Chapter 13
RENZO
I stare at her across the breakfast table, a little jealous of the way the light spilling across the Ortigia terrace drapes over her, like it knows it’s intruding on something holy.
Or unholy.
Depends who you ask.
Giada stands by the wrought-iron railing overlooking the sea, clutching her coffee cup the way she held my shoulders last night, tight, trembling, as if she’s terrified she’ll fall if she lets go. And when she went… holy shit, I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
And fuck me, she looks…
She looks like my ruin.
She’s wearing one of the dresses I handpicked for her. Pale lavender, soft and flowing, cinched with a delicate tie at her waist. The sleeves skim her wrists like whispered reminders of her old life, but the neckline dips just enough to tease me with the memory of my mouth there hours ago.
But it’s her hair that gets me.
It’s still up. Pulled into the most severe knot I’ve ever seen – tight, prim, school-mistress rigid. A knot so modest it should have its own confession booth.
I step forward, drop a kiss at her shoulder just to feel her shiver.
‘You know,’ I murmur into her skin, ‘if you walked into a classroom looking like that knot, every student would sit straighter.’
She whirls around and glares. ‘It’s practical.’
‘It’s criminal,’ I correct, laughing as she smacks my chest. ‘After last night? After the perfectly dirty way you got on your hands and knees for me this morning? And you show up wearing your hair like you’re about to teach arithmetic to delinquent angels?’
Her lashes quiver exquisitely. ‘You’re crude and rude, Signore Salvatore.’
‘And you’re adorable when you’re pretending you’re not tempted to let it down.’
Her cheeks flush a soft, gorgeous pink, then she turns away with a huff, but her shoulders relax, and that small shift – that tiny softening – is enough to make my pulse punch through my ribs.
‘Come, let’s eat,’ I say before I do the next crude thing and fuck her standing up right here on this terrace.
We sit.
And for a moment, it almost feels normal. Domestic. Like there isn’t a ticking clock strapped to our backs and a dark pocket full of enemies sharpening knives with our names on them.
The feelers I’ve put out on Madre Superiora haven’t turned up anything interesting, yet. But today, I intend to tighten the screws.
The table is laid with her favourites again – brioche dripping with honey, fresh berries, ricotta, toasted almonds, blood-orange slices, warm focaccia brushed with rosemary and olive oil. I’ve watched what she gravitates to, memorised every small delight her face gives away.
She bites into a piece of brioche and her eyes flutter shut.
That sound she makes – the quietest hum of pleasure – nearly undoes me.
‘Let’s clear up a few things, hmm?’ I say finally, leaning back, stretching my leg beneath the table until my foot nudges hers.
She tenses.
Of course she does.
She thinks I’m about to take something from her.
But I’m only claiming what already belongs to me.
‘I see you bracing,’ I continue. ‘Don’t. I’m not here to reassure you. I won’t always be able to. And you’ – I point my fork at her heart – ‘you need your fire. You had it once. You’ll have it again.’
That earns me a thin-lipped look of warning.
‘But,’ I add, ‘I’m going to remind you of something I’ve told you before, and will again. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You got away from me once – fine. The Man Upstairs scooped you up for a while. Fair dues. But He and you should understand something…’
I reach across the table, slide my hand to her cheek, thumb tracing her blush.
‘I’m not giving you back. Finders fucking keepers, bella ragazza.’
Her breath catches. ‘You think saying you know I’m going to fight you takes the wind out of my sails?’
‘Nah.’ I grin. ‘But I know what will.’
‘What?’
‘You sitting here feeling more alive than you ever have because you’re gearing up to fight me.
You lying next to me at night, staring at me when you think I’m asleep and thanking every saint in heaven for your luck.
’ I dodge the bit of pastry she flings at my head.
‘You riding my cock like it’s your favourite stallion and making me nut like a jet stream – that’s what takes the wind out of your sails. ’
Her face is blazing now, bright enough to shame the sun. ‘I can’t get over how you talk so… so—’
‘Your favourite swearword is motherfucker, baby. Spare me your outrage.’
Her scandalised gasp is fucking adorable. ‘It’s not.’
‘I dare you to try it out.’
She lifts her coffee defiantly, glaring at me over the rim. ‘I will not.’
‘Pretend you won’t,’ I murmur. ‘I can already hear you whispering it in your head.’
Her lashes drop, her cheeks burn warmer, and I laugh because I know she’s doing exactly that.
She tries to look away. I slide a plate of berries towards her, fork a slice of orange, and hold it to her lips. She hesitates only a second before she opens her mouth.
‘Good girl.’
I feed her slowly, savouring the way she shivers each time my fingers brush hers.
