Chapter 14 #2
It feels like shrugging into an old, comfortable coat – one I didn’t know I’d lost. A version of myself that existed long before the fire. Before the memory fracture. Before Santa Maria delle Nevi and its cold stone cells and quiet hymns and the endless, suffocating sameness.
A spark of the girl I used to be lived in that rebellion.
And I’m frightened of how much I liked it.
I swallow. ‘Gelato, please.’
Renzo’s grin is wicked. ‘Good choice.’
It’s not. Not really. Gelato isn’t what I need – clarity is. Perspective. Fresh air. Distance from the warmth of his skin and the heat of his mouth and the rough tenderness that destroyed me so completely I can still feel the echo.
We dress in companionable silence.
He struggles into a dark T-shirt stretched tight over his cast and bruises and a sling he refuses to wear correctly. I slip into a soft pale-blue summer dress he bought me – a compromise between my resistance and his stubborn insistence that I ‘look like myself again’.
Renzo watches me tie my hair.
Or rather, he watches me try to hide it.
‘You know,’ he says, grabbing his keys, ‘I’m beginning to think you put your hair up like a strict schoolmistress just so you can wonder why I walk around half-hard.’
‘Renzo!’
He laughs, full-bodied and unrepentant. ‘You’d look beautiful bald, angel. But that knot is a sin.’
I glare at him, but my lips betray me with a small smile.
‘Let’s go,’ he says, his hand brushing my lower back as he escorts me towards the door. ‘We don’t get many peaceful afternoons, so we’re stealing this one.’
The words settle between us, all soft and strange and heavy. I don’t know what he means by ‘don’t get many’. I don’t want to ask.
Not now. Not when I’m jumbled up inside and still shivering to the sound of his voice rumbling brat.
We step outside into the sun.
And the ache in my chest, the confusing, frightening, exhilarating ache, flares anew.
* * *
Renzo
The late-afternoon sun skims the pale stone buildings, catching on balconies overflowing with bougainvillea. The sea breeze curls around us, carrying the scent of lemon, basil, and the ocean.
And through it all walks my Giada, sweet in her blue dress, her fingers brushing the skirt like she’s relearning the sensation of being touched by luxury air and linen instead of wool.
She keeps glancing at me like she can’t decide whether to thank me or throttle me.
Good. That’s balance.
‘You’re staring,’ she murmurs, eyes straight ahead.
‘You’re worth staring at.’
‘Renzo…’
‘Angel…’
She laughs despite herself. Music. Actual music. And God help me, I walk faster just to keep up with the rhythm of it.
We take Vicolo delle Pergole towards the piazza. The cobblestones radiate warmth underfoot; the narrow street opens into a sunlit square where locals linger over late lunch, musicians tune mandolins, and a grandmother scolds a child stealing figs from a stall.
It’s idyllic.
Too fucking idyllic.
For one suspended moment, I let myself pretend we’re just another couple strolling through Ortigia, the sun on stone, sea breeze around us, life simple and quiet. A man could almost be fooled by the smell of citrus and salt.
Then some idiot pretty boy, linen shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel, saunters up with a smug smile and a ‘Ciao, bella’ that’s two breaths too familiar.
Giada blinks, surprised, polite by reflex as her lips start to curve.
Fuck that shit.
I’m not polite.
‘Keep walking, stronzo,’ I murmur, stepping in front of her like it’s instinct. It is instinct. Then I level the guy with a smile that feels like the slow unsheathing of a blade. ‘She’s not available,’ I say softly, almost kindly. ‘Even in your fantasies. Capisci?’
Something in my tone must hit the right nerve because he pales, mutters an apology, and scuttles off.
Giada huffs, cheeks pink. ‘You didn’t have to—’
‘I did,’ I say. Because if he’d looked at her a second longer, I would’ve ended up painting his blood in the cobblestones. ‘And I’ll do it again.’
She goes quiet, turning her gelato cup in her hands, sunlight catching in her hair like spun gold. For a heartbeat I see it—
What we could’ve been.
Her hand in mine as we walk this same street.
