Chapter 27
I study the men around the table as they banter about Damiano's family ‘drama’ as Alessio called it.
Fifteen minutes have passed since Ginerva's announcement, but no one seems concerned by Damiano’s absence.
They've fallen into comfortable conversation, revealing the easy familiarity of men who've faced good as well as very bad moments together.
Noah catches me watching him and raises an eyebrow. His dark eyes miss nothing—tactical, assessing. He reminds me of a chess player, always planning three moves ahead. Unlike Matteo's obvious physical strength, Noah's power seems to lie in his mind.
"So you studied in London?" Noah asks, redirecting my attention.
"Computer science," I reply, measuring my words.
Enzo leans back, arms crossed. He's the most intimidating of the group—raw power barely contained in a designer suit. The scars on his knuckles tell stories of violence, yet he seems unexpectedly loyal in how he speaks about the others.
I glance between them, piecing together their dynamic. These men function like specialized parts of a machine. They fit together with the precision of parts that have been interlocked over a long period.
Daniel remains standing by the door, silent and watchful. His posture screams military training but his eyes are gentler than the others.
I feel Alessio's hand warm on my knee before I notice the shift in the room. The men straighten subtly as the door opens.
Damiano Feretti enters and the air changes—molecules rearranging themselves around his presence.
He's taller than I imagined, with well-built shoulders that fill out his tailored suit perfectly. Dark wavy hair frames a face that's all sharp angles and intensity. His eyes, deep brown and perceptive, sweep the room before landing on me.
"Melania Lombardi," he says in a smooth baritone with an accent slightly denser than Alessio's. "Welcome to my home."
I elevate my posture, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Feretti."
A smile touches his lips, not reaching his eyes. "Damiano, please. After all you've become quite... significant to my right hand." His gaze flicks to Alessio, some unspoken communication passing between them.
He moves to the other head of the table with fluid grace, unbuttoning his jacket before taking his seat. The others wait until he's settled before resuming their own positions, a choreography they've performed countless times.
"I trust my men have been hospitable," he says, reaching for the wine glass Ginerva has already filled.
"Some more than others," I reply, glancing at Enzo, who smirks in response, and Matteo who does likewise. "But yes, considering the circumstances."
Ginerva appears from the kitchen door, directing two young men in black uniforms as they wheel in serving carts. The aroma hits me first—rich, complex scents that make my stomach hum with anticipation.
"I hope you're hungry," Alessio murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm on my skin.
I nod, watching the servers place gleaming platters along the center of the table. Each dish looks like it belongs in a high-end restaurant.
"I've heard rumors about your chef," I say to Damiano as a server places a delicate appetizer before me—seared scallops nestled on vibrant green puree. "They say he trained in Milan before working for you."
Damiano's expression glows with undisguised pride. "Ettore. Yes, he was head chef at a two-star Michelin restaurant."
"He doesn't cook for just anyone," Enzo adds, already reaching for his fork. "Consider yourself special."
The first bite melts on my tongue—perfectly seared scallop with a pea puree that's delicate inside and intensely flavorful. I can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes me.
When I look up I catch Alessio watching me, his eyes darkening at my reaction. Heat floods my cheeks as I remember his earlier comments about the lurid sounds I make when eating.
"Ettore will be pleased you approve," Damiano says, noticing our exchange with shrewd eyes that obviously miss nothing.
The servers return, this time with pasta—handmade tagliatelle with ragu that's been simmering for hours, if not days judging by its depth of flavor. The pasta itself is perfectly al dente, with just the right amount of resistance against my teeth.
"This is incredible," I admit, forgetting for a moment that I'm dining with men who could order my execution as easily as they ordered this meal.
Noah nods in agreement. "Food and violence," he says casually, twirling pasta around his fork. "Italians excel at both."
Despite the somewhat tense environment, I can't help but appreciate the culinary artistry before me. Food has always been my weakness—my one true indulgence.
Even as a child, when other girls begged their fathers for toys, I only wanted to try the legendary tiramisu at Ristorante Milano or taste the famous gelato from a tiny shop we used to visit in Los Angeles.
My father never understood this preference, viewing it as frivolous compared to the status symbols he liked to display.
I glance around as the servers clear our plates, my pulse quickening with anticipation.
The osso buco was exquisite but what I'm really waiting for is dessert.
My sweet tooth has been a constant companion since childhood—the one pleasure that remained unchanged through boarding schools, my mother's death, and my father's increasing control.
"You're looking rather preoccupied," Alessio murmurs beside me, his thumb brushing my knee under the table. "Something on your mind?"
"I was wondering about dessert," I admit, very low so the others won’t mock my eagerness. "If the chef is as skilled as everyone claims..."
His lips curve into that half smile that makes my stomach flip. "Ah, you have a sweet tooth."
"My greatest weakness," I confess. "I'd skip meals to save room for dessert when I was younger."
I catch Damiano's eye across the table. The scrutiny I expected—the hard questions, the pointed assessment—hasn't materialized.
He's watching, yes, but there's no interrogation.
This dinner isn't about extracting information from her; it's about observing how she carries herself and how we interact.
Melania lifts her spoon, dipping into the creamy and chocolate shaving surface of the tiramisu. The instant the dessert touches her lips, she closes her eyes, a soft moan of pleasure escaping her. My body responds instantly, remembering similar sounds from our time together.
Fuck.
"This might be the best thing I've ever tasted," Melania declares, already scooping another piece. Her shoulders have relaxed completely, the tension she carried throughout dinner melting away.
"Ettore will be pleased," Damiano says, his own dessert barely touched. "He rarely receives such enthusiastic appreciation. I've always believed that how someone responds to pleasure reveals their true nature."
