We sit in silence for a moment. Neither of us dares to speak in the thick of the tension. I have a hard time looking at the man after all that has transpired. Every time I stare into his eyes—just like with his daughter—I see Antonio’s eyes staring back at me.
Stay with me, Antonio. Don’t die. I press my bloodied hand over his stomach.
The memories of that night haunt me. I cannot escape them, and I fear they’ll stay with me for the rest of my life.
Marcello Faravelli sits across from me, his face hollowed by grief but his shoulders upright—a man holding himself together by sheer will. His hazel eyes, once sharp with command, are now dulled, haunted by the loss of his son.
I should look him in the eye. Instead, I stare at the whiskey in my glass, swirling the amber liquid in slow, deliberate circles. Anything to keep my thoughts from spiraling further.
“Daniele will take care of her,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is low, steady. “He may not like this arrangement, but he’ll respect it—he’ll honor her and their vows. Maria will be safe with him.”
Marcello exhales, long and tired. “She doesn’t have a choice but to accept this. The death of my son has left my family vulnerable.”
His words echo in my head, only adding to the pressure of the guilt that surrounds me.
“I’ve always tried to shield her from this life,” he continues, his voice heavy with regret. “She’s not like Antonio. She’s… softer. She doesn’t have the stomach for what we do, Matteo. I moved us here so she could live a more normal life. But now…”
He trails off, his gaze dropping to the drink in his hands. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what he means. Maria doesn’t belong in this world—but the world has found her anyway.
“She’s stronger than you think,” I offer, my voice firmer than I feel. “She’ll adapt.”
Marcello’s laugh is dry, humorless. “That’s easy for you to say. It’s not your daughter being married off to secure an alliance.”
My grip tightens around my glass, and for a moment, I almost respond. Almost say something reckless—something that would unmask the guilt eating me alive. But I don’t.
Instead, I set my drink down, the glass clinking against the table. “This isn’t just for you, Marcello. It’s for both of our families. You’ve lost Antonio, but you still have Maria. If this alliance can protect her—can protect both our legacies—then it’s worth it.”
His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across his features. “You speak as if you’re not the one benefiting from this. As if you’re doing me a favor.”
I meet his gaze, forcing my expression to remain unreadable. “I am doing you a favor.”
The silence stretches between us, his eyes searching mine for something he won’t find.
Marcello stares at me for a moment longer, and I brace myself for his next words. But then he sighs, leaning back in his chair, the fight draining from him.
“Let’s hope this marriage brings us what we need,” he mutters. “But if your son hurts her, I promise I will unleash hellfire on him.”
“And I would expect nothing less from you, old friend.”
Marcello rises abruptly, draining the last of his bourbon in one swift motion.
“We’ll finalize the details tomorrow,” he says, his voice clipped. “Make sure Daniele understands what’s expected of him.”
I nod, standing as well, though the stiffness in my limbs betrays the calm I’m trying to project.
“He does. And he’ll do what’s required.”
Marcello looks at me for a moment longer, as if trying to read between the lines, to pick apart the words I won’t say.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find my wife. You and your son are my guests until the wedding is over. My home is yours,” he says before turning and leaving me in the tea room, standing alone.
I let out a heavy sigh. The weight of all that is happening presses down on me.
I have killed many men. They used to call me the Warlord. But those were people who deserved to die.
Not Antonio.
I feel their pain, and every time I look into the eyes of the Faravelli family, I cannot help but remember the lifeless ones of Antonio.
Marta is the one who devastates me the most. Hearing her bloodcurdling scream sent shockwaves through my entire system. I have never heard so much agony in one voice.
I hear laughter outside the window, and suddenly, I’m moving toward it.
I step to the large, arched glass—its frame as old as the house itself. The view outside is serene, a stark contrast to the storm inside me.
And there they are.
Daniele and Maria sit by the pool, their legs dangling in the water as they talk. The faint sound of her laughter drifts through the open window—light and melodic. I see glimpses of the little girl who used to run around our yard with Daniele.
Maria leans forward slightly, her posture relaxed, her lips curved in a soft smile.
The setting sun catches the golden tones in her hair, and for a brief, foolish moment, I can’t look away.
She’s beautiful.
It’s a simple thought—one I shouldn’t have—but it slips through the cracks of my mind.
The realization twists something in my chest, a sharp pang that feels like betrayal. She’s my son’s fiancée.
My son’s future wife and my future daughter-in-law.
I tear my gaze away, clenching my jaw so tightly it aches.
This has to stop.
I grip the edge of the window frame, forcing my breathing to steady. Whatever this is—this fleeting, unwelcome attraction—it’s nothing. It has to be nothing, for the sake of peace within my own home. I’ve forced this union on my son; the least I can do is not lust after his woman.
Daniele says something, and Maria laughs again—the sound light and unburdened, as though she hasn’t just lost her twin brother. Selfishly, I am happy. She deserves peace. Happiness. A future untainted by the shadows of men like me.
I remind myself of that as I turn away from the window, retreating back to the tea room’s suffocating stillness.
She’s not mine to want.
And even if she were, I’d destroy her.
The proof of that is my very dead wife, ruined by the darkness in my life, and punished for the mistake of loving a man like me.