Her smile without trauma behind it.
Our past not ripped apart by fire and lies and a fucking war none of us asked for.
I also wonder, briefly and, yeah, fucking dangerously, if this is how Orazio felt before Valentina was stolen from him. Before her blood spilled and the world split down the middle. Before he turned into something sharp enough to cut through an entire mafia dynasty.
The thought chills me.
Because Cesare and Rafa will bulldoze the world before anyone touches Maddie or Sofiya.
And I—
I’m not losing Giada.
Not to fate, not to her family, not to mine and most definitely not after six years of searching for a ghost with her voice.
The vow settles in my bones like steel.
I will not be the Salvatore who fails.
Then—
A flicker. A flash of a stare.
I feel the shift before she does – an itch at the back of my neck, the subtle bend in the air when predators decide to watch instead of pounce. Old instincts coil low in my gut.
Someone’s eyes meet mine.
Then flick away.
Another. Leaning on a wall, pretending to smoke.
A third. Too well-built, too alert, too still.
Three shadows too careful to be tourists. Too tense to be locals. And absolutely too disciplined to be random criminals.
Mancinelli men. Here? I have protection with me, a gun and three knives close to hand, but my arm is another strategic kick from being a no-show if someone gets a lucky hit.
Shit.
‘Renzo?’ Giada asks quietly, sensing the tight coil of my body.
I force my shoulders to loosen. ‘Keep walking, angel. Nice and easy.’
She does. Because she trusts me. Trusts me enough not to question the sharp edge in my voice.
It’s a rush that hits harder than any drug.
We reach the gelateria, a small jewel box of a place with glass counters full of pistachio, hazelnut, blood orange, stracciatella. She presses a hand to the window, eyes lighting with wonder.
She’s so beautiful it’s a physical ache, but I’m not stupid enough to look away from the reflection in the glass.
Two men stand twenty metres behind us.
A third pretends to browse magazines across the piazza.
Watching. Waiting. Calculating.
And I remember Nightowl’s message: Weasels make chessboards out of the wood when Rats desert sinking ships.
Fuck.
El Topo may not have willingly abandoned ship but he’s weakened enough not to be a threat from his jail cell. But that doesn’t mean others haven’t stepped into his stupid shoes.
Other… weasels.
Fuck Nightowl and his fucking bullshit messages.
I move closer to her, my hand brushing her hip – not to touch her, though I want to – but to signal her. To position myself. To prepare.
She mistakes the gesture for affection and blushes.
Jesus, save me.
The vendor appears, cheerful and oblivious. ‘Buon pomeriggio! What can I get you?’
Giada’s smile wavers but holds. ‘Um… pistachio, please. And—’
‘Make it two,’ I say, keeping my voice light. ‘And add a brioche.’
She shoots me a look. ‘I can’t eat all that.’
‘You can,’ I say softly. ‘You didn’t eat much at breakfast. And you like pistachio.’
A small frown creases her brow. ‘How do you remember everything?’
‘Because I pay attention when it’s important.’
That does something to her. Something warm and startled and unbearably sweet.
I reach for my wallet and I buy her the gelato – pistachio, piled high, brioche warm around it – and the look she gives me is so sweet I swear it cracks something old and rusted in my chest.
And that’s when I see it.
The smallest thing. A flicker of movement.
One of the men lifts his hand. A signal.
Fuck no.
I step behind Giada, my body pressing flush to hers, my arm curving naturally around her waist. She stiffens, a little gasp catching in her throat.
‘Renzo?’ she whispers. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Eat your gelato, angel,’ I murmur against her hair. ‘We’re going to walk to the marina.’
‘But why—’
‘Do as I say.’
I steer us away from the square, past fishermen mending nets, past tide-wet steps leading down into the sapphire water. My senses sharpen, mapping every alley, every exit route, every shadowed corner.
The men follow. Not close but not far enough.
When Giada speaks again, her voice is quiet but clear. ‘Those men behind us…’
She noticed. Good girl.
‘Are they dangerous?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Because of you?’
