no wife, no legacy.”
He turns back to face me. There is a resolve in his eyes that tells me there’s no winning this. He has made up his mind, and trying to go against him will prove pointless.
And so, I bite down on my tongue to keep from speaking and swallow my fate whole.
“Congratulations, cara mia,” my father lifts his glass in the air in a toast. “You are now engaged.”
And just like that, the last piece of me is buried six feet under, too.
I had been right earlier today—wherever the Warlord is, death is not far behind.
Matteo Davacalli didn’t come for condolences. He came to bury me, too—just slower, and in silk.
