Chapter 1
GIOVANNI
Six Years Later.
My father is dead.
Massimo Renzetti, the Don of the Renzetti famiglia, is dead.
I'd like to mourn him, but I don’t have the time to.
I barely have the time to bury him. Three days ago, I stood in front of hundreds of men dressed in black, pretending I wasn’t hollow inside.
Pretending I didn’t want to punch something just to feel something.
But it's all pointless. The show must go on.
Now I sit in his chair, an indication of me stepping into his shoes.
His ring is on my finger, his men at my back, men I'm now responsible for.
It should fill me with a sense of fulfillment, but I can't shake a sense of foreboding.
Especially because I just found out earlier today that the first betrayal has occurred, and it comes from someone he trusted.
“Renato Marchelli,” Tomasso says, setting the file on my desk like it’s not about to piss me off.
Renato Marchelli. My father’s enforcer. Trusted.
Ruthless. A man who should’ve known better.
And yet here it is, clean-cut evidence of embezzlement.
Right after my father’s death, when the organization was at its most vulnerable.
He siphoned money from the Palermo operation as though no one would notice.
“He waited until your father died before he made his move,” Tomasso says, his voice carrying a hint of the anger I mirror. “That money was rerouted two days after the funeral. He didn’t even pretend to be subtle.”
I don’t respond. I’m still staring at the bank records. At the quiet, clinical breakdown of exactly how Renato skimmed over half a million euros from the Palermo port.
Half a million fucking euros.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. “He really thought I’d be too distracted to trace this?”
Tomasso’s mouth twitches. “He’s banking on you playing it soft.”
I chuckle. It's without humor. “Where is he?” I ask.
“His house in Siena.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, as far as I can tell, he's not hiding.”
No, of course not. Men like Marchelli never believe they’ll get caught. Not until the knife’s already at their throat.
I rise to my feet. “Get the car.”
Tomasso doesn’t ask questions. He nods and walks out. I follow him a few minutes later, shrugging into my coat. The sky is grey when we step outside. Not a single goddamn bird in sight.
The ride is quiet. I stare out the window, watching the hills roll by like they don’t know the world’s shifted on its axis. I don’t say much. I’m thinking about what I’m going to say, about how I want to handle it. I’m angry, yes, but I’m also tired. It’s been a long week.
We pull into Renato’s estate, and my mood is already on red alert. The gate’s open. The guards are nowhere to be seen. Something tells me he’s expecting me.
Good.
Tomasso parks, but I don’t wait for him to get out. I push the door open and head for the front steps. I'm in a haste to look that bastard in the eye and make sure he understands just how much he's going to pay. He is not going to make the new don look weak.
Renato opens the door before I can knock, and I'm faced with the bulk of him.
He smiles. The bastard fucking smiles.
“Don Giovanni,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Liar.”
He leads me into his study, stammering apologies he mistakes for diplomacy. There’s the usual groveling, expected polished lies dipped in exaggerated fear, excuses that leave a bitter taste as I take it all in. I let him talk. Let him scramble, but I’m not listening.
I'll let him make a fool of himself before I pounce on him. He's not getting out of this unscathed. I watch him take a seat behind his desk, my eyes trailing his every move like a hawk. I can't let my guard down.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the seat across from him.
There's a knowing glint in his eyes. He knows I won't take it. He's eyeing me as though I'm the enemy when he's the one who skimmed half a million euros from my organization. The nerve of him.
I hear a soft shuffle, and before I can react, the door creaks open. I quickly swivel to see who it is in case there's an attack. I expected it, and it's definitely something I can handle, but I still need to know where the attack might come from.
My gaze flicks up and freezes when I see the person in front of me. It's not an attacker. It's a woman. A breathtaking woman.
She pauses just inside the doorway, barefoot and still. As if she realizes too late that she’s stepped into the wrong room at the wrong time. Her big, blue eyes are wide and startled as they shift from Renato to me. And then stay.
She doesn't speak. Not a single word. She just stands there, hands clenched at her sides as if she might dissolve into the floor if she stays still enough. I’ve never seen her before, yet something inside me coils tightly, as if I have. An instant recognition rips me.
Her presence slices through the tension that had begun to brew since the moment I learnt of Renato's betrayal. It's not in a threatening way. It's in a rather soothing way, that's almost… unwelcome.
And fuck, she's beautiful.
Her hair is the first thing I notice. Soft brown waves that fall past her shoulders, unbrushed and wild in a way that makes my chest clench. Not because it’s messy, but because it’s real. No polish, no superficialities. Just hair. Natural. Untamed.
