Chapter 39 Carmela
CARMELA
Islide into the corner booth at Café Artiste, a tiny French bistro exactly halfway between De Luca and Moretti territories.
The neutral ground we’ve claimed as our own over the past week.
Through the window, I spot Tony idling across the street in an unmarked sedan—my security detail keeping a respectful distance.
Valeria arrives first, her dark hair swept into a messy bun. She smiles when she sees me, though tension lines her eyes.
“Another attack on your family’s shipment last night?” I ask as she sits.
She nods, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. “Dad barely stopped Maximo from retaliating against your western warehouse. Old instincts die hard, even when you know better.”
“Silvo traced the shell casings to the same Russian supplier,” I say firmly. “Tartarov, same as always. Driving wedges wherever he can find them.”
“I know. Dad knows.” She sighs. “Knowing and feeling are two different things when it’s your men taking the hits.”
Adele arrives, sliding in beside Valeria with an apologetic smile for her lateness. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight, and I notice the subtle hickey at her neckline that she’s tried to conceal with makeup. I file that away without comment.
“I brought the shipping manifests,” Adele says, sliding a folder across the table. “Nico thought these might help Silvo identify which routes are being targeted next.”
I take the folder, nodding my thanks. These meetings have become almost routine now—intelligence shared over coffee, two families learning the unfamiliar language of cooperation.
“How’s Isabella?” Valeria asks, stirring sugar into her coffee.
“Still furious about your brother,” I laugh softly. “But she helped analyze those surveillance photos from the waterfront. You’ll find her notes in here too.”
Our conversation flows easily now, unlike our first awkward meeting. We’ve developed a rhythm; these thrice-weekly meetings have become essential to maintaining the fragile peace between our families.
“The men are too stubborn to admit it,” Valeria says, lowering her voice, “but this intelligence sharing is the only reason we’ve managed to identify Tartarov’s patterns at all.”
I nod. “Silvo would never say it, but he was impressed by your father’s analysis of the supply chain vulnerabilities.”
“And Dad actually acknowledged Federico’s security protocols were solid,” Adele adds.
What started as necessary communication has evolved into something more—genuine friendship forming across battle lines. These women understand my world in ways no one else can. We’re all trying to survive in families built on violence while maintaining our humanity.
“My father still doesn’t fully trust your father-in-law,” Valeria admits over coffee. “Every time something goes wrong, his first instinct is to blame the De Lucas.”
“Silvo’s the same,” I confess, tracing the rim of my cup with my fingertip. “Old habits die hard.”
I glance over at Adele, noticing she’s quieter than usual. She stirs her latte absently, her gaze unfocused. There are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can’t quite conceal, and I catch how she flinches when a barista drops a mug behind the counter.
“How are you really doing?” I ask gently, leaning forward.
Adele’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine. Everyone keeps asking that.”
“Because we care,” Valeria says, squeezing her friend’s hand.
I observe the gesture between them, the unspoken language of friendship that reminds me of Sophia.
As my gaze drifts past them toward the window, something catches my attention—a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street.
It wasn’t there when we arrived. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Life with Silvo has taught me to recognize the warning signs. The car is positioned with a clear view of the café entrance, engine likely running, no visible driver. My pulse quickens as I process what I’m seeing.
“We need to leave,” I say quietly but urgently. “Now.”
I don’t wait for questions. I throw cash on the table, grab my purse, and motion for them to follow me toward the kitchen. The staff knows me by now, and they don’t protest as we push through the swinging doors and out the service entrance into the alley.
Just as the heavy door shuts behind us, I glimpse men entering through the front—their sleeves pushed up to reveal the distinctive red scorpion tattoos of Tartarov’s crew.
My hands shake as I unlock my car and usher Valeria and Adele inside. I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and pull away from the curb with controlled urgency, speed-dialing Silvo with my free hand.
“Tartarov just tried to grab us,” I tell Silvo, my voice steadier than I feel. “All three of us.”
My hands are still trembling slightly as I grip the wheel. I navigate through Philadelphia’s back streets, taking a circuitous route to ensure we’re not followed. In the rearview mirror, I check on Valeria and Adele, both pale but composed.
