Chapter 15
“How’s the new Mrs?” Owen asks the second I answer my phone the next morning, laughter already curling around every word.
Fucker’s probably been glued to every pap shot from yesterday’s ambush. It’s not every day the CEO of Salvatore Vineyards’ granddaughter is seen with a man, especially not with her father and the Don himself hovering nearby, practically beaming for the cameras.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and I’m already itching for the anonymity of the Points. How these people manage to conduct business while being so fucking worshipped publicly is beyond me. I’d rather work in shadows than under spotlights that never blink.
“Piss off,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders as I take a swig from my water bottle. Owen should count himself lucky he caught me between sets at the gym and still riding the buzz from last night’s call with Lily.
Just thinking of her voice, low and sultry, a thousand shades of wicked, has heat coiling low in my gut.
It’s impossible to keep her out of my head, even when I know I can’t afford for anyone to realise how deeply she’s tangled into me.
That nagging suspicion that there’s more to the story than some cut-and-dry betrayal keeps eating at me.
And now I’m here—my first full day in Italy, shackled to a future I don’t want, drowning in obligations I can’t escape. A marriage contract hanging over my head like a guillotine, threatening not just my freedom but everything I’ve tried to keep safe.
Including her.
“I think secretly you’re loving this,” Owen taunts, smug as sin. “At least now you don’t have to trick someone into falling for your ginger ass.”
“Wanker,” I grunt, putting him on speaker so I can keep going with my bicep curls. The burn in my arms is nothing compared to the burn in my chest every time I remember Lily’s eyes on me. Soft, hungry, defiant.
“Can’t a man check in on his best mate?” Owen asks innocently.
“Sure he can, if his name’s not Owen Jameson.”
“Fine, fine, you caught me. I saw Ciaran sniffing around your flat when I dropped April off with Helen.”
My grip tightens on the weight. “My flat? Jesus. He couldn’t even wait a day?”
“Apparently not. Anything we need to worry about him finding?”
“Do you think I’m that fucking stupid?” I scoff, racking the weight hard enough to echo through the gym.
“Well, I mean, you did fall for your stepsister despite all my sage advice, sooo…”
He’s not wrong, and I hate that he knows it. I was a fool to think I could ever keep my distance. The second Lily decided I was hers, it was game over. Even with the weight of this marriage contract looming over me—over us—she wouldn't be deterred.
No one’s ever wanted or fought for me the way she did.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Anyway, how’s my favourite niece?”
The deflection works like a charm. Owen starts rambling about April’s newfound obsession with adding glitter to his tattoos and her refusal to eat anything that isn’t pink.
I half-listen as I finish my workout, sweat pouring off me, muscles trembling with the strain, and the pent-up need I can’t seem to outrun.
Freshly showered, monkey suit in place, second black coffee in hand, I leave the relative safety of the guest suite Salvatore assigned me and cross the courtyard toward the main villa. Every step tightens the chain binding me to this family, to this farce of a future.
The grounds are breathtaking even if they’re sprawling and suffocating. But beauty in this world is camouflage. I know that better than anyone.
Everything here is designed to be seen and not to be touched, a masterpiece that allows no mistakes. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes, loud in the open space. There’s no such thing as arriving unnoticed as I climb the front steps, nodding at the guards as I pass. They don’t so much as glance at me.
Inside, the air is thick with garlic, strong coffee, and barely suppressed tension. Voices bounce off stone walls—sharp, and hushed, like knives in the dark.
I trail the sounds to the dining room and melt into the shadows, watching.
Antonio sits at the head of the long table, brow furrowed, eyes sharp as Nico leans in, whispering like a venomous snake. Nico, with his tailored suit, sharp jawline, and slicked-back hair, looks ready to slit throats for sport despite the early hour.
Opposite Nico sits Vera, the too-young wife Antonio introduced to me last night like a trophy. She pokes at her food with a trembling fork, hollow-eyed, the diamond on her finger flashing a cold, silent warning.
But all my attention is on Gianna.
She's seated beside her father, mirroring Vera’s listlessness. Her face is painted with makeup that tries to age her up, but only makes her look more like a child playing dress-up. The neckline of her dress is obscene for this hour or for any hour, really.
She flinches under Nico’s possessive arm looped around her shoulders, and my stomach turns.
“Matthew,” Antonio calls smoothly. “Come, join us. I’m sure your hours in the gym have worked up an appetite.”
The less-than-subtle reminder that nothing here happens without his knowledge prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. Unease claws at me, but I shake it off, planting a smirk on my face as I stride forward like I own the place.
I pull out the empty chair at the opposite end of the table, catching the twitch of Nico’s jaw. Before anyone speaks, a plate slides in front of me and a glass of vodka follows, edging into my peripheral vision.
“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” I say, pushing it aside.
No one laughs. No one looks my way.
In the Points, silence like this is unheard of.
Donna wouldn’t stand for it—she’d have already hurled the crystal glass of vodka across the table, shattering it against the wall just to break the tension.
Liam would be smirking over his water, letting someone else take the bait, enjoying the slow unravelling.
Abigail? She’d be twirling her fork like a blade between her fingers, smiling faintly while she worked out whether she could get away with murder before dessert was served.
But here, with the Salvatores, everything is muted.
Neutered. Polished until it gleams. Drinks are poured with quiet ceremony, courses arrive on silver trays, and every expression is as carefully arranged as the flowers in the centrepiece.