And then there's her face.
The kind of face that launched a thousand wars in the past. Delicate, ethereal.
Big, blue eyes that are huge, almost too wide for her face, but it's a perfect balance.
They sit under dark, fanned lashes, and they do more talking than most people I know.
There's something haunted in them, but also alert, like she’s memorizing the layout of the room in case she has to run.
Her features are soft, almost fragile. High cheekbones, full lips that press together as if she’s never too sure what to say.
Her skin is pale, almost translucent, as though the sun never dares to reach her.
There’s a faint rosiness on her cheeks, not from makeup, but from something rawer. Maybe shame. Maybe fear.
There’s something ghostlike about her, but not in a way that unsettles. It's in a way that draws attention, and mine is well and truly drawn.
And she's looking at me, like I’m not real, like I’m a mirage her mind hasn’t caught up with. I feel her gaze drag across my form and rest on my face, and Dio, I forget how to breathe. My body stirs. Hard.
“Liliana,” Renato snaps, and it's like I'd been drawn into a trance, in a world where just the both of us existed.
Liliana.
The name suits her. I drag my gaze from her with deliberate effort to face the man sitting before me, brows furrowed like he's just been inconvenienced.
He shifts in his chair and sighs like she's a nuisance. “What the hell do you want?”
I look back at her just in time to see her flinch under his tone. I tense. She raises her hands and signs something quickly. I know what it means. She's apologizing to him. When he doesn't say anything, she touches her wrist, rubbing the skin in a circular motion.
Renato scoffs. “Don’t start your flailing in front of company. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, you stupid girl?”
Something shifts in my gut. “Is she your daughter?” I look past her face to her ear, where a hearing aid is nestled. She's deaf and probably mute. That realization tugs at something in me.
He shrugs like it’s barely worth confirming. “Unfortunately. The useless thing came from her mother’s cursed womb.”
The air stills. “I asked if she is your daughter?” I say with barely suppressed fury.
“My daughter.” He says it like it's the worst thing in the world.
The words hit me with such force that I rear back slightly. Not from surprise, but from disgust.
Daughter.
I didn’t even realize he had one. She’s his daughter, Renato Marchelli’s daughter. And he talks about her like that. No warmth. No pride. Just pure disdain.
I turn to her again. She's still brushing her fingers over her wrist in repetition. I see it now. It's a nervous gesture, like she's trying to calm herself down.
There's a slight resemblance, but she's nothing like Renato. She's everything he isn't. And I know this because there's a familiar feeling that's too intense to ignore.
She signs again in apology, this time, to me. I start to say something about her not needing to apologize when Renato snaps. “Get out, Liliana. Get the hell out before I lose my patience.”
That’s it. Something in me loosens.
“Shut the hell up, Renato,” I say, my voice thunderous.
Renato freezes. So does she.
I step forward. Just once. Just enough to let him see the anger coursing through me. “That’s your daughter. And you speak to her like that in front of me? In front of anyone? You should be ashamed.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I’m not done. I turn to her, voice gentler now. The heat under my skin is still simmering. I hold her startled gaze. “I apologize for his rudeness. You didn’t deserve that.”
Her eyes search mine, confused, like no one’s ever spoken to her that way before. Like she’s not sure if this is real. Before I can say something else, she turns and then she’s gone, feet turning soundlessly as she slips back through the door and out of sight.
Something about her retreat leaves a hollowness in my chest, like I've just let something monumental slip through my grasp.
Renato clears his throat. “She’s sensitive. Silly thing thinks the world owes her gentleness because she has an impediment.” He chuckles. The bastard actually chuckles.
I face him again, fists clenched at my sides, the full effect of my wrath evident in the glare I pin him with. I want to put him through his own desk, hurt him so badly, he won't ever speak to her like that again. But I don’t.
Instead, I speak through clenched teeth.
“Fix what you did, Renato. You’ve got one week to put back every single cent you stole from Palermo.
Every cent. Or I swear on my father’s grave, I’ll make you wish you'd stayed loyal. If I so much as get a whiff of hesitation from you, I will tear your life apart from the inside out.”
His face pales. Good.
My father was not a man of useless words. If he had any working brain, he would know I don't make empty threats either. If I wanted to hurt him before for stealing from me, I now want to eviscerate him from the face of the earth.
And it's all because of his daughter. Liliana.
His mouth opens on a defense or a rebuttal, I don't know. I'm not waiting for a response. I turn and walk out of the room.
But I still see her, the image of Liliana’s eyes, those wide blue eyes, burned behind mine. And I know I’ll see them again.