Chapter Four #2
Because if nothing else, I am not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
Not Papà. Not Vito. Not this Adrian.
Especially not this Adrian.
After blow-drying my hair so it falls in perfect layers over my shoulders and down my back, I walk to the closet for my shoes, selecting a pair of black heels that strike the exact balance I want: polished, expensive, and practical, though still feminine.
They make a satisfyingly sharp click as I walk.
I sit on the bench to fasten the straps and catch myself thinking about what Vito must have told him last night.
Probably that I’m difficult.
Probably that I’m stubborn.
Probably that I won’t be happy about any of this.
None of which would be wrong.
Still, it rankles.
Because I can already feel how this will go. Men meeting in private. Men sharing a quiet look over my head. Men deciding what is best for Caterina.
Men expecting me to object, then treating those objections like charming inconveniences instead of valid points.
I fasten the second shoe tighter than necessary.
No.
I am not doing that.
I am not going into today defensive and shrill and proving every easy assumption they’ve already made about me.
I loosen the strap and do it again, then rise and cross to the dresser for perfume, then stop with the bottle in my hand.
The truth is, I am tense.
There is no point pretending otherwise, at least not to myself.
My nerves feel too tight under my skin, and I hate that too because it gives this whole thing power it does not deserve. It makes this man more important than he should be before he has even stepped into the room. It makes me feel reactive when what I want is control.
But maybe it is not really about him.
Maybe it is about what he represents.
A line crossed.
A decision made.
The latest reminder that no matter how much I do, no matter how capable I am, no matter how much responsibility I carry, the people around me still reserve the right to close ranks and take the choice away from me.
I spray the perfume lightly at my wrists and throat, then set the bottle down and head downstairs.
The kitchen is cool and bright with early light now.
I start the coffee and stand there waiting for it, arms folded, staring out the back windows at the quiet yard beyond. Usually, this part of the morning settles me.
Today, it just gives my mind more room to spin.
Threat against Luca Conti’s children.
That part is not nothing.
I know that. I do.
I am angry, but I am not stupid. If there is a real threat, then precautions matter. Security matters. Seriousness matters. I understand why he’s taking it this far if he truly believes there is a traitor somewhere inside our own ranks.
Hell, that part bothers me more than anything else. Not the enemy outside. The possibility of rot inside. The possibility that somebody already close enough to know our patterns and our vulnerabilities has chosen to sell them.
That is not small.
And still, none of that changes the fact that this is happening to me without me.
The coffee finishes brewing. I pour a cup and take it black, because anything sweeter this morning would probably just irritate me. I lean one hip against the counter and take a sip, letting the bitterness sit on my tongue.
At some point soon, I am going to have to meet him.
Look him in the eye.
Shake his hand, maybe. Though I already know I don’t want to. Sit across from him while he assesses me like a problem he has been hired to solve.
The thought sends another flare of resistance through me.
He is not taking over my life.
I don’t care what Papà said.
I don’t care what Vito arranged.
I don’t care how decorated or experienced or broadly built or professionally intimidating this man is supposed to be.
He may be here. He may be assigned to me.
But he is not coming in and simply taking over.
Not without a fight.
I take another sip of coffee, square my shoulders, and stare out into the morning light as if I can force myself into steadiness through sheer refusal alone.
Fine.
Let him come.
Let all of them come.
I’m done being the last person informed about my own life.
I have just taken my coffee into the sitting room when the notification from the gate cuts through the quiet.
My whole body reacts before my mind fully catches up, and I hate that.
I stop mid-step with the mug warm in my hand and feel the irritation I have been trying to tamp down all morning come sliding right back up my spine.
It is almost physical, the way it returns. A hot, familiar crawl of resentment that tightens my shoulders and sharpens every thought in my head.
Of course.
Of course it would be now, just as I'm starting to relax.
Across the room, the monitor mounted on the wall clicks on automatically. The dark screen flares to life and fills with the live feed from the front gate. The angle is wide enough to show the wrought iron, the stone pillars, the camera mounted above the keypad, and the vehicle sitting just outside.
A black SUV. Large. Expensive without being flashy. The kind of car meant to project quiet competence and enough force to back it up if necessary.
I stand there and stare at it for a second over the rim of my coffee cup.
This must be him.
The camera doesn’t give me much through the windshield. Just glare, shadow, and the vague impression of a man behind the wheel. Broad shoulders. Dark suit. Stillness. Not fidgeting. Not leaning forward like he is impatient. Just waiting.
I can’t see his face.
That somehow irritates me more.
I lower the mug slowly and pick up my phone, keeping my eyes on the screen.
Typically, if there were a threat against the family, my house would already have extra men on the grounds. More movement around the perimeter. Someone stationed close enough to intervene if something went wrong.