I always knew the way we ran things in the Points wasn’t the norm, but I wasn’t prepared for how cold, how sterile this world would feel in comparison.
“Jonathan mentioned you wanted me here for introduction purposes?” I ask flatly.
Salvatore’s smile is all teeth. “The big day is only months away, it’s about time you got familiar with your new home. And dear Gianna has been so looking forward to meeting you.”
Gianna winces, the colour draining from her face telling a story she’s desperate to hide. I make a mental note to get her alone as soon as I can.
“Six months. Practically a year,” I reply flatly.
“Time flies,” Salvatore smirks, dropping his hand beneath the table, probably to squeeze his wife's thigh.
Nico doesn’t even glance up from his phone, too busy scowling at it like it’s personally offended him.
“Well, I still have business back home,” I say. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of enthusiasm for the... difficulties being here presents.”
“Soon, none of that will be your concern,” Salvatore dismisses, waving his hand, his heavy gold signet ring catching the light. “Focus on what will be yours and the perks that come with it.”
With that, he switches his focus back to Nico, and as they resume their conversation in Italian, I attempt to stomach my breakfast. Gianna and Vera never look up from their plates, and by the time I’m dismissed, my skull feels like it’s splitting.
Back in my suite, I lock the door and draw the curtains shut, sealing out the cold glare of the villa and the prying eyes that might lurk just beyond.
My fingers work fast, ripping through drawers and cushions, checking every inch for bugs.
I did this last night, but Nico’s reputation for paranoia means there’s no room for complacency.
I don’t doubt he’d have a soldier slip something in here at the first opportunity.
Only when I’m certain I’m truly alone do I dare power up my laptop. The whir of the machine feels louder here, in the quiet of the room. I miss my multi-screen setup back in London, the precision, the control, it presents. But this will have to do.
The screen fills with her world—soft lilacs spilling over worn furniture, discarded sketches spread across the floor like breadcrumbs, and coffee cups ringed with lipstick stains. It’s chaotic, alive, her.
Watching her like this is a punch to the gut, every time. I crave the unfiltered version, the moments she never shares with anyone else. The cracks beneath the surface. The restless edge she hides behind perfect posts and curated smiles.
I should hate myself for this intrusion, for wiring her flat, for stealing these private fragments. But I don’t.
Because at least no one else will ever get this close to her. Not while I’m still breathing.
My phone buzzes, drawing me out of her world and back into mine.
I click the link, and the screen floods with files—shipment manifests, ledgers, drop-off locations.
At first glance, it’s all clean, legitimate wine exports.
But the ports catch my eye. The same ones Liam and I have been chasing for months.
The same ones tied to container numbers that don’t add up, that vanish, or return empty.
And then there’s that name.
Orchis.
A ghost in the system that’s whispered about in dark corners of the internet.
Attached to shell companies and money trails that disappear before you can trace them.
If Orchis is here, it means beneath the seemingly harmless wine exports might just lie the thread we need to pull to start unravelling this whole thing.
My heart hammers a raw rhythm in my chest.
Fuck.
This isn’t just about guns or drugs anymore. It hasn’t been in a long time.
It’s about the girls who’ve been tricked or stolen from their lives and freedom. It’s about shutting down the pipeline that’s haunted me—haunted us—for nearly four goddam years. It’s about getting answers to the mountain of questions, and finally getting some fucking closure.
As the puzzle pieces start slotting themselves together in the most horrifying way, I call Liam. He answers before the first ring finishes.
“Tell me everything,” I snap.
His breath rattles on the line. “It’s all there. Orchis is listed as the importer through three ports we’ve been watching. On paper, it’s wine. But the weights are off, and containers get shuffled through the warehouses before inspections. It’s a fucking circus.”
“Shit. Orchis is the fucking key, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but that’s the problem. It’s a mess of offshore shells. I can’t pin down a single name yet, not one belonging to someone alive anyway. But there’s definitely someone big running this. And it’s looking like they’re moving a hell of a lot more than wine.”
My jaw ticks as I scan the documents again, flicking through container IDs and shipping routes.
“Send it all to my secure drop,” I order, my voice low. “Don’t share this with anyone, not even Cora or Owen. Not yet.”
“Copy that.”
“And Liam… keep digging. We need to find every company Orchis is connected to. Every person who’s signed any of these manifests. It’s about time we know who’s really running this show.”
“On it.”
I end the call and let the phone drop onto the table, pressing my palms into my eyes until sparks scatter behind my lids. My skull throbs with the weight of too many lies, too many moving pieces.
Lily flashes through my mind—her laughter bright and reckless, a wildfire no one could ever contain. The way she never bows, never breaks, even when the world claws at her. The way she believed in me, fiercely, stupidly, with a kind of faith I never deserved.
Then Gianna’s face follows, unbidden. Those empty, quiet eyes. A girl trapped in a life carved out for her, bones hollowed by expectation. A future already stolen.
The contrast slices me open.
Everything around me feels like it’s shrinking—walls tightening, time constricting, the air itself turning into a noose. This game of cat and mouse is tightening its grip, and options are vanishing by the second.
But beneath all of it—beneath the panic, the fury, the guilt—one truth stands unmoving, blazing through the noise:
I won’t let whoever’s orchestrating this keep pulling the strings.
And I’ll be damned—truly, sacrificially damned—before I let them anywhere near the woman I love.