The pale light of early morning crawls across the floorboards of my bedroom, entirely insufficient to pull the haze of slumber from me.
I open my eyes anyway.
Sleep never holds me long; not in this life, not with the things I’ve seen.
But today, there’s a different kind of unrest slinking through my veins, one that drifts somewhere between hunger and fury.
I stretch my arms above my head, spine cracking.
The sheets are tangled around my hips, warm with the ghost of a dream that refuses to let go.
A dream of soft skin and stormy eyes.
A dream that tasted like Aria.
She’s in every corner of my mind this morning.
It isn’t subtle.
It’s not delicate or careful like the way good men think of the women they want.
No, she slips into me like a blade between the ribs.
That mouth, those defiant eyes, the way her body arched under mine like she’d never known pleasure before I gave it to her.
God help me, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the sound of her voice when I had her pinned to the mattress, breath caught somewhere between a plea and a curse.
And now, of all things, I’m hard. Again.
I shift beneath the sheets, hissing as the memory of her mouth, warm and open beneath mine, coils low in my gut.
She moved like she wanted to ruin me and let me ruin her right back.
We had shared the kind of sex that makes a man forget his own damn name.
And the worst part is not the way she felt, but the way she looked at me afterward—like she saw something she wasn’t meant to see.
Something I thought I’d buried long ago.
My hand slips lower, and I let it.
There’s no point fighting it.
She’s already in my blood.
And I need this ache gone before I face Luca.
I close my eyes and let the memory unspool.
She was wearing that pale silk dress, the one with the thin straps and the open back that showed off every inch of skin I shouldn’t have been thinking about in a room full of power-hungry men.
But Aria wasn’t built to be ignored.
She walked through that estate like sin dressed as grace, every line of her body a silent challenge.
I remember the sound she made when I first touched her.
That gasp, like her whole world had shifted beneath her feet.
I remember the way her thighs trembled when I took her apart with my fingers, the way she whispered my name like a secret she didn’t want the world to know.
And then her voice, last night, small and steady as she asked me the one thing she shouldn’t have.
What would you choose, if it were me or the Salvatores?
The version of the answer that I gave her was a half-truth, because I refused to wonder what could happen if that time came.
But now, as I slide my hand over my cock and tighten my grip, it’s all I can think about.
The idea of her belonging to someone else—some rich bastard with a title and a bloodline and the blessing of her father—it makes a ravaging hatred bloom in my chest.
The thought of another man touching her, claiming her, seeing that softness I’ve only begun to peel back…it sets something off in me that feels almost brutal.
I stroke harder now, letting the image of her come alive again behind my eyes.
Aria with her legs spread and her hands gripping the sheets, crying out for me like she was made to.
Aria with that fire in her eyes and that tremble in her voice, begging me not to stop.
My breath becomes rough.
I dig my heels into the bed, muscles taut with tension.
Every movement is for her, every pump of my hand driven by a possessiveness I’ve spent my whole damn life pretending I don’t feel.
Mine. That’s what she is.
She may not know it yet, but the moment I first kissed her, the moment she let me in, that was the end of it.
And I’ll be damned if some weak-spined heir or smug diplomat thinks he’s going to get his hands on her.
The release hits me hard, hot and fast, dragging a growl from my throat as I spill over my hand and the sheets.
My body shakes with the force of it, the tension breaking like a snapped wire.
But even after, even as I lay back and try to slow my breathing, the fury lingers, because this was never just sex. Not for me, and certainly not with her.
I rise from the bed, wiping my hand clean with a cloth from the nightstand.
The sheets will have to be changed, but I don’t give a damn.
The housekeeper has seen worse.
I head for the bathroom, turning the faucet to cold and letting the water hit my face, hoping it’ll drown the fire that’s still simmering beneath my skin.
By the time I’m dressed, the sharp edge of lust has dulled, but the thoughts remain.
Aria and her questions.
Aria and her silence.
Aria and the fucking power she has over me, and she doesn’t even know it.
Luca will be expecting me soon, and I need my head clear.
I reach for my watch, buckle it tight around my wrist, and glance once more at the bed, still rumpled and marked with the memory of what I did there, before I leave the room and head downstairs.
The kitchen staff parts like fog around me.
No one makes the mistake of speaking.
The scent of strong espresso hits first, followed by warm tomato and garlic wafting from a pan on the stove.
Rosa has made eggs, thick slices of pancetta, and warm, crusty bread cut straight from the loaf.
I eat with my hands, tearing bread, chasing the yolk with a corner of it, my body on autopilot while my mind drifts back to Aria.
She hasn’t called.
Hasn’t texted.
I swallow hard and finish the coffee in one burning gulp.
Just then, Lorenzo appears in the doorway, looking vaguely apologetic. ‘Boss wants to see you. Office.’
