Chapter 31 Carmela
CARMELA
Islip out of Silvo’s office while he’s still debriefing with Fed and Lorenzo about Carlos’s confession. The tension is unbearable, and I need air. I need to feel like something other than a tactical analyst in a war I didn’t choose.
I hover in the doorway, waiting for a break in the conversation. “I’m going shopping,” I announce.
The room goes quiet. Silvo’s eyes snap to mine, and I already know what’s coming.
“No.”
“Silvo—”
“I said no, Carmela.” He sets down the folder in his hands, giving me his full attention now, which somehow feels worse than being ignored. “We have a confirmed leak. Tartarov’s men are still out there. You think now is the time to browse boutiques?”
“I’ve been staring at surveillance photos and financial records for three days straight,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the frustration rising in my chest. “I need two hours. That’s all.”
“The answer is no.”
Fed clears his throat quietly and finds something fascinating to study on the ceiling. Lorenzo suddenly becomes very interested in his coffee.
I step fully into the room, closing the door behind me.
“Silvo. I understand the threat. I’ve been living inside it with you every single day.
But if I don’t get out of this house for a few hours I’m going to lose my mind, and that helps no one.
” I hold his gaze. “I’m not asking to go alone.
I’m not asking to cross the city. Rittenhouse Square.
Two hours. I’ll have bodyguards with me. ”
His jaw tightens. “Tony and Paulie aren’t enough. Not right now.”
“Then send more.” I cross my arms. “Or better yet, send Federico with me.”
Silvo looks at his brother, who immediately holds up both hands.
“Don’t look at me,” Fed says. “She makes a compelling argument.”
Silvo’s eyes return to mine. I can see him wrestling with it—the practical need to keep me contained, warring with the understanding that keeping me locked inside these walls indefinitely isn’t sustainable either.
“Two hours,” he finally says, his voice tight with reluctance. “Fed goes with you. Tony and Paulie on the doors. You stay in Rittenhouse Square, you don’t deviate from the route, and if Federico says it’s time to leave, you leave. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree.
“I mean it, Carmela.”
“So do I.” I cross to him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Thank you.”
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, his grip firm. “Two hours,” he repeats, his eyes serious. “Then you’re back here.”
“Two hours,” I confirm.
He releases me, but I feel his eyes on my back all the way to the door.
Federico falls into step beside me in the foyer, shrugging on his jacket with a grin. “You know he’s going to track your phone the entire time.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I’m counting on it.”
Tony and Paulie are already waiting by the car, armed and alert.
We drive to Rittenhouse Square in relative silence.
When we arrive at the boutique, Federico takes a position just inside the entrance while Tony and Paulie cover the doors—visible enough to deter trouble, but far enough to give me space to breathe.
After twenty minutes of browsing, Fed appears at my elbow, nodding toward the window. “Everything seems calm. Tony and Paulie have the doors covered.” He pauses, the picture of innocence. “There’s a boutique across the street I wouldn’t mind checking out.”
I glance up from the rack I’ve been browsing, raising an eyebrow. “A boutique”
“What? I have impeccable taste.” He straightens his jacket pointedly.
I laugh despite myself. “Go. I won’t tell Silvo.”
He grins and disappears through the door, leaving me to the quiet pleasure of browsing alone for the first time in weeks.
I run my fingers over a silky emerald dress, admiring how the fabric catches the light.
Isabella recommended this place for their exclusive European imports, and I needed the distraction from our family’s escalating situation.
For a few precious minutes, I let myself simply exist—no surveillance photos, no threat assessments, no war.
“That shade would complement your eyes perfectly.”
The voice behind me is unfamiliar. I turn to find a striking dark-haired girl about my age examining the same rack. Something about her seems oddly familiar—the confident posture, those intelligent dark eyes.
“You think so?” I ask, holding the dress against me.
“Absolutely. Green on green creates depth.” She smiles, extending her hand. “I’m Valeria.”
My breath catches. Valeria Moretti. The daughter of our enemy. I’ve seen her in the surveillance photos, but they didn’t capture her warmth.
From the corner of my eye, I see Tony stiffen near the entrance. I give him a subtle look—it’s fine—and he reluctantly stays put, though his hand hovers near his weapon.
“Carmela,” I reply, hesitating before taking her hand. I don’t add my last name. She doesn’t either.
A tall blonde joins us, her blue eyes widening slightly as she looks between us. “Val, I found those shoes you—” She stops abruptly.
“This is my friend Adele,” Valeria says. “Adele, this is Carmela. She has impeccable taste in formalwear.”
Adele’s expression betrays nothing, but I recognize her too—the girl in the photos with Nico Moretti. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.
“That’s quite a statement piece,” I nod toward a sapphire jumpsuit Adele’s holding. “Bold choice.”
“Life’s too short for boring clothes,” Adele replies with unexpected warmth.
The three of us stand there, enemies by association but drawn together by something I can’t quite name. Fashion becomes our neutral territory.
“Are you new to Philadelphia?” Valeria asks, expertly shifting through a rack of cocktail dresses.
“Relatively. I’m from Los Angeles originally.”
“West Coast girl! What brought you to our humble city?” Valeria’s eyes sparkle with genuine interest.
“Marriage,” I answer truthfully.
“Ah, love conquers distance,” Valeria smiles. “Philadelphia has hidden treasures if you know where to look. The art museum is spectacular.”