My phone buzzes.
And again.
And again.
She glances at it. ‘You’re ignoring it.’
I shrug. ‘Mm. The natives are getting restless.’
Her brows lift. ‘Speak plainly.’
I sigh, drag a hand through my hair. ‘Rafa.’
‘Your second oldest brother. The… unstable one?’
‘That’s one way to put it.’ I lean back in my chair. ‘He’s one of them, yeah. He’s the Enforcer and also happens to be the best tracker in the family. Can sniff out a secret buried at the bottom of the ocean. If he’s calling, he’s pieced together enough to know something is off.’
‘So we’re running out of time,’ she whispers. And I want to applaud her for not shying back from the naked truth.
‘Pretty much.’
She swallows. ‘And you? What’s your role in all this? Within your family?’
Ah. There it is. The realisation.
The truth she’s been circling since the moment she stepped into my world:
The Salvatores are not clean and neither am I.
‘I’ve worked it out,’ she adds quietly. ‘I know your family… They’re mafioso.’
I smile, slow and unrepentant. ‘We prefer “businessmen”. But yes. We do what needs doing. And I have my role within it.’
She folds her hands, knuckles white. ‘Have you killed people?’
I let the silence hang. Think back to the pilfering priest I dealt with in Rome… Fuck, was it only a handful of weeks ago? I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes since.
‘Would you pray for my soul if I have?’ I ask softly.
Her eyes flicker with something, fear maybe, or compassion, or maybe both. She looks down for a long moment, thinking. Then, ‘I would pray that God sees the whole of you. Not just the parts men might fear.’
Jesus Christ.
I stare at her.
That right there – that answer – is pure mob-wife poetry.
‘That,’ I murmur, ‘is exactly what a Donna della Mafia would say.’
Her gasp is sharp, scandalised, but something glints beneath it.
Not denial.
Not horror.
Interest. Possibility.
My greedy fucking heart lurches.
She reaches for another piece of pastry. My phone pings again – sharper this time, the coded alert I never ignore – but I do, just for one more beat.
She watches me with wide, steady eyes. ‘What now?’ she asks.
I meet her gaze.
‘Now, amore,’ I say slowly, ‘we see who’s trying to find us.’
The phone pings again.
And this time the sender flashes across the screen.
Nightowl
Weasels make chessboards out of the wood when Rats desert sinking ships.
Christ, the fucker is back to his cryptic worst.
‘What does that mean?’
I glance over to find her eyes on the screen. I watch her for a beat, my brain ticking over. I could toss out a half-assed answer because I’m not sure what the message means, save for the Rat part which I’m betting my left nut refers to El Topo.
But… wasn’t I just celebrating how strong Giada was? A simple, genuine answer isn’t going to break her.
‘It’s a message from someone I know.’
She rolls her eyes and I want to kiss her and fuck her until those eyes roll back again in ecstasy. ‘I can see that. I asked what it meant.’
‘You remember the Sicilian word for rat?’
She nods. ‘Topo.’
I watch her carefully. ‘Does the name El Topo mean anything to you?’
She frowns for a second, then shakes her head slowly. ‘Should it?’
I hold my breath for a half a second, then call fuck it. ‘Yeah, it should. It’s your grandfather’s name.’
Her eyes widen. ‘He called himself the rat?’
I laugh, and yeah, I don’t hold back the satisfaction.
‘Not willingly. He was called the rat because he was an ugly fucker, pardon my French. Thankfully, he had the good grace not to inflict any of his fugly genes onto you or your siblings. Probably the best thing he’d ever done in his miserable life. ’
I realise how much bitter vitriol I’m spewing when her eyes grow wider with each word. ‘Diu, you make him sound—’
‘Worse than shit-stained pond scum? That’s cuz he is, baby. Sorry but I’m not going to mince my words when it comes to your dear old nonno.’
Shadow and light dance in her eyes in a brief show of troubled confusion. ‘Is he… is he alive?’
I purse my lips, wondering if I should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut after all. ‘Unfortunately, he’s very much alive, if not kicking as hard as he’d like. He’s rotting in a cell in Ryker’s Island, New York.’
More shadow than light in her eyes now. ‘Why? What… what did he do?’
‘The list is too long for today, but all you need to know is I’m fairly confident he was ass-to-elbow deep with the Madre about your “relocation”.’
The cutlery in her hands clutters noisily to the plate and her face pales so drastically I think my fucking heart stops. ‘Jesus. Giada, are you okay?’
She swallows, but her lashes flutter madly, her breath coming in shallow, panicked pulls like she’s been dunked under icy water and is only now remembering how to surface. ‘I – I’m…’
She sways, then lists in the chair.