I nod, pushing back the chair, and make my way to the study, curtained from the sunlight that glints off the white gravel outside.
Luca sits behind the desk, his jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, looking every inch the man who doesn’t need a gun within reach to remind you who owns the world you walk in.
He doesn’t offer a seat.
That’s how I know this is business.
‘There’s a situation,’ he says, pulling a file from the drawer and flipping it open. ‘Antonio Ferri.’
I lift a brow, silent.
‘You remember him?’ Luca continues, his eyes flicking up to me. ‘Used to run collections on the east side. Solid for years. But apparently, he’s gotten clever. Started a shylock business in our name. Charging ten times what we allow. Beating debtors. Threatening their families. All without kicking up a scent.’
I crack my neck to the side. ‘That a fact?’
‘Two of the clients showed up on Blanco’s radar. One of them is a cousin to someone in the Cortese crew, and if this shit festers, it reflects on us.’
‘Blanco vouched for him.’
Luca nods. ‘Which is why I want this clean. Sit him down. See if he folds. But if he keeps the act up…’
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
I tilt my head. ‘Where’s the meeting?’
‘Blanco picked a place. Cafe Orange. Belvedere Street. Nice, public. And quiet enough.’
I take the file, flicking it shut. ‘Anything else?’
Luca lifts his gaze. ‘Yeah. Be smart. If this leaks, people start thinking we’ve gone soft.’
I nod once and walk out.
I don’t need further instructions.
I’ve seen what rot does to a tree when left unattended.
My job has always been to keep the garden clean.
By the time I reach the café, the sky’s gone the color of ash and iron.
Belvedere Street is old territory.
Brick storefronts with iron balconies.
A fountain with water that hasn’t run in decades.
The café sits on the corner, all clean windows and orange awnings, the inside humming with polite conversation and soft jazz.
Blanco’s already there.
He sits at a back table, sipping an espresso like we’re catching up after Mass.
His suit is dark green, his shoes shined to a mirror finish, and when he sees me walk in, he lifts a finger to signal.
I slide into the chair across from him.
‘He’s on his way,’ Blanco murmurs, not bothering with pleasantries. ‘Still thinks this is a conversation.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘Until it’s not.’
The bell above the door jingles, and Antonio enters, hair slicked, gold chain peeking from under a half-buttoned shirt.
He sees us and hesitates, his pupils pinpricking.
He knows and tries to backpedal.
I’m on my feet before the second step.
My hand finds his collar and turns him.
I press him into the chair across from us, one palm heavy on his shoulder.
‘Sit down,’ I say quietly.
He obeys, chest rising and falling in short bursts.
‘Jesus,’ he mutters, voice cracking. ‘Blanco, what is this?’
Blanco doesn’t answer. Just sips his coffee and smiles like a cat.
Antonio licks his lips. ‘Look, whatever you heard, it’s not true. I haven’t—’
‘Don’t talk,’ I interrupt, my voice low.
I reach under the tablecloth.
My fingers curl around the grip of the gun already nestled in my lap.
I don’t let him see it yet, because fear works best when it comes naturally.
I want him to think he might walk out of here.
‘Enzo,’ Antonio pleads, looking at me now, his eyes wide. ‘You’ve known me for years. I took a few jobs on the side, sure, but it was nothing that stepped on the family.’
‘Lying is worse than stealing,’ Blanco says idly. ‘At least a thief has the courage to act.’
‘You know what I think?’ I ask, staring at him like I’m memorizing the contours of his face. ‘I think you saw the numbers, figured you could skim. No one would notice. And if someone did, maybe Blanco would cover for you.’
He swallows. ‘I swear I didn’t—’
The shot is silent.
Just a soft pop under the table.
His body jerks once, then slumps.
Blanco pushes back his chair with a sigh.
I wipe the grip of the gun with a napkin, fold it twice, and slide it into my pocket.
Antonio’s blood is already seeping through the seat of the chair, pooling beneath him.
I take out my phone and dial a number.
It rings twice before a voice picks up.
‘Spring cleaning at Cafe Orange. Belvedere Street.’
Nothing more needs to be said, so I hang up.
Blanco rises, fixing his cufflinks. ‘You going to stay for dessert?’
I stand, brushing off my coat. ‘I’ve had enough for today.’
The street outside smells like citrus and smoke.
I glance once over my shoulder.
The waitstaff inside hasn’t even noticed the body yet.
They’ll figure it out soon enough.
My ride is already waiting at the corner, and I head back to the estate.
I call Aria twice on her number, but both times, it goes to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message.
I just lower the phone to my thigh, clenching my hand around it as if it might answer on its own.
The silence stings more than I expected it to.
If she were ignoring me, that would be one thing.
But this…this silence feels like distance with a motive.
We cut through the heart of the city fast, passing the cathedral and the strip of harbor where the ships sway like drunk men at attention.