His words carry deeper meaning but Melania is too captivated by her dessert to notice the assessment occuring. This is what Damiano wanted—to see her unguarded, authentic. Not the poised daughter of Antonio Lombardi, not the woman fighting for her life, but simply Melania.
And what he's seeing—what we're all seeing—is a woman who finds joy in simple pleasures, who hasn't been completely hardened by her circumstances.
I watch Melania set down her spoon, having demolished the tiramisu with an enthusiasm that makes my nerves burst with new energy. The genuine pleasure on her face stands in stark contrast to the world we inhabit—a reminder of innocence in a place where such things rarely survive.
Damiano clears his throat, drawing her attention. "I must apologize, Melania." His voice carries the smooth authority that commands respect across multiple continents. "Under different circumstances you wouldn't be surrounded solely by men at this table."
Melania's eyebrow lifts slightly, curiosity replacing the bliss of dessert.
"Lucrezia would have been here to keep you company." Damiano's expression softens at the mention of his sister. "She has a way of cutting through the testosterone in the room. Ensures we don't bore our guests with business talk."
"I've heard about Lucrezia," Melania says, her fingers finding mine under the table. "She sounds formidable."
A genuine smile crosses Damiano's face. "That's one word for her. Headstrong is another." He takes a sip of port.
"Will they be safe there?" Melania asks, impressing me with her concern for people she's never met.
Damiano nods. "Safer than here, with Antonio and Raymond turning the city inside out. Our family compound in Tuscany has security that rivals the Vatican."
"Perhaps when this is over," I find myself saying, "you'll have the chance to meet her." The words emerge before I can analyze them, a future casually offered that I hadn't consciously formulated.
Melania's eyes find mine, an unreadable story passing through them.
"I think she'd like that," Damiano says, studying both of us with renewed interest. "Though I warn you, she asks questions that would make a federal prosecutor uncomfortable."
A small laugh escapes Melania. "I look forward to it."
I catch Damiano's subtle signal, a barely perceptible nod that most would miss. He taps his finger twice against his wine glass, the crystal producing a soft chime that cuts through the comfortable silence that's settled over the table.
"Noah, Matteo, Daniel—I need you to handle those matters we discussed earlier," Damiano says, his tone casual but carrying unmistakable authority.
The men respond without question, chairs scraping hardwood as they rise in unison. Noah's calculating gaze sweeps over Melania one final time before he nods respectfully toward Damiano.
When the door closes behind them only the four of us remain—Damiano, Enzo, Melania and me. The atmosphere shifts instantly, the amiable dinner facade dropping away. Whatever comes next will determine everything.
Melania's hand reaches for mine under the table, her fingers cool in my palm. I squeeze gently, a silent reassurance that, whatever Damiano has planned, she won't face it alone.
"Now," Damiano says, leaning forward slightly, his hands folded before him. "Let's discuss what happens next."
Enzo shifts in his chair, his massive frame making the furniture seem almost child size. His eyes meet mine—we've been through countless negotiations, interrogations and death sentences together. But this feels different.
Melania elevates her posture, lifting her chin with that quiet defiance I've come to admire.
I feel a surge of pride watching her prepare to face whatever's coming.
"I imagine you've wondered why we intervened on your wedding day," Damiano says, his voice deceptively casual as he swirls the remaining wine in his glass.
Melania's fingers tighten around mine under the table. "The thought had crossed my mind," she replies, matching his tone with remarkable composure.
I realize with a jolt that we've never fully discussed this. Between gunfights, hacking sessions, and everything else that's happened between us, I never explained why I was waiting outside her family estate that day. I've given her some explanation but not the whole picture.
"Your father owes us money," Damiano states flatly. "A significant amount."
Melania's head snaps back slightly, disbelief crossing her features. "That's ridiculous. The Lombardis have more money than?—"
"Having money doesn't mean having the self-respect to honor debts," Damiano interrupts her, his voice hardening. "Antonio has been avoiding his obligations for months now."
I watch her process this, the daughter in her wanting to defend her family name battling the woman who stole Raymond's crypto wallet and knows exactly what her father is capable of.
"But that wasn't the primary concern," Damiano continues, setting his glass down with precision.
"Your marriage to Raymond Stone would have consolidated too much power.
Between your father's territory and Raymond's political connections, they would have controlled everything from street corners to federal judges. "
Enzo leans forward, his massive frame making the chair creak. "We couldn't let that happen."
"It seems we needn't have worried about the wedding securing their alliance. They were already working together on ventures far more lucrative than territory disputes." Damiano says.
"And far more monstrous," Melania adds quietly.
"Yes." Damiano's face darkens. "Had we known about the trafficking operation sooner..." He doesn't finish the thought but the deadly threat in his voice is clear.
I watch Melania's face as she absorbs Damiano's words. She's thinking, computing the implications of what our operation means for her father and Raymond. I've seen this expression before—her mind working through angles and calculations.
"Your father and Raymond have been trafficking people for their organs," Damiano states, his voice hardening to steel. "That crosses every line, even in our world."
Melania nods, her face going pale. "I never imagined... even knowing what my father was capable of..." She trails off, swallowing hard.
"Your evidence could help us bring them down," Damiano continues. "But from what Alessio tells me, we need more. Your brother might be key."
Melania's shoulders tense under my hand. Leonardo has always been a sensitive subject. I've seen how her face changes when she speaks of him—hope and doubt warring in her eyes.
"You mentioned Antonio's safe," I remind her gently. "The one Leonardo might have access to."
"Yes," she says, more steadily now. "If there are records of the operation, they'd be there."
Damiano leans further forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes never leave Melania's face as he asks the question that will determine our next move.
"Why do you think your brother would help us?"