Gabriel is with Valentina.
I left him curled beside her and her children, as she read from a Russian fairytale to all of them.
His eyes were wide, and for the first time, happy. He hasn’t been around kids his age for a while, and that, to me, is another big crime.
There’s only one way to understand what Giovanni is actually made of. I’ve already asked the guards and I know where to go.
I follow the scent of roses and old earth down the eastern path, past the weather-worn benches and the chapel ruins that haven’t held a prayer in years.
And then I see Cristiano and Alessandra, tangled in shadow behind the trellis wall, her arms wrapped around his neck, his mouth brushing her collarbone. The intimacy is careless, and stupidly so. It pisses me off immediately.
I step out from the path, gun already in my hand. ‘Get off her.’
Cristiano jerks like a whip just cracked near his spine. Alessandra gasps, shoving him back with a startled curse. ‘What the hell—’
‘I said move.’
Cristiano puts his hands up, half-expecting a joke, but I do not smile. I keep the muzzle trained right where his heart beats.
‘Enzo, what are you doing?’ Alessandra snaps, trying to mask her fear with arrogance. ‘Put that thing away.’
‘You’re going to tell me the truth,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘About Giovanni. About where he came from. And who he answers to.’
Cristiano scowls. ‘Gio’s with the family. He’s always been—’
‘Shut up.’
He falls silent. I turn my gaze to Alessandra, watching the way her throat tightens. Her composure falters now, but not from fear of the gun.
‘You’ve known all along,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you think you’re accusing me of—’
I move fast, slamming Cristiano against the garden wall, gun pressed beneath his chin. Alessandra screams, backing away, hands to her mouth.
‘You think Luca won’t let me pull this trigger?’ I continue, drawing each word out with great care. ‘If I tell him I’m doing it to protect this house, he’ll hand me the bullets himself.’
Cristiano’s eyes widen in alarm and he begins struggling beneath the grip, but he doesn’t fight back.
He knows I’m right.
‘Please,’ Alessandra gasps. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Then explain.’
She shakes her head once, violently, like she wants to undo the last ten years. Then her voice cracks.
‘Giovanni isn’t my real brother.’
‘What?’
She takes a breath, choking on it.
‘His mother married my father when I was sixteen. He came with her.’
Cristiano groans beneath me. I keep him pinned. ‘You’re saying he’s your stepbrother.’
My voice feels hollow coming out of me. Like it already knows what’s coming next.
‘Yes.’
She says it without hesitation now, and that makes it worse. Like she’s been carrying this truth in her throat for years, and it finally broke loose.
‘Who was his father?’
The silence is immediate and thick. Her breath stalls, her gaze flickers.
Cristiano shifts underneath me, but I don’t take my eyes off her. The weight of her silence says more than a scream.
‘Alessandra.’
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. Just her name, steady and low, like a warning before the world tilts.
She meets my eyes—and for once, the mask is gone. No poise. No polish. Just raw, unvarnished fear.
‘Cesare Gotti.’
My stomach drops.
Everything in me locks up.
Giovanni Gotti.
Born of a woman who married into Alessandra’s house, brought her son with her like luggage.
No last name, no trace.
Just a boy planted into the Salvatore world like a seed waiting for the right season to bloom.
He wasn’t working with us all this time. He was studying, plotting. Earning trust the way only a bastard son of a dead empire would know how.
I see it now. Every conversation. Every smooth deflection. The way he always managed to be useful, always just clever enough to avoid being feared.
That was the plan. Make himself indispensable and invisible. And I let him in. I called him brother. I trusted him with my back, my family. My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I swallow down the fire building in my throat.
‘My father knew,’ she says. ‘He didn’t care. He loved her. And she swore Cesare was gone. Dead. She said Giovanni had no ties to that world.’
‘But she lied.’
‘She must have. Somewhere along the way, Cesare found him again. Or maybe Giovanni found him. I don’t know which came first. All I know is, about three years ago, he started to change. The way he spoke. The way he talked about Luca. About legacy. He was always clever, but he started asking questions. Watching too much.’
‘And you said nothing.’
Alessandra trembles. ‘He’s my family.’
‘No. He’s Cesare’s.’
Cristiano breathes harder now. I loosen my grip slightly, just enough for him to gasp, then step back.
