Chapter 9
Xavier
Here lies Giulia Marcello
Loving Wife, Mother, Friend
My eyes haven’t left the headstone for hours.
Rain’s come and gone. Day turned to night, and I’m still standing in a black suit, staring at my mother’s grave, wondering how the hell it happened so fast. So damn fast.
An illness, formed so violently that it felt like a punishment.
Like all of the sins I’ve committed culminated into a disease I couldn’t fix, a problem I couldn’t solve, in a person I couldn’t bear to lose.
When I found her in the garden among her roses, she was so pale that I was sure she was already dead.
But she wasn’t. She held on for weeks, never fully grasping that those headaches she repeatedly insisted weren’t a problem were, in fact, something much worse.
She never wanted to know about the tumor, about how much time she had.
She insisted those of us around her pretend she was on the road to recovery.
Dante had the hardest time abiding those wishes, but around the clock, they remained at her side when I couldn’t .
Because my world didn’t stop when she got sick.
My duties kept coming.
Complaints. Attacks. New information.
When I’d sit with her, she’d usually be sleeping. When she was awake, she faked her smiles, making light of her fear. She was still young, still vibrant—right up until she hemorrhaged.
“You should eat something.”
Dante thrusts a coat my way, nodding patiently for me to take it, understanding this cloudy haze because he’s been through it too. Although the wake ended hours ago, he’s also in his mourning suit. I wrap the wool around my wet clothes, numbed right to the bone.
There are no tears, no anger, no pain. I am utterly soulless. I have to be to feel nothing in this moment.
“How you doing?” Dante asks as if reading my mind.
My gaze shifts to the tree line where another gravestone rests, one I avoid at all costs—the grave of a man my wife once loved.
The memories are fleeting, a distorted blur I wish I could forget. Digging in the dead of night, exhuming Thomas Ritchey’s rigid corpse from an unmarked location into a coffin before burying him on our grounds. It wasn’t until after my father was gone that I had his initials engraved on the stone.
I told myself I did it for Sophie. In truth, it was also for me. For my own conscience.
“I'm fine,” I lie, turning back towards the empty house.
“Dominic Strata is a problem.”
A conference table is cluttered with food, drinks, various documents. Dario is the only one with a laptop in front of him. My consigliere rotates the screen to reveal the face of the bastard, along with the villa he inherited in Sicily, as well as a newly acquired waterfront property in Miami.
“What are we looking at here?”
“New money straight from Italy. He’s only recently broken into the powder business here. Still, he doesn’t have our kind of men or pull, but his men are loyal. His security is why none of us have been able to crack Vito.”
“His family?”
“He was something of a black sheep. Lived in filth until his bro got hit and his father called on him. With his father gone, he went from filth to riches overnight. Over the last couple of years, he’s made good use of that wealth. The guy’s cut-throat. He typically gets what he wants.”
Gabriel leans back. “So, what’s our best option here? Boss? What do you want to do?”
“Get a team in Florida by tomorrow. I want someone monitoring Vito’s every move. If he leaves that compound, I want to know it.” I take in the face on the computer, memorizing every detail. Every scar and blemish. “Where’s Strata now?”
“He’s here, I heard. Probably scoping us out, too. Are we requesting a meeting?”
“We aren’t requesting. Tell Strata I want a face-to-face, and I want it on our territory.”
Dario nods, closing the computer. “Put Willie on Florida. Gabriel, you find Strata.”
Once they’re gone, Dario glances at me, leaning his arm into the chair. “What do we want out of this?”
“I want Vito. By any means necessary.”
“You look exhausted.”
At Bo’s observation, I shake my head, as if refusing it will suddenly make it true, lifting the glass to my lips. My eyes close, wanting to stay that way, but I push them open, stretching out my legs.
The ground vibrates as strobe lights flash over the exclusive area of the club. Dante is chatting with the bartender on the other side of the lounge. Dario and the others are conversing over cigars, filling the room with smoke.
“Just a lot going on,” I say.
“Want to talk about it?”
I give him a sidelong look, my mouth curving. "If I don’t, you're left with plausible deniability.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I’d never talk anyway.”
My gaze shifts to Gianni as he unclips the rope.
