Chapter 3
GIOVANNI
Five days.
It’s been five days since I stood in Renato Marchelli’s study and saw her.
Five days since her silence stirred something in me I haven’t been able to shake.
I’ve tried. The universe knows I’ve tried.
But her image slips in through the cracks of my carefully stacked wall, through moments I’m meant to be focused.
And now, I’m here, trying to pretend I’m not haunted by a girl I shouldn’t be thinking about.
The room is thick with the smell of espresso and cigarettes. My men are arguing over territory lines in Livorno. A shipment went missing last week, and everyone has a theory. I sit at the head of the long table, listening to them go back and forth. Their voices clash like against each other.
Short tempers. Bruised egos. But I don’t speak. Not yet.
Tomasso is seated on my right. His expression is calm and unreadable.
He's the only one who’s not participating in the verbal brawl.
He's my consigliere for a reason. He's the only man I trust with the full breadth of my thoughts. He catches my eye once, just briefly, and I know he’s watching me closely.
One of the men—Dante, too impulsive for his own good, hot-headed bastard—raises his voice, cutting across another. “We should retaliate immediately. Burn their dockyard and make a message out of it.”
A few others nod. More bravado than strategy. My father was a great strategist. This man makes a mockery of his leadership, and it angers me. He'll be rolling in the grave at this obvious stain on his legacy.
I lean forward. My voice is quiet and still as it cuts across the room, silencing every one of them.
“No.”
One word that makes the room fall silent.
You could hear a pin drop. I nod silently, acknowledging the quiet authority I hold.
Even though I've been preparing for this my entire life as the only surviving son of my late father, I’ve come to the realization that becoming Don involves always making decisions that can alter several lives.
“No one touches Livorno until I say so,” I continue. “We don't retaliate on emotion. That’s what children do. Not men. Leverage means nothing if we lose the port. You forget who controls the customs office now. You move too soon, you blow the whole damn operation.”
Silence folds into itself as I rise slowly.
“Here’s what happens. Vincenzo, you’ll track the inventory logs again, quietly.
Stefano, I want eyes on Rafaello Bassini’s crew.
Discreetly. If Bassini is behind it, I want proof before we make our move.
Not guesswork. Proof. I do not want to start an unnecessary war. ”
They nod, one by one. There's no hesitation whatsoever on their part. Not because they’re afraid, though fear plays its part, but because they know I don't waste breath. When I speak, I speak with precision. My plans are foolproof; they don't fail. I don’t allow them to.
I let the silence stretch for a while before I ask, “Anyone got a problem with that?”
They all chorus their nos. Good.
I dismiss them. They rise and file out without another word. If they have something else to say, it's not to my face. All except Tomasso. He lingers behind, arms crossed, eyes trained on me like he’s waiting to read a confession off my face.
I glance up. “Something wrong?”
He tilts his head. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”
I arch a brow. “What are you talking about?”
There's a permanent smile on his face all the time. It's what makes him deadly, a silent killer. This time, he doesn’t smile. “You’ve been off since you came back from Marchelli’s estate.”
I hold his gaze. I school my expression into a blank one, but he sees through it anyway. Of course he does.
I shrug in a slow, deliberate way meant to dismiss the conversation, but Tomasso doesn’t take the bait.
He never does. He just watches me with that quiet knowing in his eyes, like he’s already sifted through every possible answer and is waiting for me to pick the one closest to the truth.
I hate that look. I hate how familiar he is with my silences.
“Is it because of the girl?” he asks, finally, voice low, careful. “Marchelli’s daughter.”
I don’t respond. Not with words. He doesn’t need them. He already knows. I’d told him the bare minimum after that first encounter. Enough to keep the questions at bay.
Tomasso exhales slowly through his nose. He walks to the far wall and taps one of the frames as if it offends him. Then he turns. “Do you feel responsible for her?”
I stare at him, knowing he's getting somewhere. I don't answer.
“Is this because of Alessio?” His voice is soft when he says it. Too soft. Like he knows he’s stepping on broken glass. My spine stiffens anyway.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice flat.
