Chapter Sixteen – Severo #2
Calvani blinks twice, like he didn’t hear her. Then he barks a dry laugh.
“Oh, come now,” he says, lifting both hands. “Let’s not be so precious. I was making a point. A joke. We’re all friends here.”
He gestures wide, looking for support.
No one speaks.
Matteo coughs. A single dry sound. At the chamber entrance, two men step forward.
“Don Calvani, this way.”
Calvani walks two steps, then stops. Turns his head toward the rest of the table. His mouth twists.
“This is a circus,” he snarls. “A whore with a seat and a bunch of castrated dogs wagging at her feet.”
The guards step closer to flank him. One reaches for his arm. Calvani twists and shoves back.
“You think I’ll be handled?” he spits. “You think you can shame me out like a peasant?”
His hand flies toward his jacket.
I rise. Matteo steps forward.
But Lira is already standing.
The guards grab Calvani just as he jerks toward the table. They try to drag him toward the open door, but he fights them—half turned, arms flailing. One of them shouts. Calvani throws his shoulder into the smaller guard and rips free, stumbling forward.
He charges Not for the men.
For her.
Lira’s eyes are on him the entire time. She doesn’t move until he’s almost within reach.
Then she grabs the steel pen from her folder and drives it straight into his chest. The tip pierces fabric, then skin. He gasps.
She pulls it back and strikes again. Calvani stumbles back, blood pushing through the hole in his jacket. The guards grab him again, without restraint. One holds him by the collar, the other by the arm, hauling him toward the door as he sways, bleeding, cursing under his breath.
The door closes behind them.
The room is dead silent.
Lira stands with the pen still in her hand. Her right palm is streaked with red. Her breathing is even. She glances down, frowns slightly, and sets the pen aside on the folder without a word.
She looks at the men still seated before her.
“I apologize for the interruption,” she says, voice light. “We’re still refining distance protocols. That was far too close.”
No one replies.
She smiles, lips relaxed.
“If anyone else would like to leave,” she continues, tone unchanged, “the invitation still stands. No judgment.”
No one moves.
She lifts the next page in her folder and flips it over.
“Well then,” she says, bright. “Let’s carry on.”
I watch her fingers press to the corners of the page. The blood on her knuckles is starting to dry.
I made the right call.
****
The engine hums beneath the cabin. The seats are cooled, upholstered in matte black leather. Matteo drives with one hand, his eyes fixed ahead, his body stiff from everything he didn’t say during the meeting.
Lira and I are seated in the rear. The center console’s untouched. Her folder rests closed on her lap, but her fingers still tap along its spine. The blood’s been wiped off, though a faint shadow lingers around her knuckles.
I shift, turning slightly toward her. My palm finds her thigh. It’s still tense, but steady.
“You did well,” I say.
She looks at me, then smiles, small and satisfied.
“You taught me well,” she answers.
Her voice is lower than usual—measured. Not soft.
She leans closer, the scent of her skin fresh from the wipe-down in the council’s washroom. There’s no perfume on her. Just the steel of resolve.
“Do I get a reward?” she murmurs.
I reach for her face. My thumb finds the edge of her chin, bone under skin. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
“Of course, my dear wife.”
The space between us narrows. Her hand slides to my collar as I bend in. My mouth finds hers— not rushed. Her breath is warm. Our rhythm begins to sync, her fingers curling behind my neck, my hand sliding to her jaw.
Then the car jerks to a hard stop.
Lira’s body jolts. I brace her with one arm.
Matteo’s voice cuts from the front. “Boss—”
I look up.
Through the tinted windshield, I see the gates of the estate. And parked in front of them, leaning on the hood of a grey sedan, is Salvatri.
His arms are crossed.
He’s waiting.
Matteo’s hand shifts toward the door latch.
“Want me to handle it?”
Before I answer, Lira speaks from beside me.
“No,” she says. “I’ll talk to him.”
Her fingers brush mine as she reaches for the door.
I open mine without a word and step out just behind her. Gravel presses beneath my shoes. The breeze has picked up—the iron gate creaks faintly against its weight.
Salvatri straightens when he sees her. His arms fall to his sides. His stance widens just slightly.
She walks forward alone.
I follow three steps behind.
When she reaches him, she slows. Her voice doesn’t carry far.
“What are you doing here, Mico?” she asks.
Her tone is soft. Familiar.
He studies her. His mouth twitches at the edge.
“You look different,” he says. “But good.”
Something stills inside me.
They aren’t touching. But the space between them bends inward, the kind that builds when words aren’t enough and bodies aren’t allowed.
She nods . Her fingers hover near her stomach, then fold away again.
“I thought you were gone,” she says quietly.
His eyes don’t move from her face.
“Not without a proper goodbye.”
The fight’s tucked away somewhere, quiet now, buried.
“I’m heading back to Italy tomorrow,” he says, voice low.
She shifts slightly. Not toward him, but not away either.
