Chapter 2
FRANCESCO
The towering iron gates creak open before the car even comes to a full stop. They groan like old bones, welcoming me back to a place I barely recognize anymore.
Chestnut Hill looks the same from the outside. Wide lawns, towering trees, and stone sculptures of great men in our lineage. But I know better. Two years away doesn’t just change a man. It exposes the rot under the surface.
Two years. Two years since I drove out of here and into hell. Two years of burying my head in work, doing the family’s dirtiest tasks. Cutting deals in dark rooms, spilling blood with my bare hands, and making threats disappear without a trace.
And the latest, getting initiated into La Mano Nera.
The air carries the familiar, calming scent of wet stone after rain, thick with the weight of old money and secrets no one dares speak aloud. Everything feels the same, but now that I see things clearly, it’s different.
I sit back against the new leather seat as the car rolls up the driveway. I seem relaxed, but every part of me is wound tight beneath my calm facade. My fingers drum against my lap in a steady beat.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Home sweet home,” Marco sighs beside me. I feel his head turn as he looks at me. “You don’t look too excited to be back.”
“I’m not,” I grunt. I’m not particularly excited about the responsibilities waiting for me; even at thirty, there’s really nothing I am looking forward to.
“Not even to see your wifey?” His voice is teasing. And annoying. “I know she’s really excited to have you back. She hasn’t seen the love of her life in two years!”
My younger brother is stretched out beside me in the backseat, his boots kicked up on the divider without a care in the world. He flips his phone lazily between his fingers, that shit-eating grin of his glued to his face.
Silvia is not my wife. Yet. I don’t say anything, though. It’ll only egg him on.
“She texted me an hour ago,” he continues, his tone even more amused at my silence. Why did I think he would shut up?
“‘Tell your brother not to keep his future wife waiting,’” he reads. “Aw. That sounds really sweet. It seems like she’ll be the romantic one in the marriage, seeing as you lack in that capacity.”
I let out a low grunt. I’m not interested in whatever he’s reading, even though it’s a message from my wife-to-be. My mind is focused somewhere else.
Marco doesn’t take the hint. He never does.
“She even picked out a white dress for the occasion,” he adds with a sly grin. “Real subtle. I’m sure she’s already lit candles in your bedroom and carved your initials into soap.”
I roll my shoulder against the seat. “You know she doesn’t feel that way about me,” I mutter under my breath.
Marco’s laugh is low and clueless. He leans toward me. “So who’s she getting all dolled up for, then?” His eyes gleam like he thinks I’m about to spill some huge, scandalous secret.
I huff out a chuckle. He has no clue. Silvia’s heart is somewhere else. Just like mine—if I still have a heart, that is.
“I just got back,” I eventually sigh. “Can we not start?”
He sits back and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“You just got back,” he echoes back. “From slicing open some poor bastard La Mano Nera handed you on a silver plate. How did it feel? Did you have to drink the blood or some shit?” He snickers.
When I don’t say anything, his eyes widen in fake shock. “Fuck, you did. What did it taste like?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, and he laughs in satisfaction.
“On a more serious note, we both know how much you wanted to get in. We should throw a party.”
I clench my jaw so tight it aches as the car crunches to a stop in front of the house. For a second, I stay still, taking deep, steady breaths.
Marco doesn’t understand.
Yes, I just completed my final rite to officially be initiated, but it wasn’t because I wanted it so badly.
It was like a box I needed to tick before moving on to the next stage.
I would never take over from my father as Don and eventually take my rightful position as the heir of the Romano household if I didn’t join La Mano Nera.
Getting initiated wasn’t as easy as I assumed it would be. To join, one had to spill blood. I’ve killed people without batting an eye, and I would do it again. It’s normal in our world.
But this particular time, it was different.
I only killed people who hurt us or got on our bad side.
However, La Mano Nera gave me a list of random names and told me to pick.
I picked. He was an innocent, random man who didn’t deserve to die as brutally as he did.
An innocent man who begged for his life, not knowing he was already marked for death a long time ago.
And I was the one to bring death to his doorstep, because that’s what La Mano Nera wants: your humanity, your soul. It’s not for loyalty or power. It’s just to prove that I’ll never be free from their shackles.