“I’ve been meaning to visit,” I say, surprised by how easily conversation flows between us. “I paint a little myself.”
“Really? So do I!” Valeria’s face lights up. “Oils or acrylics?”
“Watercolors, actually,” I admit. “There’s something about the way they blend that feels... unpredictable. Like life.”
Valeria nods earnestly. “I’ve never mastered watercolors. They require a willingness to surrender control.”
Something in her words strikes me. Surrender control. Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been fighting against since my arranged marriage?
Adele runs her fingers over a silk scarf. “Val’s being modest. Her studio at home is filled with incredible pieces.”
“You should see them sometime,” Valeria offers casually, then checks herself. “If circumstances were different.”
The unspoken truth hangs between us. Our families. The blood feud. The current war.
“This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Valeria suddenly says, her voice dropping. “Three women who clearly have things in common, standing here pretending we don’t know who each other is.”
I freeze, unsure how to respond.
Adele sighs. “Val...”
“No, I’m tired of it, Adele.” Valeria’s dark eyes meet mine directly. “My grandfather’s grudge shouldn’t dictate my life. This war is destroying both our families, and for what? Ancient history?”
“You know about Maria and Salvatore?” I ask cautiously.
“Of course. My father made sure I understood exactly why we’re supposed to hate your family.” Valeria shakes her head. “But I don’t. I can’t. It’s all so... senseless.”
Adele touches Valeria’s arm gently. “We’ve talked about it for months. None of us asked for this war.”
I study these two women—one born into the same world as me, one drawn into it—and see the same frustration I feel reflected in their eyes. There’s something captivating about their refusal to blindly accept the hatred they’ve inherited.
“Sometimes I think the men are too invested in vengeance to see what it costs,” I admit.
Valeria nods. “Exactly. They could be building something instead of destroying everything.”
“My father wasn’t always this way,” Valeria says unexpectedly, her fingers tracing the embroidery on a nearby blouse. “Before all this escalated, he used to paint with me on Sundays. Just us, in the sunroom, jazz playing softly.”
Something shifts in her expression—a softness I hadn’t expected from a Moretti.
“He raised us alone after our mother left,” she continues. “I was only two. Max was five. Dad would make terrible pancakes every Saturday morning—burned edges, gooey centers—but we ate every bite because he tried so hard.”
I watch Valeria’s face as she speaks, the way her eyes drift somewhere distant, somewhere tender. This isn’t the cold-blooded monster I’ve constructed in my mind from surveillance photos and threat assessments. This is a father who made bad pancakes.
“He used to read to me every night until I was twelve,” Valeria says, smiling at the memory. “Even when he came home exhausted, suit rumpled, shoulders heavy with whatever burdens he carried. He never missed a night.”
Adele watches me carefully, gauging my reaction. I struggle to reconcile this image with the man orchestrating attacks against my new family.
“Sometimes I’d find him in his study, staring at old photographs,” Valeria adds, her voice quieter now. “Not plotting violence—just lonely. Just a man who didn’t know how to stop fighting because fighting was all he had left.”
The emerald dress feels heavier in my hands. I’ve never considered that Nico Moretti might be capable of tenderness, of loneliness. That behind the vendetta might be a man as trapped by history as the rest of us.
I stand there struck by the humanity in Valeria’s stories. We’re supposed to be bitter enemies—De Luca versus Moretti—yet here we are, discussing fashion and painting techniques like old friends.
“We should go,” Adele says softly, checking her phone. “Your father will be wondering where we are.”
Valeria nods but hesitates. “Carmela, before we leave...” She pulls out her phone, hesitation flickering across her face. “Would you... Would you consider exchanging numbers? Just in case things get worse between our families.”
I blink, surprised by the boldness of her request. The urge to tell her everything rises sharply in my chest—that it’s already worse, that the attacks tearing our families apart aren’t coming from where either of us thinks, that a Russian with deep pockets and deeper ambitions is pulling strings while we point guns at each other.
But I can’t. Not without Silvo’s blessing. Not here, not yet.
“I know it sounds crazy,” she continues, “but maybe we could work together somehow. Behind the scenes. If the men lose their heads completely, perhaps we could talk them down together.”
Adele watches our exchange with cautious eyes. “Val’s right. Sometimes a different perspective can defuse situations before they explode.”
I think about Silvo, about the fury in his eyes when he speaks of the Morettis. About the bodies already piling up in this vendetta. Bodies that didn’t have to fall. I pull out my phone and nod. “Let me give you my number.”
“Women have always been the secret peacekeepers,” Valeria adds quietly. “While men wage war, we rebuild what they destroy.”
A knot forms in my stomach—not just guilt about keeping this from Silvo, but something more urgent. This girl standing in front of me, sharing stories about her lonely father and Sunday painting sessions, has no idea her family is being manipulated just as much as mine.
“Let’s hope we never need to use these,” I say, slipping my phone back into my purse. Though I already suspect we will, and sooner than either of us would like.
“Hope for peace, plan for war,” Valeria replies with a sad smile. “That’s what my father always says.”
As they turn to leave, guilt crawls up my spine—but it’s a different guilt than I expected. Not just the guilt of going behind Silvo’s back. The guilt of looking this girl in the eye and staying silent about something that could get her family killed.