Chapter Seventeen – Vieri
Lapo’s wine-warmed voice grates against my skull like a dull saw. He’s on his third glass of Barolo, laughing at his own jokes and gesturing like a peacock in heat.
“I’m telling you, ragazzo, this contact I’ve got? Goldmine. Every week, something new falls into my lap. I’m thinking of stepping back, maybe retiring.” He smirks. “Let the next generation scramble over scraps.”
I let my mouth curve into the perfect polite smile. If this fool is squandering my diamonds, I'm going to have his head hanging on my wall.
“That sounds like a dream,” I say, just enough interest laced into my tone to keep him talking. “Who is this contact of yours?”
Lapo taps his nose, wagging a finger. “You know better than to ask that.”
My eyes stay trained on his mouth, watching for any slip, any name, anything useful. He’s too smug to be careful.
“You and your ragazza should come for lunch sometime,” he says, swirling his glass lazily. “She’s got that sweet look. A real Madonna face. A bit round for my taste, but who’s judging?”
I force a smile. “She’s one of a kind.”
He grins, showing coffee-stained teeth, and leans in, ready to talk more when—
“Vieri.”
Alfio’s voice cuts in, hushed and ragged. I turn. He’s panting, sweat on his brow despite the chill in the night air.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says beneath his breath. “The girl ran.”
A breath leaves me—not quite a sigh, more of a spark behind my eyes. I step aside, further from Lapo’s drunken glee, and motion for the others. Within moments, my brothers circle around.
Riccardo snorts. “Told you that girl was a bad idea.”
Enzo scowls. “How did she run?”
“She jumped,” Alfio replies.
“You mean she actually jumped?” Enzo asks, brows lifting.
“She ripped her damn dress and climbed the wall,” Alfio mutters.
Omero lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Well… shit.”
Before I can speak, Bellandi saunters up, smile polished and empty. “Everything alright, boys?”
I paste on my own mask. “Of course, zio. Just a small hiccup. Nothing that’ll ruin the evening.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, as if he can smell the rot under the perfume.
“Well,” he says, “some of the families are waiting for you all. They’d love to hear from the new Tavano head. All of you, preferably.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” I answer smoothly.
He smiles, and the corners of it don’t touch his eyes. “Buono. Don’t keep them waiting.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Alfio leans in. “What now?”
“We talk to the families,” I say, voice tight. “Then we find her.”
“What if she’s long gone?” Riccardo asks.
I look past the garden toward the stone walls edging the estate.
“If she jumped,” I say, “she didn’t get far. She’s bruised, barefoot, and she’s not a ghost.” I turn to Enzo. “Have our men search the perimeter. Quietly. I want them posted along the walls, now.”
Enzo nods, already dialing before I finish speaking. He returns a minute later. “It’s done.”
We walk back into the crowd, my brothers flanking me in black suits and darker expressions. The garden has filled with aging dons and their glass-clinking wives, all draped in silk. My shoes hit the tiled path with too much sound. I can feel their eyes.
I raise my glass. “Gentlemen.”
There’s a smattering of nods. But their smiles are thin, their eyes sharper than the blades strapped beneath their tuxedos. They’re waiting.
“Vieri,” says Don Gattuso, the oldest of them. His voice is dry as bone. “Your father was a lion. People feared him. Respected him. You? I’m still deciding.”
Another man mutters something under his breath about jail. Someone else laughs.
I smile. “With all due respect, Don Gattuso, you don’t need to decide tonight. Give it time. I’m not here to ask for blind loyalty. I’m here to show you I’ve earned it.”
They murmur. Some tilt their heads, sipping wine with newfound interest.
Another man, broader than the rest, raises his voice. “You’ve been out for what—a few weeks? What exactly have you earned, Tavano?”
My fingers curl around my glass.
“A few weeks,” I echo, lifting my glass again. “But legacies aren’t built in weeks. They’re proven through action.” I turn to face them all now. “I won’t waste your time with promises. Watch me. Watch what I do. Then decide if I’ve earned my father’s place—or made a name of my own.”
There’s a long silence. Then a clink. Another. Slowly, almost begrudgingly, the men lift their glasses. A quiet toast. Not unanimous, not warm—but enough.
“That’s my nephew,” Bellandi says from somewhere behind me.
I don’t look at him. I keep smiling, nodding, lifting my glass with the same charm father taught me when I was a boy and didn’t yet know his hands were made for backstabbing.
We make small talk for a while, then the last of the dons shake my hand with forced smiles and guarded nods, their eyes sharp with suspicion, some warmer than others—but none warm enough to trust. I return the gestures. When the last one releases my hand, I turn to my brothers.
“We’ve done enough for the evening,” I murmur. “Let’s go.”
As soon as we step away from the crowd and into the cover of the shadows, the weight I’ve been holding slams back down.
I rip my collar open, the top button popping, and turn to Enzo. “Anything?”
He’s already shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“She jumped a fucking wall and vanished?” I snap, voice low but razor-edged.
Enzo nods. “Our men swept the perimeter twice. It’s like she evaporated.”
“Fan out,” I order.