The iron gates of the Salvatore estate come into view, edged with new cameras and reinforced wiring.
Luca doesn’t tighten security unless something has already gone wrong.
The guards at the front wave us through.
One of them steps forward the moment I get out. ‘Cristiano’s looking for you,’ he says. ‘East wing.’
Cristiano Conti has been staying at the estate for the better part of a year, ever since his sister Alessandra married into the family and brought her own pedigree with her.
Old Roman ties.
Quiet, cold money.
Things the Salvatores can use when the more obvious channels need insulation.
I nod once and head inside.
The manor’s halls are lit golden, casting long reflections along the polished floors, the light broken only by the glint of crystal and the hush of staff moving fast, but quietly.
Alessandra passes me in the corridor, her perfume trailing like bergamot and secrets.
She says nothing.
She just gives me a nod, as if she already knows what I’m about to walk into.
I find Cristiano in the south parlor.
And he’s not alone.
A third man is there, leaning against the grand piano, long legs crossed at the ankle, dark hair tousled like he just stepped out of a sea breeze.
He’s drinking something pale, with no ice, and watching me like he’s waiting for a reason to be entertained.
‘Enzo,’ Cristiano says smoothly. ‘Good timing.’
‘Depends on who you ask.’ I pull out the nearest chair, then sit and reach for the basket of fruit at the center of the table.
The apple I choose is cold and glossy, its skin tight beneath my thumb.
I draw my knife from my pocket and begin slicing it clean, piece by piece, like there’s nothing in the world worth rushing.
Cristiano gestures toward the other man. ‘This is Giovanni. Alessandra’s older brother. You’ve met in passing, I believe.’
Giovanni Conti straightens and steps forward, hand extended.
His suit is expensive, the kind of navy that reads black in low light.
His smile is practiced, a little crooked, a little self-aware.
‘So, this is the man who always stands to Luca’s right.’
I shake his hand, firm and slow. ‘And you’re the man who likes to walk into rooms like he owns them.’
Giovanni laughs, a low sound that carries a little too far.
‘What can I say? I get bored easily. Figured it was time to see what all the fuss was about.’
Cristiano rolls his eyes. ‘Giovanni’s here to assist with some of the old Cosa Nostra channels in the south. There’s a lot of overlap with our business, especially around the ports.’
‘I’m here to make life easier,’ Giovanni says, tilting his glass. ‘Not more complicated. Unless complicated is more fun.’
There’s something about him I immediately don’t like.
He talks like a man who never has to raise a blade to be taken seriously.
It seems like charm is his armor, and that makes him dangerous in a different way.
The kind of dangerous Luca keeps close until the blade’s too near the neck.
Cristiano watches me watching Giovanni.
‘He’s useful, Enzo. Try not to scare him off in the first hour.’
‘I don’t scare easily,’ Giovanni says, eyes gleaming. ‘Besides, you’ve already got a reputation, Moretti. I’m just here to learn.’
I ignore that and glance at Cristiano. ‘Is this what you pulled me back for?’
Cristiano shakes his head. ‘No. That’s just the appetizer.’
Giovani sits across from me without asking, plucks a grape from the silver tray between us, and pops it into his mouth like this is his home and I am the guest.
‘I hear there’s been unrest lately,’ he continues. ‘Little rumors in Palermo. Small fires in Venice. And now this thing with Valentina.’
I still. He watches me like he was waiting for that. ‘What thing with Valentina?’ My voice is even, flat.
Giovanni lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug. ‘We just heard, it’s such a shame. Valentina is missing.’
I stand. He does not flinch at the sudden movement, in fact, he only smiles wider.
‘You hear anything else,’ I say, reaching for my jacket, ‘you bring it straight to Luca.’
‘Of course.’ He rises too. ‘But Enzo?’
I pause at the door.
‘There’s a wind shifting,’ he says softly. ‘Try not to be on the wrong side when it does.’
I leave without answering, boots striking hard against the marble, my mind already piecing things together, the most urgent of them being the need to talk to Luca immediately.
I make it halfway to the inner corridor when I hear my name.
It is one of Luca’s soldiers, Sal, jogging up behind me, his phone in hand and his face pale.
‘You need to see this,’ he says, shoving the device into my hand.
The screen is showing the feed from a news station.
Grainy footage.
A smoking car near a bend in the road just outside the city.
Flames pouring out from under the hood, the chassis crushed beyond recognition.
The chyron crawls slowly and mercilessly beneath it.
‘Fatal car crash outside Nuova Speranza. No survivors found. Sources confirm one of the passengers was Aria Lombardi, recently associated with the Salvatore estate.’
I don’t hear the rest.
My heart’s pounding too hard.
The blood rushing in my ears drowns out everything but the roar of disbelief.
No.
She can’t be.
She was just—
I feel the noise inside me before I even