Chapter 19 Sandro
SANDRO
The sharp smack of fists against leather fills the air. Sweat burns my eyes, but I don’t blink. Miko’s grin taunts me from across the mat as he circles, light on his feet, like always—too damn smug for someone about to get flattened.
“You’re slow today, fratello,” he says, ducking under my swing.
“Just because I’m not dancing around like a ballerina,” I growl, turning with him, my chest heaving.
But he’s right.
My body is sluggish. Sore from the intensity of the fighting last night and the stitches that tug beneath their bandage every time I throw a left hook.
What’s worse, I can’t stop the ghost of Evi’s hands, soft and inviting, from lingering on my skin, the sweet scent of her hair teasing my nose, tempting my attention from the sparring session and back to our bed.
Which is exactly what I can’t allow.
This is why I need to put some walls up when it comes to Evi. She could far too easily become a detrimental distraction. Miko’s been going easy on me this morning to avoid popping my stitches, and still, I can’t seem to best him. My head’s not in the game, and try as I might, I can’t seem to focus.
He laughs, and the sound echoes off the gym walls, darkening my mood further. “You mean winning?” he teases. “Wake up, Sandro. It’s like I’m sparring with a sleepwalker.”
I lunge, catching him off guard this time as my fist meets his ribs before he pulls me in closer, minimizing the damage.
We grapple for control, the thud of our bodies reverberating through the empty space.
For a moment, it’s like we’re kids again, fighting in the backyard while our father watches on, waiting for me to fail, waiting for my big brother to crush me into the ground.
Except now, Father’s gone.
And this fight, this struggle, is all that’s left of what he built.
Raf’s voice cuts through the scuffle, cool and level. “Are you two done proving which of you has the bigger ego? We’ve got things to discuss.”
Miko laughs breathlessly and steps back, wiping sweat off his brow. “Fine. I’ll let Sandro off the hook. This time. Seems he might need a cup of coffee more than a beating anyway.”
I snort, shaking out my shoulders. “How sweet. You better not be going soft on me, Miko.”
Raf raises a brow from where he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. The faintest smirk tugs at his mouth. “You two are ridiculous.”
That’s Raf for you—stoic, sharp-edged, always two steps ahead of everyone else.
He’s dressed like he’s ready for a business meeting, the crisp lines of his suit demanding attention and respect.
His keen gaze is impatient, and he pushes off the wall and steps closer to the mat.
“Now that the house is ours again, we need to talk about next steps.”
The words are sobering. He’s right.
It’s been months since the Tanakas’ betrayal tore through our world—since we were scattered, hunted, forced into hiding.
Coming back to what’s left of the Chiaroscuro estate felt like walking through a graveyard.
The house still stands, but barely. Scorched walls.
Shattered windows. Memories buried under ash.
And now it’s time to rise from those ashes and prove we’re worthy of the fear our name has brought to our enemies for generations.
Miko tosses me a towel, and I drag it across my neck as he turns his attention to Raf. “Where do you want to start?”
“Repairs,” he says simply. “The traitors hit us hard, but the foundation’s still sound. We’ll start with the east wing. That part took the least damage.”
I nod. “We can clear out the wreckage today. Get crews in by the weekend.”
Raf glances between us, his expression unreadable. “And someone needs to manage the house itself. Inventory. Staffing. Logistics. It won’t just be a construction site—it’s going to be our home base again.”
Miko perks up instantly. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”
I groan. “Oh, here we go.”
He ignores me. “Evi should run it.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Evi?”
“Why not?” Miko shrugs. “She’s smart. Polite. Knows how to handle people. And she’s been asking Anika if there’s anything useful she can do.”
I frown. “The house isn’t exactly safe yet. The Tanakas could still be sniffing around, or someone looking to make a statement. I’m not putting her in that position.”
Miko rolls his eyes. “You can’t keep her bubble wrapped forever, Sandro. She’s your wife, not a porcelain doll.”
The words hit like a jab to the ribs because he’s right—but that doesn’t mean I’ll admit it.
Raf steps in before I can respond. “We’ll post guards. A full staff. She’ll have protection, and it’ll free you up to focus on our next move.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re both serious about this.”
Raf meets my gaze, steady and calm. “She’s capable.
You know that. And the house needs someone with her kind of training.
Most potential mafia wives grow up learning how to run estates, handle staff, manage supply chains.
Evi’s no different. In truth, I trust the Lombardis have taught her better than most families who intend to sell their daughters for an alliance.
I suspect they’ve been planning for this since the moment she was born. ”
I drag a hand over my face, letting out a low sigh. “You two really want me to say yes to this.”
“Think of it as a compromise.” Miko smirks. “She gets to stay busy. You get peace of mind knowing she’s under our roof. Win-win.”
