Chapter Six - Severo #2
A photo of Nicola appears—laughter caught mid-frame, her arm slung around Lira’s shoulder like she belongs there. Dark curls. Wide mouth. Dangerously warm eyes.
“She’s made three reports since the day of the abduction,” Matteo continues.
“Told the police the note left behind wasn’t real.
She’s claiming Miss Falco would never leave without telling her first. She's persistent. Not hysterical, just... certain. Like she knows something’s wrong but can’t prove it. ”
My brow lifts. “Has she been silenced?”
“Contained,” Matteo replies. “Our men at the station flagged her as a potential disturbance. She’s been warned off. Subtly. But she’s still poking. Quietly. Online too—nothing traceable yet, but she’s watching.”
I hum as I study the picture. Nicola radiates the kind of loyalty that makes people dangerous. The kind of woman who would show up with a bat and a bad plan. Loyal dogs bite the deepest when cornered.
“Stubborn,” I say under my breath.
“Very,” Matteo agrees.
I swipe to the next profile. A military ID. Cleaner lines. Sharper contrast.
“Second—Domenico Salvatri,” Matteo says. “Retired Navy SEAL. Goes by Mico . Served with Lira’s older brother, Marco Falco, until the boy died.”
The name drops like a rock in my chest.
“Marco,” I echo.
I stare at the screen. A folded flag. An obituary tucked beside it. The girl lost everyone. That explains some things.
“Where’s Mico now?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
“He lives on Maria Island,” Matteo answers. “Off-grid. South coast. No traffic in or out unless he wants it. But he wires Lira five grand U.S. every month. Has done so consistently for over two years. He was the one who checked her into rehab. Discreet, expensive, thorough.”
I pause.
So he tried to save her… from afar.
And she resents him for it. I saw it in the way her mouth trembled when I said his name aloud.
“She won’t go to him,” I mutter. “But he might come to her.”
Matteo nods , precisely.
The edges of my mouth tug upward. “Beautiful. Just beautiful.”
I set the tablet down, fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of the chair. Matteo doesn’t move. He’s waiting for an answer.
“Our men at the precinct have Nicola under wraps,” he says, repeating the earlier point. “She’s still loud. Still insistent. Do you want me to get rid of her?”
I click my tongue softly and shake my head, amusement curling through me like smoke.
“Matt, Matt, Matt,” I say, each word slow and laced with false scolding. “Don’t be so hot-headed. The girl’s just looking for her friend. No harm in that.”
Matteo’s brow furrows slightly. He hates when I take the scenic route through cruelty.
I lean back in the chair, folding one leg over the other, my fingers steepled against my lips. “Tell our men at the station to be especially nice to her. Smile at her. Make her feel heard. Serve her drinks—on me.”
Matteo doesn't smile, but I catch the faint twitch of understanding behind his lashes. “Understood.”
“And,” I say, dragging the word like a blade across silk, “for our dear friend Domenico Salvatri…” I tilt my head. “Let’s lead him to us.”
That gets Matteo’s attention. He straightens, brow raised. “You want him to find her?”
“I want him to know she’s safe.” My eyes gleam as I rise from the chair and move toward the decanter. I pour myself a finger of scotch and let the glass roll between my fingers. “Besides, she might get lonely staying here all by herself.”
I sip slowly.
“She needs a friend.”
Matteo watches me for a beat longer, then nods. “Noted.” He collects the tablet from the table and turns to leave.
I’m already smiling as the door clicks shut behind him.
I recline into the chair once more, stretching out as the scotch burns its way down my throat. The flames from the fireplace cast long shadows across the floor, and the broken tissue—now stained with dried blood—sits like a crown on the table beside me.
“Now,” I murmur to no one, my grin widening as the calm folds around me, “how much fun can this get?”
I open the drawer and pull the letter out like it’s a joke I’ve read a thousand times but still laugh at. Thick parchment, brittle at the edges. My father’s handwriting, uneven and impatient, stares back at me. He always wrote like the world was ending and the ink was trying to outrun him.
I lean against the edge of the desk, one arm folded, the other dangling the page. I don’t even have to read it, not really—I’ve memorized every word. Still, I trace the beginning with my eyes, like an old ritual.
If any of my children are reading this…
You must be irritated with me.
Well. At least the bastard was honest.
Forgive this old man who has been a nuisance in life and death. I was once young like you all. I met a woman I loved and I eloped with her to Australia for a fresh start...
Chiara Benedetti. Pale skin, the mouth of a poet, and a heart made of glass. I loved her. Until I hated her. Until I loved her again.
We were starving. Then we were bleeding money. Then we were just bleeding. The Mafia fixed our lives until it broke them.
She lost our child. And I lost her.
I sigh. Dramatic to the end.
She left Australia. But I vowed everything I ever owned would be hers. Her children are my heirs. Equal. Deserved. Worn like scars across the skin of my legacy.
I gave her a deed. She will give it to her children. And when that happens, I hope you all survive it.
I crack my neck and skim to the clause—the part everyone cares about.
Legal Addendum (Signed, Stamped, and Ratified in Two Nations):
● Chiara Benedetti’s child is entitled to the entire Dantès estate—properties, titles, assets, and control of all syndicate holdings—on one condition:
● They must be legally married into the Dantès bloodline.
● Only through marriage can they be considered family, and only family can claim what I built.
● Should the heir choose not to marry into the family, they may instead submit the deed and forfeit direct control.
The estate will then default to my firstborn son, Maksim Dantès, who will receive 80% of the holdings.
The remaining 20% shall belong to Severo Leontis Dantès, for his biological right and documented disinterest in succession.
● Until said heir is identified and verified, the physically present male child will serve as interim executor, with full rights to manage, sign, and transact estate matters—without permanent ownership.
● Should the heir choose to wager their claim—by challenge, by contract, or by force—they accept that the outcome is legally binding.
I lower the page. I already knew this. Memorized it. Still. Reading it feels like lighting a match and watching the edges curl.
So, she has to marry one of us.
And Maksim is too much of a rabid dog to pull it off.
I press my thumb to the corner of the paper, tracing the ink like it’s a signature carved into skin.
I know I did a terrible job raising you all to love each other. I only hope you can hate each other with grace.
My lips curl into a grin.
" Oh padre… naturalmente saremo amichevoli . "
Oh father… of course we’ll be amicable.
I toss the letter back into the drawer, but the idea stays lodged in my chest like a blade tucked beneath the ribs.
She has to marry a Dantès. And I am the only Dantès worth anything.
Let the game begin.