Chapter 12 Francesco
FRANCESCO
Imade the wrong decision to work from home today.
I’ve been in my home office since the early hours of this morning, trying—and failing—to get some important work done.
The room is quiet, the door is locked, and my laptop is open to various tabs, all running simultaneously. I stare at the pile of numbers on my screen. The Romano imports ledger from last quarter, a report for La Mano Nera’s compliance division, and a few other financial statements.
I should be done with all this by now, but I’m not.
Because all I see is her.
Her mouth pressed against Marco’s. Her fingers twisting in his shirt. The way he touched her, and how she let him. I dig my fingers into the edge of the desk, clenching my jaw so hard it aches.
So, what? Does she like him now? Are they a thing?
A bitter scoff leaves my lips.
Ever since I started ignoring her, I noticed she’s been spending more time with Marco. I ignore the feeling in my chest, the feeling that this is all my fault. If I hadn’t created an opening, he wouldn’t have slipped in.
But deep down, I know this is not about Marco. My brother has always been a slimy bastard. He pursued her even when he suspected I was interested. I am bitter and angry, but I don’t have the right to be. I’m engaged to someone else.
Yet, that is not enough to tame my anger, both toward myself and her. If I hadn’t treated her like she didn’t exist just after kissing her, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten distracted by my brother. She wouldn’t have fallen for his charm if I had been giving her all my attention.
Right?
A bitter, twisted part of me wants to believe she’s just using him. She doesn’t even like him. She only entertains him because he’s nice to her. I’ve seen the way she looks at him. It’s not the same as how she looks at me.
Now you’re just being delusional.
Shit. This is driving me crazy.
I close the laptop with a snap and lean back in the chair, rubbing a hand down my face. There’s a dull pain behind my eyes, one I’ve been carrying for days. Weeks, maybe.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Come in.”
When the door opens and I recognize the maid’s uniform, my heart leaps in my chest. But when the person steps inside and I see it’s not her, my mood deflates.
This is what she’s turned me into. A pathetic excuse of a man.
“A message for you, sir,” she announces in a timid voice, holding out a black velvet box tied with a silver string.
La Mano Nera.
She places it on my desk, bows slightly before turning to leave. I grab the box and untie the ribbon slowly, my pulse tightening in my throat. Opening it, I lift a thin, velvet lining material to reveal a sealed envelope. It is marked with the Elders’ crest in crimson wax.
I stare at it for a moment, wondering what it is, even though I already have my guesses. Even the paper looks weird. All stiff, yellowed, and creased by fingers that have likely signed more executions than weddings
Breaking the seal, I unfold the parchment and grit my teeth as my eyes skim over the short message.
In silence we rule. In blood we bind. In darkness we thrive.
To the House of Romano,
The Council has noted the continued delay in the binding ceremony. To ensure the sanctity of tradition, a family of the Council’s choosing will be sent to witness the ceremony and ensure the integrity of the rite. The chosen family will arrive within the week.
The union between House Romano and House Moretti will be sealed at dusk, seven days from the date of this notice.
Any further deviation from our customs will be regarded as dissent.
May your actions reflect the legacy of your blood.
—The Elders
I stare at the page long after I’ve finished reading, the words burning behind my eyes.
Dissent, my ass. They don’t ask. They order. Always with that cold, elegant precision that sounds like tradition but smells like death.
I fold the letter slowly, like it might explode.
Seven days. Seven days before I chain myself to a woman I don’t love, for a future I didn’t choose. And for what? Their approval? Their control?
They will be sending another family of their choosing to witness the upcoming ceremony. This only means that they are starting to get suspicious since I’ve been delaying my announcement and ritual for far too long.
I swallow thickly before folding the letter in half.
So, that’s it. I have just a week to figure my shit out.
I have just seven days before I have to get into an unbreakable union with a woman that I hardly talk to except when we’re in the presence of our families.
It just occurs to me that I haven’t even seen her in weeks.
I didn’t even notice. I know she comes around the estate from time to time.
She also sent a text that I haven’t checked about preparing for our vows and wishing she could escape this as well.
I might not know her so well personally, except for when we were kids—but one thing I know is that if she could pick who she wanted to marry, it would not be me.