Enzo nods and takes off with Alfio. Omero heads in the opposite direction.
Riccardo stays beside me, mouth twisting. “She’s a slimy little wench. I knew it from the start.”
If she had time to run, she had time to scream. Why didn’t she? Why the quiet?
My hands ball at my sides as we stalk along the gravel path, searching between hedges, behind statues, under every stretch of shadow. She can’t have made it far.
When we regroup by the far garden path, the looks on my brothers’ faces confirm what I already know.
Nothing.
I glance toward the vehicles parked in neat rows under the ambient lights near the outer gates. I nod toward them. “We’ll drive. Fan the area out farther.”
The four of us move toward the cars. Riccardo is already muttering under his breath.
“She better hope I don’t find her. I’ll—”
“No! Don’t!”
The scream rips through the night.
We spin around.
And there she is.
Stumbling into the light like a ghost pulled out of hell.
Lunetta.
Her dress is ripped and soaked, clinging to her body in bloodstained folds. Her arms are scratched, red streaks slashed across her skin, and her feet—bare, caked in dirt and streaks of red. Her face is streaked with sweat and blood, a thin trickle running from her brow to her chin.
Her eyes lock onto mine—wild, frantic, pleading.
“Don’t get in the car,” she gasps. “They did something to it!”
My gaze narrows.
She stumbles forward, breath coming in broken sobs. Her legs shake with every step. Her hands tremble violently at her sides, and then—before anyone can stop her—she turns.
Her eyes search the ground, darting left and right until she spots a stone the size of a melon near the base of the garden wall.
She runs to it, bends, hoists it up with both hands, and with a scream—launches it at the car.
“Lunetta, wait!” Enzo calls.
Glass shatters with a deafening pop as the rock crashes through the passenger window and lands hard on the seat inside.
“Jesus Christ,” Alfio breathes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Riccardo storms toward her, teeth bared. “You crazy bitch!”
He reaches for her, rage in his hands—
But Enzo’s already there, stepping between them, a hand to Riccardo’s chest.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“She just totaled the car!”
BOOM.
A roar splits the air like thunder, blasting heat and light in a furious pulse as the car erupts in a fireball.
The windshield blasts outward. Metal groans and twists. The hood lifts and flips as flames pour out like a beast from the pit.
Shards of steel and flaming upholstery explode into the sky, lighting the lawn like midday.
“DOWN!” Enzo shouts, yanking Lunetta against his chest and hitting the ground with her in a hard, protective roll.
Alfio throws an arm around Omero and dives behind the hedge.
Riccardo hits the gravel shoulder-first with a curse.
And me?
I just stand there.
Smoke curls past my cheek like a lover’s breath.
The roar fades to a ringing, and I blink as the flaming remains of the car crash back to earth. Bits of metal rain across the lawn, embedding into the grass.
Voices rise in the distance—shouts, screams, gasps from the dinner crowd. Someone runs to fetch help. Others scream for order.
Across the yard, just barely visible through the smoke and flame, I see him.
Bellandi.
Standing at the corner of the colonnade.
He smiles and raises his glass. My lips spread slowly in a smile and then I burst out laughing and I slowly raise my hand and give him a thumbs up.
****
We enter the house in a formation that feels like a funeral procession.
She’s limping behind us—barefoot, stained in red. Her dress clings to her like wet gauze, torn and dark with dirt and blood. Enzo glances over his shoulder at her, eyes softening.
“Are you alright?” he asks, voice low. “Why are you—what happened out there?”
She doesn’t answer. Her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Her eyes keep darting to me.
I pull out my gun and I point it at her.
“Vieri,” Enzo snaps, stepping between me and her, hands slightly raised. “Calm down.”
Riccardo chuckles without humor. “Took him long enough.”
“Not again,” Alfio mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
Omero lifts his brow. “Could you shoot her outside? It’ll make a mess in here.”
I see her hands trembling, see the tears prickling in her wide eyes like she’s trying to hold them back with nothing but willpower.
I lift my chin and signal the guards flanking the hallway.
“Lock her up,” I say.
Enzo jerks forward. “She’s bleeding.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, swinging the gun toward him.
Enzo freezes, jaw clenched. My finger itches near the trigger, but I don’t pull. The guards move in. She doesn’t resist. They grip her arms, dragging her down the hallway. Her footsteps trail blood. She looks back once. At me.
I say nothing.
After the hallway door clicks shut behind her, tension breaks like glass.
“She saved us,” Alfio says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Riccardo scoffs. “It was a fluke. Who would try to kill us in such a public place?”
“No,” Enzo cuts in. “It was quick thinking. Something you wouldn’t relate to.”
Riccardo’s head snaps toward him. “You’ve got a problem with me now? You want to fuck her too? Is that it?”
The punch is swift and brutal. Enzo’s knuckles crack across Riccardo’s face with a sick sound, and Riccardo reels back a step before lunging.
I raise the gun.
“Try it,” I say quietly, calmly, the barrel inches from his forehead.
Riccardo just laughs, mouth bleeding. “Do it. I fucking dare you.”
“Enough,” Omero says with a tired groan. “Jesus, we look like idiots.”