I glance between them—Raf, stoic and practical. Miko, grinning like the devil on my shoulder—and realize I’m not going to win this one.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if she doesn’t feel comfortable and wants to bow out—”
“She won’t,” Raf cuts in. “That girl’s fearless.”
That much is true. Evi’s got a kind of quiet determination that sneaks up on you. Soft voice, soft hands—but a spine made of steel. She’s surprised me more than once.
Maybe that’s why I can’t help the way my chest tightens when I think of her. The way she waits for me after fights, calm and unflinching even when I’m bleeding. Like she’s already learned to read the shadows that chase my footsteps.
I toss the towel aside and grab my shirt. “I’ll tell her.”
By the time I find Evi, the morning’s well underway. The smell of fresh coffee and bread filters through the breakfast room, sunlight spilling across the long oak table.
Evi’s sitting at the far end, hair still damp from her shower, wearing one of those soft cotton dresses that look too delicate for the world we live in. She’s cutting into a piece of toast, humming under her breath.
For a moment, I just stand in the doorway, watching her.
She doesn’t notice me right away, and that does something strange to my chest. I’ve grown used to her waiting for me, like Anika does for Miko—some unspoken ritual that’s become the only calm part of my day, even if it still catches me off guard and makes my heart skip, just a little.
When she looks up and sees me, her whole face brightens. “Good morning.”
Her voice is soft, lilting, hopeful.
I clear my throat and step into the room. “Morning.”
She gestures to the seats across from her. “Care to join?”
I grin faintly, sliding into a chair facing her. There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and warm, before I break it. “The Raf, Miko, and I talked this morning. About the house—our family estate.”
Evi sets down her fork. “Oh?”
“We’re moving operations back there. The east wing’s still livable, and we’ll start repairs soon.”
She nods, eyes curious. “That’s good news. Right?”
I hesitate. “They think you should be in charge of getting things in order.”
Her lips part slightly. “Me?”
“Yeah.” I lean back in my chair, studying her reaction. “Raf wants someone trustworthy to handle the domestic side—inventory, staff, contractors, schedules, all that. Miko thinks you’d be perfect for it.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second, she looks overwhelmed. Then a slow smile spreads across her face. “I’d love that. Truly.”
“You’re sure?”
She nods, the light catching in her chestnut hair. “It would feel good to have something useful to do. Something helpful.”
There it is again—that quiet determination that makes her so damn hard to resist.
I nod once, forcing myself to keep it businesslike. “We’ll head over once you’re done with breakfast. I’ll show you what you’re dealing with.”
She tilts her head, catching something in my tone. “That sounds ominous.”
I almost smile. “You’ll see.”
The drive to the house is quiet. The city passes by in fragments—gray streets, flashing lights, the low hum of traffic—but my thoughts are miles away.
By the time we pull up the long, winding driveway, Evi’s eyes are wide. The mansion looms ahead, its facade scarred but standing. Broken windows glint in the morning light. The scent of smoke still lingers faintly, mixed with dust and decay.
Evi steps out of the car, her expression a mix of awe and sorrow. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“Was,” I correct automatically.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “It will be again.”
I can’t help the small huff of laughter that escapes me. “You really believe that?”
She turns fully, her gaze steady. “Just because it’s damaged doesn’t mean it isn’t worth loving.”
That hits harder than she probably means it to—because I doubt she realizes just how damaged the husband is that she’s been pouring herself into. And I wonder if she would feel the same way about me if she knew.
I glance away, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Come on. I’ll show you the inside.”
We step through the main doors, and the sound of our footsteps echoes through the hollow space. The air is thick with dust and memory. Sunlight filters through cracks in the walls, casting long, fractured beams across the marble floor.
Evi walks slowly, taking everything in—the torn drapes, the mangled chandeliers, the scattered remnants of furniture.
“It’s… worse than I imagined,” she admits quietly.
“You can back out if you want,” I tell her, though part of me hopes she won’t. “No one would blame you.”
She shakes her head immediately. “No. I want to do it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Her chin lifts a little. “I love a good challenge.”
And damn if that doesn’t do something to me. That fire in her eyes, that stubborn optimism—it’s like watching sunlight cut through storm clouds.
I step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean. “You really think you can fix this place?”
“I don’t just think it,” she says softly. “I know it. You’ve all worked so hard to take it back. The least I can do is make it feel like home again.”
For a second, I can’t speak.
No one talks about home anymore. Not like that. Not since everything fell apart.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Her lips part slightly, and her breath catches. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
She smiles then—small, shy, but genuine—and that’s all it takes. I tilt her chin up, closing the space between us, and kiss her. It’s not a hungry kiss. Not this time. It’s slow, deliberate—a silent acknowledgment of everything she’s already become to me.
When I pull back, her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed.
“Guess we should get started,” she murmurs.