Tomasso blinks, not because he’s surprised, but because he’s crossed a line and he knows it.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just… you’ve been different since—”
“I said don’t.”
He goes quiet and nods once, his mouth pulling tight. “Sorry.”
I don’t want to talk about Alessio. Not here. Not ever. The grief is too old to reopen, too raw to be touched. It lives in me like a second pulse, and it’s mine. No one gets to poke at it. Not even him.
Tomasso is already turning away, probably thinking the conversation’s done, when I speak again.
“I’m getting married.”
He stops mid-step and turns slowly, brows drawing together like he didn’t quite hear me right. “You’re what?”
I meet his eyes. “I’ve had time to think,” I say. “About Marchelli. About the debt. About what he’s worth.”
Tomasso blinks like he’s waiting for the punchline. “And you’ve decided marriage is the answer?”
“I’ll write it off,” I say. “All of it. If he gives me his daughter.”
“The mute.”
“Liliana.”
His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. It takes a full second for him to recover, and when he does, he’s more cautious than surprised. “You're serious.”
“I am.”
“You want to marry her. A girl you’ve seen once.”
I nod.
“Since when did you start trading debts for brides?”
“Since five days ago,” I say. “Since I saw her in that study.”
“You're letting him off easy. You never do that.”
I shrug again. “I was going to destroy him,” I say, quieter now. “Ruin him completely. Make an example of him so loud the streets would buzz with it for decades. But then I saw her and I knew. If he gives her to me willingly, if he signs her over… I’ll wipe the slate clean.”
Tomasso leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. “She’s Marchelli’s daughter,” he reminds me. “That man has rot in his blood. You want to touch anything that came from him?”
“She didn’t come from him,” I say. “Not really. She’s not like him. I saw it. She’s quiet, but she burns. I don’t know what it is. I can’t name it. But it’s there. And it’s not pity. Don’t mistake it for that.”
Tomasso studies me, and something shifts in his expression. “Dio. You’ve made up your mind.”
“I have.”
“And you think Marchelli will agree?”
“He’ll agree,” I say, voice hard. “He’d sell her for less if I let him. But I won’t. I’ll take her, and when I do, he’ll never come near her again.”
Tomasso is silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he says, "You really think she’ll agree?"
“She doesn’t have to. Not yet.”
He shakes his head. “You’re moving fast.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t care.”
He looks at me for a moment longer, like I have a screw loose in my head, but he doesn’t try to argue. He knows better. We’ve been through too much together. He knows my mind when it’s made up. He knows I don’t act on impulse. I calculate. I plan. I take. And when I want something, I make it mine.
“I need to get her out of there ASAP.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. I’ll handle it.”
He nods once, then steps back.
“Good luck,” he mutters.
But he says it like he knows I won’t need it.
I go alone.
No call. No warning. I want to catch him off guard. Men like Renato only play polite when they’ve rehearsed their lies ahead of time.
This particular estate is smaller than ours, tucked into a corner of Modena like it knows it doesn’t belong. I’m led through the same halls I walked five days ago, past the same portraits, the same peeling wallpaper that tries too hard to look expensive. A servant offers to fetch him. I nod once.
He doesn’t know I’m here. Good.
It takes a minute, maybe two, before he shuffles in. He doesn’t smile. He’s in a crumpled shirt and an expression that tells me he’s already wondering what fresh hell has arrived at his door. I don’t waste time.
“I’ve come to settle your debt.”
He freezes, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Settle?”
I don’t sit. “You owe me more than you could ever repay. You know that. But I’ll write it off.”
He blinks, uncertain now. “Just like that?”
I don't fail to notice how slightly he perks up. Cazzo.
“No.” I pause. “In exchange, I want your daughter.”
Silence drops like a stone between us.
“Liliana?” His surprise is evident.
“Si.”
He doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. He doesn’t react the way I expect a father to react when his only daughter is offered up like a bargaining chip. Instead, he exhales. Relief flickers behind his eyes. His shoulders sag like I’ve just handed him a gift.
