Chapter 5
GIOVANNI
Tomasso leans back in the leather chair across from me, one leg thrown over the other in his usual sitting style, smoke curling from the cigar pinched between his fingers like it belongs there.
He’s telling me about the warehouse cleanup—a routine bust turned absolute mess when the new recruits got trigger-happy.
I listen, a glass of Vecchio Amaro resting in my palm, the bitter tang biting the back of my throat just the way I like it.
“They froze, Gio,” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Two seconds too long. Idiots nearly got themselves killed.”
I nod, not because I’m surprised, but because I’ve come to expect it. We recruit faster than we train. Risk breeds sloppiness.
I swirl the dark liquid in my glass, not because I’m thinking, but because it’s what I do when I already know what comes next. “Pull them out. Retrain them properly or send them to Pietro in Palermo. Let him whip them into shape.”
Tomasso smirks. “You’re getting soft.”
“You’re getting sloppy,” I say, sipping my drink.
He grunts at that, then leans forward to stub the cigar into the tray. “You look like hell, by the way. Still smelling like jet fuel. Sicily wear you out?”
I give him a look. “They needed to see me in person. My father’s allies. Some of them weren’t convinced I was ready. Now they are.”
“You make them kiss the ring?” he asks, only half joking.
I don’t smile. “I made them remember who they were loyal to.”
He whistles low. “And now you’re back, planning a wedding like some lovesick schoolboy. Life’s funny.”
“It’s not funny,” I mutter.
He nods in understanding. “Want to call the wedding off yet?”
I glance at him over the rim of my glass. “No.”
It comes out flat, too quick, even for me. He raises a brow. I don’t explain, I don’t need to.
He reaches for the decanter and pours himself a measure of whatever he feels like. “So, it’s still two days from now,” he says. “That’s quick, even for you.”
I shrug. “Faster is better. She gets away from Renato sooner.”
“Will he be there to give her away?”
“He isn’t invited.”
Tomasso whistles low. “Didn’t think you’d go that far.”
I shoot him a flat look. “I don’t ever want to see that bastard’s face again.”
He lifts his drink in salute. “Spoken like a man in love.”
I ignore that.
“And how’s she taking all this? The preparations, the rushed timeline?”
I sigh and rub my stubble. “Stubborn as hell. She refuses to be involved. I try to keep her in the loop. She tells me to do whatever I want.
He chuckles. “Strong-headed?”
I sigh. “You have no idea.”
“But you like that.”
Again, I don’t answer. He grins knowingly.
I glance at my wristwatch. “She’ll be here soon. She finally agreed to visit.” I chuckle darkly. “She said she has a few things she wants to discuss.”
Tomasso lifts a brow. “That so?”
“Terms," I say.
He snorts. “Let me guess. No bloodshed in the first month. You surrender your guns. Maybe toss in your black soul while you're at it.”
I don’t answer. There’s a quiet satisfaction in letting him speculate.
Just as I'm about to ask why he's here, needling me and not off to attend to affairs, the door clicks open without a knock or hesitation.
Only two people enter my study like they own the place. Not even my mother does. One’s already in the room. The other is Camilla Moretti.
Camilla has never needed permission. She’s walked through these doors since we were children, back when our fathers still ran the world and we shadowed behind them, learning how to inherit it.
Her father was one of mine’s most trusted allies.
That loyalty bled down into us. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a constant in this life—she and Tomasso.
I look up just as she walks in, all sleek lines and clipped heels. Long blonde hair tucked behind one ear. Lipstick too red for the hour. She moves like she owns the room.
“Giovanni,” she says, a ready smile pulling at her mouth.
“You’re late,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You sound like your father.”
“I take that as a threat.”
She walks over to pour herself a drink without asking.
Tomasso shifts in his seat. “Camilla,” he says, tone a touch lighter than usual.
She doesn't acknowledge him, just lifts a brow and looks away.
I nearly laugh. Tomasso's had a thing for her since we were sixteen. She’s never given him the time of day.