‘He said he was building something,’ Alessandra whispers, looking miserable. ‘That the Salvatores didn’t deserve what they had. That they took it. That Cesare would make it right. That he would make the name feared again.’
‘He was placed here,’ I say flatly. ‘Raised inside these walls. Built like a weapon.’
Alessandra doesn’t deny it.
My thoughts are already racing ahead. I recall the way Giovanni always managed to be exactly where he needed to be.
Always watching.
Always waiting, like there was nothing more important than for him to be involved in every family affair, big or small.
‘What does he want?’ I ask.
‘Everything,’ she replies.
I have to act, and as fast as possible. Aria saw something that would have led to Giovanni’s downfall.
Pointing my gun at Alessandra, I gesture to the pocket of her jeans. ‘Phones, both of you.’
‘What—’
‘Shut the fuck up and give me your phones,’ I snarl, my patience running thin. ‘If you thought I’d run the risk of you calling Gio as soon as I turn my back, you’re wrong. And if either of you makes a wrong move, you’re not getting out of here alive.’
Cristiano’s eyes grow round with panic, but to his credit, he tries pulling the Luca card once more. ‘I bet I could kill you and tell Luca you had gone mad looking for Aria and wanted to hurt him.’
The ridiculousness of that makes me snort. ‘You’re a kid,’ I say, pity thick in my voice. ‘And you don’t understand what I have with Luca. Fifteen years to your one. I wouldn’t place too much faith in that bet of yours.’
He opens and shuts his mouth like a fish out of water. ‘Please.’ Alessandra is the one who speaks.
She fishes out her phone and takes Cristiano’s as well before tossing them both to my feet, where they land with a sharp thwack. ‘Please…are you going to kill him?’
‘Not my call.’ I holster the gun, turning away.
Cristiano never had a spine, so he pleases himself by hurling a curse. Neither of them follows me as I break into a brisk run.
Giovanni doesn’t yet know what I’ve uncovered, which means he’s still in the estate.
I pass a guard near the orchard.
He nods, but I do not stop. My eyes scan the trees. I want to see him before he sees me.
I want to catch the lie forming in his throat before it has time to twist itself into charm.
Giovanni is not in his rooms. Not anywhere in the main estate. Not where he claimed he would be.
But I find him eventually, near the eastern wall of the north garden, that opens to the sea, where the vines have overgrown the archway and the old swing creaks in the wind.
He is crouched beside the fountain, one knee bent, one hand skimming the surface of the water as if trying to remember a version of himself that once felt clean.
‘Gio.’
He looks up. His expression is not startled, but it is not welcoming either.
‘Enzo,’ he says, rising slowly to his feet. ‘I thought you’d be with the others. Still searching.’
‘I am.’
A pause.
‘You look like a ghost,’ he says lightly. ‘Has the boy said anything new?’
‘No. He only cried. Called for her. Told me she promised she’d be there when he woke.’
Something flickers in Giovanni’s eyes.
Not remorse. Not concern.
Something else.
The gleam of a man who already knows what has happened but is pretending to still be part of the search.
‘Where were you last night?’
He smiles faintly. ‘You know where I was. I couldn’t go to Florence because the boss summoned me, so I was with him. Went over shipment ledgers. Then the phone lines—there was an issue with the port logs from Altavilla. Ask anyone.’
His voice carries that same easy rhythm it always has, polished and mild, the cadence of a man used to being believed.
I step closer, boots crunching over gravel, and let the silence sharpen around us like glass drawn too tight. ‘I’m asking you.’
My voice is low, stripped of every pretense.
I don’t give him the out of looking to someone else. I want his truth.
He licks his lips, slowly.
Blinks like it bothers him that I didn’t just let that answer sit. ‘Why are you looking at me like that, Enzo? As if I had anything to do with her vanishing.’
I reply quietly. ‘Because something stinks. And I’ve known you too long to pretend I don’t notice when your smile starts to curdle.’
Giovanni tilts his head. ‘You think I would hurt her? After all this time? After all I’ve done for this family?’
‘I think you’re hiding something. And I think you’ve been playing a game only you know the rules to.’
His eyes harden, and something inside him splinters. I see it.