“She’s just some girl, and we’re out here ready to kill each other for her?” Riccardo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at each of us. “We don’t even know where he got her. Why is she here? And she’s already this much of a problem.” He looks at me pointedly. “Who is she, Vieri?”
Alfio turns toward me too, his eyes unreadable.
I lower the gun slowly.
“It’s been a long night,” I mutter. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Enzo’s shoes scrape the marble as he walks away—without another glance at any of us.
The doors echo shut behind the last of my brothers. Their footsteps scatter up the stairs, one by one, leaving the house wrapped in a heavier quiet than before.
I walk over to the bar and reach for the decanter with fingers too tight around the glass neck. The whiskey pours into my tumbler.
I plop on the couch and I sigh. Enzo walks in, shirtless and damp from sweat. His skin gleams under the low chandelier light. He reaches for a bottle of wine and tucks it in the crook of his arm like he intends to disappear with it.
I speak before I know I’m going to. “Let’s drink.”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “I kind of hate all of you right now.”
“It’s not a request.”
Enzo exhales, irritated, but he pulls out a stool. Pops the cork with his teeth. He drinks straight from the bottle like it’s water.
“When did you become so protective of her?” I ask, voice casual even though my fingers are tightening again around the tumbler.
He shrugs, smirking. “Ironic, isn’t it? I’m the one protecting your girlfriend.”
“It’s complicated,” I say. The phrase tastes bitter now.
“You don’t love her?”
I swirl the whiskey. “It’s complicated.”
Enzo leans back in his seat, wine resting against his thigh. “Then let me have her.”
The words hit like a slap.
It isn’t a thought. It’s a reaction. A full-bodied refusal that spikes through my chest before I even draw breath. I feel it before I know why I feel it. I remember the way she looked at me in the dark of my room, terrified and trembling—and how I still wanted to kiss her. How her lips stayed still beneath mine but her body shivered against me like she was made to fit into that moment. I remember the strange twist in my gut when she smiled at me before the dinner.
She was afraid of me. Still is. But—I set the tumbler down before I crush it in my hand.
Enzo watches me with narrowed eyes. “That’s the thing. I can’t tell with you. You don’t seem to want her, but the second I say I do, you look like you’d rather put a bullet between my eyes.” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t know what to do with her, do you?”
“I don’t understand myself either,” I admit, and it’s the first honest thing I’ve said all night.
Enzo sits forward, elbows on knees. “If you don’t want her… then take her back to where she will be loved. Men like us do not deserve angels like her.” He stands, his eyes burning into mine. “I really can’t stand you tonight. I have to dip before I attack you.”
He’s halfway to the hall when the door swings open, hard enough to rattle the hinges. One of the guards rushes in, breathless, his face pale.
“Sir. The lady… she passed out.”
Everything stops.
Enzo and I are shoulder to shoulder, tearing through the corridor before the sound of the wine bottle finishes clattering to the floor.
The guards at the room scatter when they see us coming.
She’s on the floor, curled in on herself like a discarded doll, blood blooming through the back of her shirt, staining the marble beneath her. Her face is pale—too pale. Lips cracked. Her lashes tremble once… then still. Enzo lurches to a stop in the doorway, frozen like someone just punched through his chest.
I shove past him. Drop to my knees.
“Lunetta.” Her name rips from my throat.
My hands hover before they land—one on her cheek, ice-cold and clammy. The other on her wrist, searching for a pulse.
She’s still breathing.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my fingers trembling. “Enzo. Call the doctor. Now.”
He’s still standing there.
“Enzo!” I bark, louder this time, and he jolts to life, pulling his phone from his pocket with shaky hands.
I press two fingers gently against the side of her neck, counting. The beat is shallow. Her skin’s covered in a cold sweat. Her lips are tinged with blue.
“She’s crashing,” I breathe. “She’s lost too much blood.”
I tear the blanket off the bed and press it to the worst of the wounds at her side. She doesn’t even groan.
“No. No, no, no.”
This wasn’t the plan.
“Don’t you fucking dare die on me,” I whisper, voice low and shaking.
I lean over her, press my forehead to hers, feeling how wrong her body is—too cold, too still. “Dio… Dio, ti prego…” God, please. Just this once. Please. I know what I am. I know I don’t deserve mercy. But she does. She does.
Enzo is pacing now, shouting into the phone. I can’t make out the words, too caught in the sound of her breath—fragile, paper-thin, like a candle threatening to go out.
“Hang on,” I murmur, fingers brushing blood-matted curls from her forehead. “Just hang on, ragazza. I swear to you… if you make it through this…”
I can’t even finish it. I don’t know what I’m promising.
But I mean it. Whatever it is.
Enzo spins back into the room, face pale. “Doctor’s on his way. Fifteen minutes. He’s prepping his team.”
Fifteen minutes is too fucking long.
“Get towels. Alcohol. Scissors. Anything,” I snap.
He bolts again, and I press harder on the wound, muttering under my breath, a string of words that sound too much like prayers for a man who doesn’t believe in anything.
Don’t die on me, Lunetta.