Chapter 8 Beatrice
BEATRICE
The elevator ride is quiet.
The dress clings to my body like a second skin, and I can barely breathe.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and still.
I am the picture of beauty—the perfect complementary piece to Giacomo.
Striking red lips, pin-straight hair, and a skin-tight red dress.
I ooze sex, seduction, and beauty—everything he says I need to be considered his.
I feel like I’m playing a character.
Beautiful, subdued—much like a pinned butterfly.
Never free, only meant to be observed and admired from behind glass.
“You look lovely, cara. I think this color is amazing on you.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. The gesture is meant to be sweet and tender, but it feels more like a branding.
“Thank you,” I force a smile. The same one I’ve been rehearsing for days to make it look natural. “Dinner was lovely; I had a good time.”
No, I didn’t.
I felt like I was walking on eggshells the entire time.
But I try not to let it show.
Giacomo’s hand rests lightly on my lower back, his touch possessive without looking it.
He smiles, still warm from the afterglow of dinner, but there’s a tension simmering beneath his polished surface. I can feel it, sense the buzz rolling off him in the air.
The doors open, and I step out of the elevator, my heart dropping into my stomach as we pass Matteo’s door.
I still can’t believe he lives next door to me.
This man—the one who bulldozed into my life and rearranged my entire brain chemistry.
I sneak a glance at the wooden door and quickly look away, afraid he might open it and see me.
But why should I worry if he sees me?
I’m not doing anything wrong.
And yet… I don’t want him to know about Giacomo, at least not yet. Not now.
Giacomo and I step into the apartment, and the door clicks shut behind us. I release a breath I didn’t even know I was holding and walk toward the kitchen countertop.
Giacomo shrugs off his coat and places it near the grand piano, next to the brand-new bouquet of the week. He makes a habit of ensuring there are fresh flowers every Monday. Then he heads toward the bar cart.
“Why let the night end early?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Some wine? I think a good Merlot will suffice.”
“Sure,” I smile. “Maybe some music, to set the mood?”
“Yes, please, cara.”
I walk over to the stereo system and pick some smooth music to play in the background. When I turn back, I settle into the plush white leather couch, tucking my legs under me as I watch him walk over with two glasses filled with Merlot.
He hands me one.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” He sits beside me and drapes his arm along the back of the couch.
My mind keeps drifting—back to him—and that instant jolt I felt when I—
No.
I am not allowed to think about that man. Matteo is forbidden.
Giacomo lifts his glass. “To our ever-blooming union. May we continue to go from strength to strength.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. “To making this work.”
Giacomo’s smile widens. “I’ll drink to that, cara.”
We clink our glasses and take a sip. The wine is expensive, smooth, and hits harder the longer it settles in your stomach.
Much like my fiancé.
I’m still wary of him, but I’m slowly accepting this new life.
And to be fair… he has been nothing but kind these last few weeks.
“Have you had the chance to meet your new neighbor?”
The question is so random and out of the blue that it makes me blink. “His name is Matteo Davacalli.”
I glance at him, my stomach flipping with unease. “Matteo? Yeah, I saw him the other day when I came home from my run. He seems… nice.”
Nice isn’t exactly the word I would have used for him.
I sip my wine, trying to seem nonchalant. Giacomo has a way of seeing straight through my lies.
His smile doesn’t falter. “Yes. Matteo Davacalli—he’s another capo of a different syndicate.
His father passed away a few months back, and he took over.
” He says the name like it tastes bitter in his mouth.
“He and I have a history of sorts. If I had known he was the owner of this building, I would never have bought this penthouse for you. No need to have you around such… filth.”
“You two know each other?”
“The mafia world is small, my love. We all know each other. If you’re someone of relevance, you run in similar circles.”
So he is part of this world.
I had my suspicions. The way he carries himself, the air that shifts in his wake. He is as beautiful as he is dangerous.
Giacomo leans back, swirling his wine. “His father and mine… they never got along. His old man was a tyrant—ruthless, hard, unforgiving. He treated the rest of us like pawns. Forced loyalty, unyielding punishment. He garnered power through fear and bloodshed—much like most of us, but with him it was cruelty on a different level.”
I listen in silence.
“Matteo is no better, if you ask me. The boy is the spitting image of his father, in likeness and mentality. But if I should say so myself, he is an even bigger serpent than his old man.”
There’s something rehearsed in the way he says it.