‘I’ve always stood beside you,’ he says, his voice strained now. ‘Even when others whispered that you’d gone soft. Even when they said you were more loyal to a ghost of a girl than to the blood that raised you.’
‘You’re not blood.’
His eyes begin glowing, but the light is ugly. ‘Neither was she. And yet you’d burn for her.’
I take a step back, suddenly certain of something I cannot yet name.
I turn toward the house, toward the shadowed path that leads to the main hall. Luca needs to hear everything, because I can’t get the truth out of Giovanni any other way.
And I can’t kill him until I know where Aria is.
‘You know where she is,’ I say, not turning back.
‘And if I did?’ His voice is closer, just behind me.
The night is quiet except for the wind stirring through the grass. Then—
Something cracks against the back of my leg.
I fall forward, the ground slamming into my ribs as I twist to catch myself.
I’m up in a second, spinning toward the noise, my hand already reaching for the pistol tucked beneath my coat—
But I freeze.
Giovanni is standing there, his hands raised.
And behind him—
Aria, her eyes are wild, her hair loose and tangled, blood trailing down one arm in a thin ribbon.
She is barefoot.
Filthy.
Alive.
And holding a shard of glass the length of a carving knife to the soft place beneath Giovanni’s jaw.
His lips tremble. He does not move.
Aria’s voice is hoarse. ‘Do not turn around. Do not speak.’
I do not move.
I only watch her, the tremor in her arms, the way her shoulder blades lift with every breath.
The glass is pressed tight to his skin, a single heartbeat away from cutting.
She meets my eyes. ‘He took me. He locked me in a room. And he’s planning with Cesare Gotti to bring down Luca.’
Giovanni swallows hard. His pulse flutters visibly.
‘You don’t understand, Enzo,’ he says, his voice rising. ‘She’s lying. She’s confused. The hit to her head—she’s—’
‘I read everything,’ she hisses. ‘Every note. Every name. I know what you are. I know what you’re doing.’
He tries to turn, just slightly.
She cuts him.
Not deeply.
Just enough to bleed.
He gasps.
I step forward now, carefully, slowly, watching every line of Aria’s body.
‘Let me take him,’ I say to her. ‘Let me handle it.’
She is shaking, her arms locked.
But she nods and steps away as I point my gun at Giovanni. ‘The game is over, Gio.’ I nod gently at Aria. ‘Come on. We have business to finish.’
Giovanni’s eyes have gone red with rage. ‘I—’
‘You try to run, and I’ll shoot you.’ I let him know this coldly and quietly. ‘Now, walk.’ He’s out of options, so he moves in front, with my gun stationed at his spine, shirt half untucked, his lip split.
I keep my hand clamped on the back of his neck as I march him through the corridor, past men who have served the Salvatore family for decades, their eyes wide but silent.
No one dares ask questions.
They can see the fire in my stride, the steel in my jaw.
Luca is in the eastern drawing room.
Valentina sits to the side, her long fingers resting on a cup of untouched tea.
She looks at Giovanni without surprise, but with a kind of bone-deep tiredness that only those who’ve lived through betrayal understand.
I look at her for a second, and she raises a hand to let me know Gabriel is safe.
She rises, gestures to Aria, and takes her away from the room.
I shove Giovanni to his knees in front of Luca, the echo of his body hitting the marble floor reverberating through the study like a warning bell.
He lets out a short, bitter laugh, but it’s empty now, hollow like the schemes that brought him here.
Luca is not seated.
He stands beside the wide desk that has been the location of this family’s business decisions for decades, one hand resting lightly on the wood, the other tucked into the crook of his arm.
His posture is still, but it carries the kind of power that makes men forget how to breathe.
He does not raise his voice. ‘Enzo,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘Tell me what you learned.’
I do.
‘He’s not who he says he is. Giovanni isn’t just a Salvatore cousin. He’s Cesare Gotti’s son. Illegitimate, but blood all the same. Planted here when he was barely a man, passed off as Alessandra’s half-brother through her stepmother. I got it from her. Put a gun to Cristiano’s knee in front of her, made her confess.’
Luca listens, not like a man surprised, but like a man fitting one final piece into a puzzle he’s kept locked in a drawer for too long.
When I finish, he walks toward Giovanni, his shoes silent on the stone. He doesn’t stop until they’re face to face. ‘Start talking.’
