Chapter 5 – Gaspare
There are decisions you make with blood on your hands.
Not because you want to. Because you have to.
Protecting Almeria and Luca isn’t a gesture of remorse anymore. It isn’t just guilt or unfinished business. It’s necessity. Survival. Syndicate politics don’t care about morals. It cares about leverage. Allegiance. Power.
And Almeria, whether she likes it or not, has become a symbol.
Someone out there wants her gone. They came for her son.
That’s not something I forgive.
And the next time they try, I might not get there fast enough.
I lean over the table in my private study, Enzo standing at my right. He flips through photographs from the scene of the attempted kidnapping. Details. Angles. Footprints.
Sancia paces, reading texts from her network. There are several cards on the table. Several names of potential syndicate suspects.
"We need to send a message," Enzo mutters. “All of them.”
"Not yet. And what if it’s none of them?" I reply.
“What would you do if it’s one of them?”
“First, I would seal the front door. Then I burn the house."
Sancia stops pacing. “She won’t agree easily, you know. If she hasn’t already."
Enzo and I look at her in confusion, causing her to roll her eyes.
“The proposal? Did you forget so soon?” she clarifies.
I lean back in my chair, lacing my fingers together.
"She doesn’t have to agree. She just has to understand."
Sancia arches a brow. "Is that your plan, then? Reason with her until she bends? How much luck has that gotten you?"
“Not much. But she’ll see reason soon.”
“What, you’re gonna make up a scary story to tell her?” Enzo snickers.
"No," I say. "I’m going to give her the truth."
Because truth is all I have left.
I find Almeria in the courtyard later. Her arms are wrapped around herself, eyes on Luca, who is drawing chalk stars across the stone tiles. I had thought she would have upped and left the premises after our exchange in the kitchen earlier today.
But I can tell that even if she won’t admit it, she feels safe here and leaving terrifies her.
She looks so out of place here. Like wildflowers in a graveyard.
When she hears my footsteps, she doesn’t turn.
"We’re not doing the marriage," she says quietly.
"We don’t have to," I agree.
She glances over her shoulder. Narrowed eyes. Suspicious.
"You came to your senses?"
"No," I say. "I said we don’t have to. We need to. But I can make this bearable for you. I have options."
That earns me a look.
"You don’t have to share a room with me. You don’t even have to see me. But the marriage—public, binding, legal—needs to happen."
"Why? So you can parade me around like a trophy?"
"So no one touches you. So no one even thinks about hurting your son without fearing what it would cost them. No one steals trophies because it would be obvious. Too obvious."
She crosses her arms. “They already fear you.”
"Not enough," I say.
"Then make them. Without using me."
"They’ll never see you as a civilian again, Almeria. Not after what happened. You’re a weapon now. A weakness to exploit."
She flinches.
"The only way to close that door is to make you mine in name. That puts you in my circle. No one goes against the circle."
She exhales hard. "This is insane."
"This is survival."
We stare at each other for a long time.
Then she looks at Luca. Her expression softens.
"He had nightmares last night. Couldn’t sleep without the lights on. Couldn’t even sleep with them on either. You know what he said? He asked me if you were one of the bad guys."
The words punch harder than a bullet.
"And what did you say?" I ask.
"I told him I didn’t know."
I swallow.
"You don’t have to like me," I say. "You don’t have to forgive me. But let me do this one thing right."
She says nothing for a while. Then:
"You want a deal? Fine. Here are my terms."
She ticks them off on her fingers.
"We don’t live together. Forget sharing a room. I don’t want to stay in the same building as you. Because that would mean I have to see you every sleeping and waking hour. Hear you moving around. I don’t want that for me and Luca. Secondly, you don’t interfere in my parenting. Luca never steps into your world. You don’t control me, my choices, or my time. You want me to take your name? Fine. And that’s all you get."
I nod slowly, taking in all her words. "Agreed."
"And this doesn’t mean I trust you."
"I wouldn’t expect you to."
Another pause.
"Then we have a deal," she says.
I exhale. "We’ll hold the ceremony soon. It needs to be public. Big. Loud enough that it drowns out every whisper against you. Everyone will know you’re mine, and no one will dare make another move."
“People would know I’m still...alive. As Almeria Spadafora.”
“And that’s exactly what I want. To have them know that you’re no longer in hiding and anyone who dares lay a finger on you will suffer dearly for it.”
She shakes her head. "This isn’t how I imagined my life."
Neither did I.
The next day, I brief the family and the syndicate at large.
The news spreads fast, just as I expected it would.
Gaspare Colosimo is getting married.
Most are shocked. Some amused. A few skeptical.
But no one dares to question it.
They know better.
Behind closed doors, Sancia leans over my desk.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"No," I answer. "But it's the only move I have left."
She studies me. "You still care for her."
"I never stopped."
"And Luca?"
I hesitate. "He's innocent. And I won't let what happened to me touch him."
Sancia nods once. "Then make sure no one else does either."
The days pass in a blur of planning, paperwork, and preparation.
I buy her a house. A mansion outside the city, walled off, guarded. Elegant but discreet.
She accepts it with a guarded nod.
She doesn’t thank me.
I don’t need her to.
We choose a date. A chapel. A guest list that reads like a power map.
Everything about it is calculated. Political.
During the planning, she remains distant. Professional. She listens to suggestions, corrects what she hates, and signs her name when needed. She says little, but when she speaks, the room falls silent.
And when I look at her—really look at her—all I can think is that I was a fool to ever let her slip away.
This time, I won’t.
As penance.