Bo’s brows soar as five women emerge from the cloud of smoke, hailed by the group.
Familiar with their vices, I ignore them as they tug the women onto their laps.
Bo isn’t so unfazed. Rising from his chair, he sits beside me, reaching for a glass.
I smirk, reassured by my decision to keep him as far away from this as possible. They aren’t made for this.
Neither are you.
Bo leans back. “How’s Isabella?”
“She’s good. I get to see her on Sunday. She turns three in November.”
“Damn, has that much time really passed?”
I nod, watching the bodies sway on the dance floor.
I’ve felt every second of these years.
Bo gazes discreetly into his glass as he tilts to drink. “Have you checked on her ?”
I'm not looking at him when I answer. “Yes.”
“She’s good?”
“Joined a new gym. Did some dry cleaning. Nothing too out of the ordinary.”
“She hasn’t moved? Hasn’t met anyone? ”
My eyes drop down. “No.”
I won’t tell him that she follows the same routine every day, that not a single picture I’ve seen shows her with a smile, that her door has three locks on it. If I did, he’d tell me what I already know. That I should’ve already booked a flight by now. That I should get her and bring her back to me.
You aren’t what she married.
Look at where you are and where you do business.
The woman straddling Dario’s lap howls with laughter as he laps greedily at her breasts. With that, Bo pats my leg, standing to find Dante so we can leave. I nod, leaning my head back against the cushions.
“Boss!”
I ignore the group entirely.
Dominic Strata. Vito.
The meeting is tomorrow.
I have to be ready.
When hands drift slowly over my thighs, I fix my eyes on hazel ones.
I shake my head, but the woman is too drunk to notice.
She slides onto my lap and drapes her arms around my nape.
She doesn’t react when I crane my neck, sighing with disinterest. “There are others here who will show you a good time. I'm not the one.”
Her breath warms my cheek. “But I can’t stop looking at you .”
My chest swells when her mouth connects with my throat.
For a brief moment, everything’s different. This girl who smells of tequila and Cuban cigars suddenly exudes vanilla, white lilies, cherries, cotton. Her short ringlets transform into long, waist-length locks, a cascade of black waves.
If I close my eyes… she could become someone else. I could feel relief for once. Her lips gently brush from my throat to my cheek. I draw in a steeling breath, nearly touching her, almost giving in .
Until my eyes part, and I see anyone but Sophie Marcello.
I push her off, standing, ignoring her frightened gasp and Dario’s questions as I exit the room.
Instead of using the restaurant, the meeting with Strata is scheduled at one of my clubs.
It's not even noon, giving us plenty of time to dine before the staff wanders in to prepare for the weekend rush. Respecting custom, we remove our jackets to demonstrate that there are no wires, nothing to incriminate. The moment his men file into the open space, scanning the rows of mine, we both know this meeting could end in disaster. That’s why I order my men out. He does the same.
Dominic Strata is visibly younger than I am.
His father was a Mafioso before they clocked him in broad daylight. Rumors spread that it was the ‘Ndrangheta, and they were right. He still hasn’t claimed his seat. Too many men are grappling for it. But if this man has Vito’s ear, Vito’s influence, I'm sure it’s only a matter of time.
I can’t resist asking. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.” His lips curl into an unsettling grin. “Too young for this shit. You?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Not far off… and yet, you have control of two Families.”
“It’s a living.”
Lunch is hastily deposited on the table, the last witnesses scurrying from the room as fast as possible.
Dominic digs in well before the door even closes.
I stare at him, watching the rare slab of meat roll around in his mouth as he talks.
It’s clear as day he’s new money. He’s never been in this setting.
A power struggle. An interrogation.
“I’ve heard impressive things about you,” I interject, not reaching for my silverware. I’m in no rush to devour my food as he does. I'm not here for a meal.
“What have you heard?”
“You’re self-made. Your father kept you away from the family business. With all the others fighting for the seat, you’ve practically got the kingpin in your hand… Is that why Vito’s hiding behind you?”
If he’s unnerved by the mention of my father-in-law, he’s skilled enough to hide it well. “It’s… complicated .”
“How so?”
“For a long time, he was in favor of your succession. He even gave you his daughter. Sophia.”