The response is immediate. Within an hour, both family patriarchs are in Silvo’s office, the tension thick enough to cut.
I stand near the window, watching the men pace like caged predators. Silvo hasn’t let go of my hand since I walked through the door, his fingers intertwined with mine so tightly it almost hurts.
“He’s targeting the women now,” Nico says, his face carved from stone. But his eyes betray him when they land on Adele, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa. The look is too intense, too personal for merely his daughter’s friend.
I catch it, file it away. That look contains volumes—fear, possession, desperation. It’s the same way Silvo looks at me when he thinks I’m in danger.
“This is escalation,” Antonio observes. “Tartarov is testing our alliance. Seeing if we’ll fracture under pressure.”
“Then we don’t give him the satisfaction,” Silvo says firmly. He looks at me, and I see the fear he’s trying to hide. “We need better security. For all of them.”
What follows is a tense negotiation about protection details, safe houses, and protocols. Maximo and Fed clash over whose men should guard whom, their rivalry barely contained.
“My men are better trained for close protection,” Fed insists, his normally playful demeanor replaced with cold professionalism.
Maximo scoffs. “Your men couldn’t protect a goldfish. We’ll handle Valeria and Adele’s security.”
“Good luck with that. You wouldn’t know a threat if it punched you in the face” Fed snarls, stepping forward.
I exchange glances with Valeria across the room. We’re both thinking the same thing: the men are playing right into Tartarov’s hands.
“Enough!” Isabella snaps, silencing both men. “This isn’t a competition. Alexei wants us fighting each other instead of him.”
The room falls silent. I watch a flush creep up Federico’s neck as he steps back, hands raised in surrender. Maximo’s jaw tightens, but even he can’t argue with Isabella’s logic. I shoot her a grateful look across the room.
She’s right. We’ve spent generations tearing each other apart while outsiders like Tartarov waited for the perfect moment to strike. I reach for Silvo’s hand, squeezing it gently.
“Isabella makes a valid point,” Nico says, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. His eyes meet Antonio’s across the room—two patriarchs who’ve spent decades as enemies now forced into alliance.
Antonio nods slowly. “We need coordination, not competition.”
What follows is surreal—De Lucas and Morettis huddled over maps of Philadelphia, marking territories, identifying vulnerabilities, assigning mixed security teams. I watch Silvo work alongside Nico, their movements mirroring each other in ways neither would care to admit.
“Each woman gets two guards—one De Luca, one Moretti,” Silvo decides, looking to Nico for confirmation.
“Rotating shifts, different routes each day,” Nico adds. “We share all intelligence directly, no filters.”
The older capos shift uncomfortably in their seats. Lorenzo, Antonio’s most loyal lieutenant, doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. On the Moretti side, an older man with a jagged scar down his cheek mutters something under his breath that makes Maximo shoot him a warning glance.
Three generations of blood feud don’t disappear in a day, no matter how great the external threat.
When the meeting finally concludes, the room empties slowly, both families careful not to turn their backs on each other—old habits die hard. Soon, only Silvo and I remain, the silence heavy after hours of strategic planning.
“Let’s go to bed,” Silvo says softly, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “Tomorrow will be... complicated.”
I nod, taking his hand as we climb the stairs to our bedroom.
I slip under the cool sheets beside Silvo, his body radiating heat as he pulls me against his chest. For several minutes, we lie in silence, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
The events of the day hang between us—the near miss at the café, the tense strategy session, the uncomfortable alliance with people who were our sworn enemies mere weeks ago.
“I almost lost you today,” he says against my hair. “If you hadn’t noticed that car...”
“But I did,” I reassure him, tracing my finger along the tattoo that winds across his collarbone.
“It’s not enough.” His arms tighten around me. “Tartarov is obsessed with destroying both families. He won’t stop until we’re all dead or broken.”
I turn in his embrace, cupping his face between my palms. His stubble is rough against my skin, his eyes dark with worry and something fiercer.
“Then we make sure he fails. Together.”
Silvo’s mouth crashes against mine, his kiss brutal and desperate. I taste his fear, his rage—all the emotions he’d kept carefully controlled in front of the Morettis. I match his ferocity, digging my nails into his shoulders, reminding him I’m here, I’m alive, I’m his.