I hate how helpless that makes me.
The driver opens the door, and cold air rushes in. I step out onto the gravel and close my eyes for a brief second. I’m back where I belong.
The estate looms above me. It’s strange how a place can be exactly the same and yet feel completely foreign.
We step inside, and somehow, the suppressing feeling is much worse.
The halls are too quiet. Staff freeze mid-step when they see me, their faces smoothing into polite and fearful masks. A few things have changed, like some new guards I don’t recognize standing stiff as statues at the doorway.
The paintings on the walls, portraits of dead men and women, the Romanos before us, seem to glare down at me, watching and judging.
At the top of the grand staircase ahead of me, I spot Silvia waiting.
She looks like something that should be in a cathedral. Pale, beautiful, and cold.
Her dress is pure white, as Marco described, and she’s standing so still she could be mistaken for one of the statues lining the halls.
She descends slowly, the tap of her heels barely making a sound. Her eyes lock on mine, cool and assessing.
“You’re late,” she says as she approaches the ground floor.
“I had to do something important,” I say, moving toward her. My steps are dictated by tradition more than any real emotion. I take her hand and brush my lips over her knuckles like a good fiancé should.
“I would have dropped by to see you, but family comes first,” I say.
Her hand trembles slightly before she pulls it back, her expression faltering for a moment.
She knows that when I say ‘family,’ I don’t mean her.
I wish I could feel remorse, but I can’t. We’ve known our fates since we were barely teenagers. We’ve accepted it, however bitter it might be.
Before the silence can stretch too long, Antonio, her shadow of a bodyguard, appears behind her. He gestures a stiff nod my way before leaning in to whisper something only she can hear.
I study him. Before he was hired to guard Silvia, I’d dug up some information about him. He’s an orphan, the sole survivor of a tragic fire that killed his parents. He was recruited by La Mano Nera at a very young age and was trained to be a special soldier for the Society.
Digging up information on him made me discover the sick tradition that I’d somehow never learned about the Society.
How young children, mostly orphaned boys, are taken, given food and shelter, and trained to be killers from a young age.
Their sole purpose is to make human weapons for the protection of the elite members of the Society.
Most of the boys end up dying due to the extreme training sessions and brutal punishments for disobedience.
No one has ever escaped, and those who manage to survive and live up to all their expectations have every atom of humanity stripped off them. Their only purpose is to blindly obey the commands of La Mano Nera and whoever hires them.
That is something we have in common.
Silvia nods at whatever he tells her before casting me another glance. Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but she just presses a soft kiss to my cheek instead.
“I have to leave for something important. I’ll see you soon,” she murmurs.
And then she glides away.
I feel Marco drift up beside me, tsking as he takes my side.
“I feel sorry for her. She deserves better.”
His tone is a bit playful, but he is right. Silvia deserves someone who will love and cherish her. I am not that man.
Elio appears just then, and a genuine smile spreads on his lips as he approaches me.
“Welcome home, brother,” he says, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.
“Elio gives hugs?”
Marco sounds shocked. Elio is not the most affectionate person.
“To those who deserve it,” Elio mutters.
“Ouch,” Marco huffs.
A small smile cracks my lips as I inhale Elio’s cologne for a few seconds before he pulls away.
For a brief moment, everything feels normal. Like a normal family having a normal reunion. Like the ghost of Lorenzo’s memories isn’t still walking these halls.
We don’t talk about him. We never do.
Before Elio can drag me toward the bar to have a few drinks, a loud crash echoes from the east wing.
A raised voice pierces through the walls. It’s a woman’s voice. At first, I think it’s a fearful scream. Maybe something terrible happened. But the louder it gets, the more I realize the voice sounds angry.
Without thinking, I move.
Marco curses under his breath but follows. “Great. It’s our grand return, and we already get a show.”
We cut through the hall toward the library. The large doors are flung open, and there are books scattered across the floor. A puddle of water glints under the heavy lights. An older woman, an aunt from my mother’s side, is screeching, red-faced and all, at a figure in a maid’s uniform.
And the maid—
My breath catches.
Rosalia Ricci.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s older now, sharper around the edges, and more beautiful. It’s obvious that the fire in her hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s burning hotter.