I nod my head once. ‘Yes, but also because of you.’
She stops dead.
The gelato almost slips from her hand. ‘Me?’
I turn her towards me. Not close enough to touch her properly but close enough to take her pulse from the air. I breathe reassurance back into her.
‘You’re a Mancinelli,’ I say quietly. ‘And they know who you are.’
Her throat moves. ‘But I don’t remember who I am.’
‘They do. There’s no other explanation. And I don’t believe in coincidences, ragazza.’
A thin line of fear cuts through her features. It’s fear for herself, yes, but more for the implications, for the tangled truth she’s piecing together.
‘Renzo,’ she whispers, ‘what do they want with us?’
‘Right now?’ I lean in, my lips almost brushing her temple. ‘To see if I’m stupid enough to walk around without protection.’
‘Are you?’ she tries to joke, voice trembling.
‘For you?’ I smile against her skin. ‘Never. I’ll protect you with everything I have. Always. Capisci.’
Her throat moves and her eyes glitter with tears. But my hand tightens on her hip. Because the men behind us? Their paces have changed.
Not by much but it’s just enough to send another shot across my bows. They’re about to move.
Giada follows my gaze and trembles, and I curse the security I left behind at the villa because I wanted to share a quiet walk with my girl.
‘Renzo,’ she whispers again.
‘I know.’
‘We should go back.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘If we run, they’ll chase. If we stay, they’ll escalate.’
Her chest rises sharply. ‘Then what do we do?’
I brush a kiss against her forehead, soft and fierce and meant to anchor her.
‘We take the scenic route,’ I whisper. ‘And then we teach the little lapdogs that following a Salvatore is an act of suicide.’
She swallows hard. But her free hand finds mine.
Goddamn.
My fucking sweet girl.
I pivot us towards a narrow side street, pulling her into the shadowed curve of an old stone arcade. The men behind us quicken their pace – subtle, but I hear it, the shift in their footsteps.
Time slows and the world narrows to her breath. My pulse.
Three threats closing in.
Giada clings to my arm. ‘Renzo…’
‘I’m right here.’
‘Your arm… you’re hurt.’
‘I’ll bleed later.’
‘You can’t fight—’
I smile, slow, lethal. ‘Baby… I already am.’
The echo of boots on cobblestone draws closer. Giada’s grip tightens as the first shadow spills into the alley. I lean down, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear.
‘Stay behind me. Close your eyes. I’ll let you know when to open them.’
She nods, throat bobbing, and I don’t move until I see her slam her hand over her eyes, fingers trembling just once before she steels them.
Good girl.
I pivot, stepping into the first man’s space before he expects it. My bad arm screams, but I ignore it as my good one swings clean and fast, the blade I palmed from my boot punching up beneath his rib cage. He exhales wetly. No time to watch him fall.
Second one lunges.
I meet him halfway.
Steel bites through tendon, collarbone, then artery – a slick, practised motion born from a lifetime of being taught how to kill quicker than you can think. He drops like a sack of rotten grain.
The third bastard freezes, wide-eyed when I pull out my gun.
That’s right, fuckface, I bring a knife and a gun to a gunfight.
I step forward, raise my arm. And then I hear the sound of more bodies hitting the ground before a low, cold voice from behind the first man: ‘Capo.’
My security.
Thank fuck.
Three of my own men melt out of the shadows, silent as wraiths, forming a wall between us and Mancinelli dogs.
Giada gasps, relief and terror tangling in her eyes.
I slide my arm around her waist again. ‘You didn’t keep your eyes shut, baby.’
‘Sorry,’ she mutters in a very not-sorry way.
I pull her closer and brush my mouth over her temple. ‘Gelato walk is over,’ I murmur. ‘Time to go home.’ I turn to my men, nod at the last squirming fucker. ‘Bring him.’
‘Is it safe?’ she whispers.
‘For you?’ I press a kiss to her temple. ‘Always.’
She trembles but I suspect it’s not in fear.
In something else.
Something dangerous and inevitable, pulling us both towards a storm we can’t unmake.