The all-consuming darkness I struggle to repress kindles like flames at the mention of her, ignites and spreads like wildfire. It takes control to pretend hearing her name on his lips hasn’t instantly made me murderous.
“My condolences. I heard she passed. Vito talks about her often.”
Disgust drips through my tone. “I'm sure he does.”
The young caporegime stretches beneath the table, releasing a tired sigh. “You don’t seem like the type of man who’d throw away la poltrona grande for a woman. She must have really been something.”
If I opened my mouth, I’d signal my sniper concealed above us to fire. I’d start a war right here. All my composure evaporates when it comes to Sophie, leaving me with white-hot fury. Dominic admires a photograph from his breast pocket before flashing me the contents.
It’s a photo of my wife.
Sophie. In her wedding dress.
The goddamn Earth stops turning.
He watches stone-cold violence birth in my eyes.
It’s a pre-shot, one only someone in the family would have access to. I immediately understand it was Vito who gave it to him. There’s a defiant gleam in his eyes as he regards my wife’s beauty openly in front of me.
“Dominic,” I grit out. “I may look like a businessman to you now. You must see the suits, fine dining, and pleasantries, and think this is how I naturally do business.” I hold onto his eyes unwaveringly.
“But I'm sure you’ve heard the stories. They aren’t rumors.
Vito Marin couldn’t even dream of carrying out what I'm capable of doing with my bare hands… Let that be a warning to you now.”
“I am well aware you’re a man to fear.”
“Then put the goddamn photo on the table. Right now .”
He chuckles as he follows the order, finding this amusing. “Alright. Alright. Easy .”
Sophie’s wedding ring rests between my collarbones, hung from my neck, concealed behind my clothing. I had hoped this wouldn’t get ugly. I hoped he’d be smart enough to take the bribe I would offer him in exchange for Vito’s location. But I have no intention of giving this fucker anything .
“We’re done here.”
“I haven’t finished my steak?—”
“I said get the fuck out.”
He sustains every ounce of my menace as if he knows something I don’t. It’s a useful tactic. Meant to unravel me swiftly, expose my weaknesses. He backs down first, wiping his mouth before tossing aside the cloth napkin.
“I’ll see you again,” he says before turning. “Sooner rather than later, I’d guess.”
Visibly vibrating, I watch his exit.
Dario rushes into the room, unsettled by the brevity of the meeting. “What the hell happened? That was quick.”
I’m too fucking pissed to answer him. He takes one look at the half-eaten meal before his gaze drifts to the photograph on the table.
An exhale leaves him in concern. “ Fuck .”
The Maserati screeches as it swings into the driveway.
The men at the gate scarcely manage to open it in time.
I leap out of the driver’s side, race up the stairs, and into the manor.
An instinct, an overwhelming fear that followed his threat, sends me into my father’s parlor in a whirlwind. Dominic got precisely what he wanted. He didn’t go there to negotiate.
He went there to show me he knows my weakness.
A wife who, to everyone, is supposed to be dead.
He was toying with you.
He couldn’t know where she is.
You just checked. She’s fine. She’s safe.
My fingers tremble as I turn the dial on the safe under the desk, flinging open the door. The papers only I am aware of are right where I left them. The pictures, everything. I close my eyes, finally taking a breath.
She’s fine.
She’s—
My eyes fixate on the international phone number scrawled on a piece of paper.
Glancing at the door, feeling outside of my body for the first time since I seized this position, I grab a burner phone and dial.
The line rings for what feels like an eternity before defaulting to voicemail.
Frustrated, I re-enter the numbers, pacing the room.
I hear the line click. A man answers. “Buenos noches.”
Placing my hand on the desk, I open my mouth, putting good use to the Spanish that was drilled into me as a child. “There’s an apartment above your café. I'm looking to rent it.”
“I'm afraid that’s not possible, my friend.”
My hand slips. I stagger a step.
She’s fine.
“I see. Thank you. ”
Before I hang up, he concludes, “It’ll be ready to see in a couple days. There’s been police in and out, but don’t let that deter you. This is usually a safe neighborhood, and I’ve never had any problems here.”
My eyes stretch to the point of pain. “ Police ?”
“Yes, the woman who lived here… They say she’s dead.”