Giovanni lifts his head. There’s blood drying at the edge of his mouth and madness blooming in his eyes, but under it all, pride. Still.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he mutters, lips cracked. ‘That I’m sorry? That I was confused? That I had no choice?’
‘No,’ Luca replies. His tone is measured, cool. ‘I want the truth. I want all of it.’
Giovanni turns to me instead, his gaze burning. ‘You think you’ve won something, Enzo? You think dragging me in here on a leash means anything? You let me in. You gave me a seat at your table. You watched me talk to your son and never once asked who I really was.’
I don’t answer. I want to hear it all.
‘You were never one of us,’ Luca comments.
Giovanni chuckles. It sounds like something unraveling.
‘I was more Salvatore than half the bastards in this house. At least I had vision. My father saw what this family could become. He offered you power beyond these dusty walls, and you spat in his face.’
Luca steps closer, lowering himself into the chair behind the desk, one leg crossed over the other.
He picks up the glass of whiskey at his side and sips it, not rushed.
Not stirred.
‘Cesare Gotti wanted to marry influence. Merge our empires. Share our bloodlines. But he didn’t want an alliance. He wanted a seat at my table with a knife hidden beneath the cloth. So, I answered in kind.’
Giovanni’s jaw tightens. ‘You buried his men in ports and rivers. You starved his contacts. You lit Corsica on fire and thought that would be the end. But you left one seed.’
‘And what exactly was your plan?’ Luca asks, his voice bored now. ‘To sit beside me until I died and hand over the estate to your father like a well-wrapped gift?’
‘To bring this house to its knees,’ Giovanni snarls, rising shakily to his feet. ‘To make it bleed from within. So no one could pretend it was ever unbreakable.’
He’s panting now, veins taut in his neck, the fever of too many lies breaking through the surface.
‘Cesare trusted me. And I delivered. Your allies questioned you. Your name lost its shine. You spent years watching your empire shrink while I was feeding every crack in the foundation.’
Luca finishes the whiskey and places the glass down with care.
‘And now?’
Giovanni swallows. ‘Either way, he’ll move without me. You’ve already lost.’
I step forward, my gun heavy at my side.
Luca leans forward. ‘Finish it.’
I don’t hesitate. The gun fires once. Giovanni’s body jerks, then folds. There’s no last word. No defiance. Just blood soaking into the rug of a family he was never truly part of.
I lower the weapon. Luca doesn’t look away. ‘You know what your next assignment is, Enzo. It has to be quick. It has to be clean.’
Even as I begin to nod, there is a reckoning rising in me, in the shape of something I cannot yet name, but that I’ve begun to want.
The kind of life that does not demand blood for loyalty.
A different rhythm.
A slow one.
Sun-warmed.
Distant.
A small farmhouse maybe, far from the ports, where my hands can hold more than knives.
Where Aria stands at a line of laundry, her dress brushing her knees, eyes lifted when I walk in from the fields.
Where Gabriel runs without looking over his shoulder.
I don’t say any of this out loud.
Instead, I meet Luca’s gaze, steady and unflinching.
‘Boss,’ I say quietly, ‘I have a request.’
He studies me then.
Long enough for the silence to gain teeth.
His fingers tap once on the side of his tumbler, the rhythm more thoughtful than dismissive.
‘You’ve earned the right to speak,’ he says after a beat. ‘Go on.’
But I don’t rush. I don’t speak of the farm.
Of the boy I’ve come to love like he carries my soul in a smaller skin. I don’t say Aria’s name, because it doesn’t have to be said.
It lives in every choice I’ve made since the day I found her again.
‘I’ll finish the job,’ I say instead. ‘As asked. No mess. No trail.’
Luca tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile barely touching his mouth.
‘And after?’
The question sits there between us, soft as a trigger click. He already knows.
Of course he does.
Luca Salvatore always knows the shape of a man’s breaking point long before the man does.
That’s what makes him who he is.
That’s why I’ve followed him through a dozen doors other men wouldn’t even knock on.
‘I’d like to talk when it’s done,’ I say. Nothing more.
He watches me carefully, then drains the last of the amber in his glass. He sets it down with a muted clink.
‘If it goes well,’ he says, brushing an invisible speck from his cuff, ‘you may find I’m more open to conversation than usual.’