That is how it usually works. More bodies. More eyes. More changes that make it clear a decision has been made somewhere above my head.
But because they do not know who the rat is, because apparently trust is now in such short supply that even the men who have been with us for years are being looked at sideways, that is not how this has gone.
Instead, Antonio came by himself two nights ago with a case of equipment and spent nearly three hours resetting all of my digital security systems.
More coverage. More encrypted access points. More redundancies built into the cameras and alarm feeds.
He upgraded the software, changed protocols, adjusted remote access, and added new failovers in case something got compromised. He said very little while he did it, which is usually how Antonio is when he is focused.
But afterward, the regular Antonio came out. The charmer, the joker. He made a point of leaning against the kitchen island like he always does, making too much noise getting a glass of water, talking about some ridiculous poker game he had almost lost the weekend before.
I knew what he was doing.
He was trying to soften the edges.
Because he knows me. He knows I do not like being handled. He knows I do not like being managed. And he knows, better than anyone else, that I would have a problem with what he was actually here to do.
Because he already knew. He already knew what Papà was going to tell me yesterday. He was trying to soften me up. Instead of just telling me what was going on and what was going to happen, he buttered me up.
It makes my teeth hurt just thinking about it.
Antonio also made sure the main gate routed directly through the interior monitor system so I could see and control access myself.
Which is why I’m standing here now, staring at the black SUV waiting beyond the wrought iron like I’m about to make some grand symbolic choice when really the decision was made for me already.
I open the security app on my phone, tap into the live feed, and switch the angle manually to the tighter camera mounted near the gate buzzer.
The image changes at once.
Now the shot is closer, clearer. Centered on the driver’s side window and the section of the SUV just beyond it.
So this is Adrian Donato.
Teresa’s cousin from Texas.
The one everyone else has already discussed. Already approved.
The one now sitting at my gate, waiting for me to let him in, as if this were normal.
A fresh wave of resentment rolls through me, meaner now that the moment is actually here.
I fold my arms over my chest and stare at the monitor.
He is wearing sunglasses against the sharp morning light, dark lenses that hide most of his eyes from the camera. Annoying. But I can still make out enough to form an impression.
The sharp line of his jaw. The firm set of his mouth. Dark hair, neat. Suit jacket crisp even from here. Broad shoulders filling out the driver’s seat in a way that makes the SUV look smaller than it is.
He is exactly what I expected, which somehow makes me more irritated instead of less.
Of course he looks like this.
Composed. Serious.
All security guys are like that. Like they were all issued the same face, along with the earpieces, and the black suits, and the permanent expression that suggests smiling might compromise national security. Always so grim. So disciplined.
So certain that everyone else was one bad decision away from disaster if they were not there to supervise it.
I watch him a second longer.
He is not on the phone. Not checking his watch. Not looking around impatiently. He just sits there with one hand low on the wheel, waiting.
That restraint registers.
Most men in this situation would have found some way to project impatience. A shift in posture. A tap of the fingers. Some visible sign that they thought they were important enough not to be left at a gate like an ordinary guest.
This one doesn’t.
He waits like he knows how to.
That irritates me too.
Because competence is harder to dismiss than swagger.
I zoom in just a little more, squinting at the screen. The sunglasses still keep too much hidden, but there is something severe about the mouth, something uncompromising in the way he holds himself even when he is doing absolutely nothing.
Not stiff. Not performative. Just contained.
Like a man who is used to sitting still, but once he starts moving, he’s capable of dangerous things.
I don’t like that thought.
I don’t like that it comes so quickly, either.
I tell myself to shake it off. To stop standing here like a sulking child in my own house. To act like the capable, composed woman I actually am instead of the one they all clearly still think they have to manage.
It almost works.
Then the irritation creeps higher again, curling tight around the back of my neck.
My thumb hovers over the button in the app for half a second, and I get one stupid flash of temptation to let him sit there. Five minutes. Ten. Let him stew outside those gates and wonder whether I’m ever going to let him in.
But that would only prove I am rattled enough to play games.
And I refuse to give anyone that satisfaction.
So I press the button.
A soft click sounds through the house. On the screen, the wrought iron gates begin to swing inward.
Then I stand there, phone in one hand, the old resentment curling hot and sharp through me again as the black SUV eases forward and drives through with patience. No sudden movement, but also no hesitation. Just a smooth roll onto the drive as if he already belongs there.
The gates close behind him with slow finality.
For a second, I remain where I am, staring at the monitor as the camera tracks the vehicle through the first stretch of the drive before passing the feed to the next angle.
My house suddenly feels less like mine.
That realization is low and ugly in my stomach.
I hate that too.
I draw in a breath through my nose, straighten my spine, and lift my chin at the screen as if the man can somehow see me through it already.
Fine.
He’s here.
Let him come.