That alone tells me everything I need to know. I'd expected it, but still, faced with it guts me.
“I accept,” he says.
I clench my jaw. The bastard doesn’t even hesitate.
It disgusts me. I don’t show it. I don’t say a word about how easily he gives her away, how cheap his silence makes her seem. I just nod once and tell myself, again, that he’ll never come near her once she’s mine. Not for anything. Not for breath or blood or penance. He’ll be dust beneath her feet.
He turns to a servant that had been hovering. “Fetch Liliana.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My body stirs in recognition as the sound of her feet approaches.
And then she’s there.
She steps into the room in a soft blue dress, the hem just brushing her ankles.
Her hair—those damn, lustrous strands, enough to make my fingers twitch—is pulled back today, loose curls spilling down her back, and there’s something about the simplicity of her that knocks the air from my lungs.
She’s not even trying to be beautiful. She just is.
I doubt that she knows how much power her beauty holds.
She stops when she sees me. Her eyes widen for the briefest second, and I catch it before a shutter comes down over her face, closing off her expression.
She wasn’t expecting me. She doesn’t know why I’m here. But she feels it. I see the question rise behind her eyes, the tension that coils into her shoulders. I see that damn wrist rub that's a dead giveaway that she's nervous.
Her father doesn’t look at her when he speaks. “You’re going to marry Don Giovanni Renzetti,” he says like he’s announcing the weather.
Her mouth parts, and for a second, she just stands there. Frozen. Then she looks at me again, and I see it. The fire. The fight.
And I wonder, for a heartbeat, if I’ve just made the smartest decision of my life. Or the most dangerous.
She doesn’t speak.
Her mouth parts again, but no sound comes out, just raw and trembling silence. Her blue eyes flash to her father, then back to me, and the disbelief in them is staggering. She looks like she’s just been struck.
Renato is still talking, oblivious to the weight of what he’s done. “He says he’ll forgive the debt,” he mutters, waving a fat hand like it’s a generous deal. “I suggest you make yourself agreeable.”
My eyes cut to him. “You’ll speak of her with respect. She’s not some pawn you toss to the highest bidder. She’s my fiancée now. And you will treat her as such.”
The words feel strange in my mouth, and yet, they’re right.
Liliana stiffens. Her fists clench at her sides. That’s when it happens. She moves. Her hands lift as they move, quick and abrupt. And I understand every word of it.
You did this?
You?
Why?
It hits harder than if she’d screamed. Her signing is jerky and uneven.
Her anger makes her tremble. Her fingers falter, her breathing quickens.
She’s trying to form a sentence, but her body is ahead of her, furious and frantic.
Then her voice joins in. A stammered breath.
Not a word, but a broken, gasping syllable. And then another. And another.
“Y-you…” she tries, but the single word is heavily slurred and sounds more like “j-jou—”
It hits me all at once—that voice of hers, locked away somewhere deep, is clawing its way out. She’s trying to make sense of this, trying to scream through the silence. And it’s fury she leads with. Not fear. Not grief. Rage.
The rest of her words are lost to air and trembling lips. She shakes her head, swallows, then signs again. You can't do this. I didn't agree to this.
And I should tell her she’s right.
I should tell her that I barged into her life with power and blood and an arrogant offer she never got the chance to refuse. But I don't. I can’t. Because I’m too busy watching her rage. Watching the fire crackle through her veins like she’s about to detonate right in front of me.
Good Lord. She’s magnificent in that fury.
“I can,” I say quietly, and when her eyes snap to mine, I sign the words again, slow and sure, so she knows I’m not hiding behind my voice. I can. I did.
Why me?
It’s the only question she mouths, not signs. She just breathes it out.
I stare at her. “Because I saw you,” I say. I saw you, I sign again, gently this time. And I couldn’t look away.
She stares at me like she wants to hit me. Or cry. Or both. And maybe she will. But she doesn’t turn away. She stands her ground.
And God help me, I want her even more for it.