It’s already late in the night when I shove the box and folded letter into my desk drawer and stand. The chair scrapes against the marble as I push it back and step out of the room.
I head over to my bedroom, but I’m restless. I need something to take my mind off everything. Sleep is out of the question.
Walking to my bedside table, I pull the last drawer open and slip out a packet of cigarettes.
I can’t remember the last time I smoked.
Four years ago, maybe. I quit after a distant relative died of lung cancer.
Cancer sucks. In my opinion, one of the worst ways to die.
The sickness slowly eats you up from the inside until you’re nothing but thin—sometimes rotting—flesh and bones.
I prefer to die by the bullet. Easy and quick.
The only thing I miss about nicotine is how it always managed to take the edge off. And now, that’s exactly what I need.
Opening the packet, I take a stick out. However, I can’t find a lighter. I rummage through all the drawers and corners where they might be, but I find none.
Hissing in frustration, I shove the entire packet in my pants pocket and leave the room. The hallways are dark and quiet as I head to the kitchen. After a one-minute search, I find a matchbox. I light a stick and head out of the kitchen, stepping into the nearest room.
The library.
Where I first saw her on my return. I should leave.
I came out to forget about her, not do the opposite.
Instead, I trail my fingers along the edge of a shelf as I move deeper into the room toward the armchairs near the unlit fireplace.
The leather groans under my weight as I take a seat.
I let out a billow of smoke, and the smell mixes with the lingering scent of old paper and leather.
Before I can take another puff, the door creaks.
My head snaps up as a very familiar figure walks in.
Lia freezes when she sees me.
She’s in an oversized nightgown, bare feet, her hair in a messy bun over her head like she wasn’t expecting to run into anyone. She blinks once, lips parting like she’s about to say something, before she turns to leave.
“Don’t let me stop you from your midnight espionage,” I say lazily.
She halts for a moment before she moves again.
I grit my teeth.
“You weren’t going to find anything here anyway.”
I know the real reason she’s still awake, the reason she’s here. She’s been going down to the cellar almost every night. She’s looking for answers.
She stops and slowly turns back toward me. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, rising. “You think you’re subtle, sneaking around the cellar like some amateur spy, digging into things that could swallow you whole.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies with those too-steady eyes.
I reach her in just three strides, and a shocked gasp escapes her lips as I grab and pin her to the shelf beside us.
“Don’t lie to me, Lia,” I say in a low voice. I take a long drag from my cigarette and flick it to the floor, crushing the ember under my shoe. “The worst mistake you made was thinking I ever stopped watching.”
I see her breath hitch. Slowly, I exhale smoke into her face. Unlike most people who don’t smoke, she doesn’t flinch or grimace. Instead, her eyes flash in anger.
“What’s the matter?” she taunts. “Scared I’ll find what you’re hiding?”
I bark a humorless laugh. “You think you’re ready for the truth, but you’re not. If you don’t stop digging, you’ll only end up like your father…”
Her face falters—just a flicker—and I suddenly hate myself for going there. But it’s too late.
“Better to die chasing truth than being stuck in this house with the likes of you,” she snaps, and then she spits in my face.
I wipe it away slowly. My fists clench.
“Is that why you’re whoring yourself to Marco? Because you think you can use him for information?”
Now, it’s her turn to chuckle.
“I can’t believe you,” she hisses, stepping into me. Her breath grazes my jaw. “For your information, I don’t need to use Marco. He actually wants me. Not just when he’s angry or drunk or looking to feel something other than cold.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re not half as smart as you think you are. You’re just pissed because I kissed your brother, and you watched.”
She saw me.
“You’re sick and twisted if you think you can control me,” she continues, her anger blazing hot.
Her face is flushed, and she looks so fucking beautiful.
“You can only humiliate me in public and feel better about yourself for a few seconds,” she pokes a finger at the center of my chest, and I feel my dick harden, “but it won’t make me yours.
Owning my body won’t get you inside my mind.
That kills you, doesn’t it? That you can’t get under my skin. ”
“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” I say calmly. “Tell me you’re not just using Marco for your own personal gain—”
“I actually like Marco.” She shoots me an icy smile. “He’s handsome, sexy, mischievous. He makes me smile and laugh…”
“Yeah?”