He watches her.
“I don’t know what this is now. What you are. What I was.”
He lets the words hang.
“But I’d like a meal before I go.”
Lira’s lips part. She doesn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drop to the space between them, then lift again to his.
She glances toward me—quick, unsure. Her weight shifts to one foot, then back.
Salvatri follows her gaze. His face hardens for half a second before he softens it again.
“You can come too,” he says, turning his head to me.
He smiles, but his voice stays even.
“If it helps.”
The implication is clear. He’s not offering peace. He’s giving her comfort. Something to bridge the gap between where they ended and where she’s standing now.
“You wouldn’t want me alone with your wife,” he adds, quiet.
The threat is quieter, more veiled. But it’s there.
I let the moment settle, then move closer.
My arm circles her waist. I feel the pause in her body before she lets herself lean, just slightly.
“Send us the time and place,” I say. “We’ll be there.”
Salvatri’s smile comes slow but pointed. He doesn’t look at me long. Just enough.
Then he shifts to her.
His face changes—just slightly. Not softer. More familiar. He speaks lower.
“I’ll be expecting you,” he says.
She doesn’t respond. Her mouth presses into a line, eyes locked on his. There’s no pleasure in them. No clarity either.
He steps back, one hand brushing the door of his car.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
He holds the look for a second longer than necessary, then climbs in and starts the engine. His tires ease against the gravel. The gate slides open.
We watch him disappear.
****
The room is dark when we enter our room. The room I have shared with her for a month.
I close the door behind us. Lira walks ahead, slipping off her shoes before she reaches the bed. Her dress unzips with a quiet whisper. The red silk falls to the floor. She steps out of it and leaves it pooled near her feet.
Her back is to me. Bare. Pale. Her shoulder blades shift as she unhooks her bra. Her skin glows in the low light from the wall lamp. One hand lifts to undo her earrings. The air around her hums like it’s waiting.
I’ve lied to myself.
I told myself she was a tool. That she was a name on paper. A body in a strategy. That vengeance needed a shape, and hers was convenient.
But it’s not vengeance making my hands curl.
It’s not power that has me stepping forward.
I reach her just before she pulls the covers back. My hands slide around her waist, palms flat against her stomach. Her breath catches. I bend my head and kiss her neck. Then lower, just beneath her ear.
She doesn’t pull away.
“Don’t go,” I say against her skin. “Don’t meet him.”
She doesn’t lean into the kiss.
Her body stays still, spine straight, arms slack at her sides. Then—gently—she pulls away. Not fast. Not abrupt. Just enough to make the space between us real again.
She turns to face me, her expression unreadable at first. Her lips part before her voice finds shape.
“I want to see him.”
Her voice is soft. Not uncertain. Just tired.
“Just once more,” she says. “He was family. My first love.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
I look back at her. Bare. Fragile in ways she doesn’t mean to show. The lines of her body still warm from my hands, but colder now without them.
“Do you love him?” I ask.
Her mouth trembles. Not a twitch—something smaller.
“You’re the one who made it clear,” she says, stepping back further. “This is strategy. You said it yourself.”
She reaches for the robe on the chair, pulls it over her shoulders.
“We’re using each other,” she says. “Aren’t we?”
I should speak. Should push.
Instead, I nod .
Calm. Even.
“Do you love him?” I ask again.
She looks at me like I’ve missed the point.
“Isn’t this for show?” she asks. “Weren’t we supposed to keep feelings out of it?”
The silence isn’t long. It’s sharp.
I chuckle. Dry. Nothing amused in the sound.
I step back, turn toward the hallway. My hand finds the door handle.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
I open the door.
Half of me waits. Just long enough for footsteps. For breath. For her voice.
Nothing.
I leave.
The hallway is dim. Lights from the sconces cast long shadows over the marble.
I walk past the study, down two turns, then stop in front of Matteo’s door.
I knock.
There’s a rustle. Footsteps. The door creaks open.
Matteo blinks at me—bare chest, sweatpants low on his hips, hair flattened on one side. He looks like he fell asleep five minutes ago and is already regretting waking up.
“You’re in bed,” I say, stepping past him.
“I was.”
I walk straight to the far side of the room and drop onto his bed, arms behind my head.
He closes the door with a muttered curse and follows. The mattress dips as I stretch out.
He scratches the back of his neck.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I stare at the ceiling.
“What’s it like to be in love?”
He stops halfway to the dresser. Turns.
“You serious?”
I don’t answer.
He walks to the other side of the bed, pulls the sheets back, and climbs in with a grunt.
“It’s past my work hours,” he mutters. “I really can’t deal with this.”
He rolls over, back to me.
Within seconds, his breathing evens out.
I stare at the wall.
Then I lift one foot and kick the side of his leg.
Nothing.
Another kick. Still nothing.
“Useless,” I mutter.
I shift, turn toward the other side, and exhale into the dark.