I have no reason to doubt him—and I don’t see why he’d lie about something like this.
But after interacting with Matteo, the same man who talked me off the ledge, I don’t see him as cruel or ruthless.
Cold? Yes. Intimidating? Very much so. But never cruel.
“Davide, Matteo’s father, humiliated mine more than once,” Giacomo continues. “And Matteo, well… he learned from the best. Cutthroat. Cold. And now he’s doing to me what his father did to mine. A story as old as time—history repeating itself. But I intend to be the victor in the end.”
I say nothing. What can I possibly say? I don’t know Matteo, and Giacomo is the one to whom I owe my loyalties.
“My father came from nothing and built his legacy. He clawed and scraped his way to even have a chance for a seat at the table. And now, I will do whatever it takes to keep that seat. Even if it means not playing by the rules of the shadow brothers.” He speaks quietly as he sets his glass down on the coffee table.
“Shadow brothers?” I take another sip of wine, feeling the buzz settle slowly over me. “Who is that?”
“Matteo Davacalli, Valerio Antonelli, and Marcello Faravelli. The Three Sons of Shadow. Matteo and Marcello are heirs to legacy syndicates that have been around for far longer than we’ve been alive. Valerio comes from a long bloodline of enforcers who have always been revered and feared.”
“This gala…” he murmurs, voice deep and unhurried. “They’ve all been waiting to see what I’ve built… who I’ve become. And when you walk in with me, cara, they’ll understand exactly where I stand—and who stands with me.”
There’s nothing boastful in his tone. Just certainty. The kind men in his world kill to possess.
“They’re already whispering about my bride-to-be,” he adds. “You’ll silence every one of them the moment you step into that room.”
I let out a slow breath.
The night he’s talking about is no longer just a date on the calendar. It’s the moment everything changes — for him… and for me.
“You will be the diamond of the ball.”
I let out a low laugh. “So you were paying attention. And you said you didn’t like the movie.”
He chuckles. “Of course I was. But please, have pity on a man and let me choose the next one, amore mio.”
I don’t know if it’s the wine lowering my inhibitions, but suddenly I feel more at ease with him.
This feels like a normal conversation. I’m not pretending to listen; I’m fully engaged. And the banter feels real.
“Okay, you get one movie choice this month. But for the next two weeks, we’re going through the entire Harry Potter franchise. I still can’t believe you haven’t watched them.”
“Kids running around with little sticks yelling ‘hocus pocus?’ Yeah, not really my thing, Bea.”
I roll my eyes and laugh lightly. “You’ll love them, I promise. And if I had to guess… you look like a Slytherin.”
His eyebrows pull together in a frown. “And what on God’s green earth is a Slytherin?”
“Yep,” I sip my wine, “definitely a Slytherin.”
He looks at me, eyes sharp and dangerous—and somehow impossible to look away from. It’s an invisible force tapping at the protective barriers I’ve kept wrapped around myself for weeks now.
“I like you like this,” I say, gesturing to him. “You’re less… serious. And it feels like I can be normal with you like this.”
The words slip right past my lips.
He shakes his head, lips parting into a solemn smile. “You make no secret of fearing me, cara mia.”
“I don’t fear you.”
I say it far too quickly for him to believe my lie. “Well, I used to… but I don’t fear you now.”
“That’s a half-truth, and we both know it. If you don’t completely fear me, then there are parts of you that hate me—loathe me, even.”
I take a long sip of wine. I don’t want to answer, because we both know the truth, and there’s no need to reaffirm something already understood.
“I’m trying not to.” And there it is—my first truth.
“Good.”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment. He studies me, drinking me in cell by cell.
I fill the silence with the question that has gnawed at me for a while now.
“Why do you never speak about your mother?”
The moment the question leaves my lips, something shifts in him.
It’s subtle, barely more than the faint recoil of a man who has been struck in a place no one is supposed to reach, but I feel it like a cold wind threading between my ribs.
Giacomo goes completely still, the kind of stillness that only comes from a lifetime of learning how to lock emotion behind stone walls.
When he finally sets his glass down, the motion is almost reverent, like he’s placing something fragile between us.
“My mother…” he begins, the words scraped raw, “is a chapter I keep closed for a reason.”
I don’t speak. Something in his voice tells me not to.
He exhales, long and slow, his gaze drifting to a distant corner of the room—as if he’s looking through the years to a place he rarely allows himself to return to.