She crosses the room with a drink in her hand and sinks into the chair across from me. She crosses one elegant leg over the other. “So, you’re actually going through with this,” she says, voice cool and amused.
“Seems that way,” I answer, lifting my glass to my lips.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a piece of art she never thought she’d see hung on the wall. “You always said you wouldn’t.”
I give a slight shrug. “People say a lot of things.”
She exhales, almost a scoff, and rolls her eyes in that Camilla way that’s more fondness than disdain. “No. You didn’t just say it. You swore it, Giovanni. You said marriage was a leash for weak men.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You don’t change your mind.”
I don’t answer that. She knows I’ve never been one for shifting tides or sentimental turns. That’s exactly why she’s watching me now like she’s searching for something beneath the surface, something not adding up.
“She better be worth it,” she murmurs, taking a sip from her drink.
A soft knock interrupts us, and I know who it is before I even say, “come in.”
Liliana.
She steps in, and it's like my breath has been sucked out of me. God, she's breathtaking.
She's wearing a muted gray dress, cinched at the waist, the fabric flowing around her like a vision.
Her hair is pinned up with lazy effort because already, a few strands have escaped to kiss her collarbone.
There is a line of delicate silver around her throat.
Her lips are bare, but my eyes are drawn to the fullness of them. I want to plunder that mouth.
She's not looking at me, but I can't peel my eyes away from her. My heartbeat stammers, then picks up, fast and low in my chest. My pulse tightens at my throat. And lower—God—my cock twitches, full and inconvenient, pressing against the line of my pants like it’s got a mind of its own.
I shift slightly, discreetly, one hand curling over the armrest to anchor myself.
She doesn’t have to do anything, she just has to exist, and I yearn for her. I want her with a fierceness that should scare me, but it doesn't. I want to make her mine in every way possible. Not in passing. Not in theory.
I want to touch her. I want to feel the lustrous silkiness of her hair. I want to feel what her silence feels like when it’s pressed against my skin.
I see Tomasso stand from my periphery. He's clearly taken. “Bellissima,” he says, with a slight bow. “I’m Tomasso. A friend and consigliere to this brooding man. In that order.”
Liliana glances at him, then gives a quiet, polite smile.
I clear my throat, standing. “Liliana, this is—”
Camilla steps forward before I can finish, already extending a hand. “Camilla Moretti,” she says. “And you?”
Liliana doesn’t respond. Her hands stay by her sides. I step forward gently. “She can’t speak.”
Camilla blinks, then recovers quickly. “Oh.” She steps back.
There’s no awkwardness in Liliana’s silence, only in the way others try to fill it.
Tomasso glances between us, reading the air the way only he knows how. “We’ll leave you two to it,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he motions to Camilla.
They slip out, leaving the room quieter than before. Liliana remains by the door, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, uncertain but not afraid.
I motion to the couch. “Come. Sit.”
She moves slowly but deliberately, her gaze passing over the room before settling on the chair across from me. When she sits, her posture is careful, guarded.
I wait until she sits, silent and composed, folding her hands neatly in her lap like she’s here for a business deal and not a conversation that could very well reshape both our lives.
“You said you wanted to discuss terms,” I say, my voice low.
She nods, and without preamble, raises her hands.
Her tapered, elegant fingers move with the same precision as her gaze. There’s no hesitation in the way she signs. No fear. Just the conviction of boundaries about to be set.
We will sleep in separate rooms.
I will be free to go where I please.
I will keep my name.
I watch her, taking in every flick of her wrist, every sharp edge in her grace. She’s not asking for freedom. She’s declaring it.
I nod slowly. “Is that all?”
She looks at me, longer this time. Her brow lifts barely. I can see it in her face. She’s waiting for the refusal. The control. The part where I laugh and say ‘no, cara, you belong to me now.’
But I don’t. I say nothing.
And something in her demeanor shifts. Her hands rise again, but this time, they move more slowly, like she's about to drop something heavy.
No intimacy.
I take a breath as if I knew what was coming. I don't speak right away. I let the words hang between us, weighty.
She watches me, her eyes unreadable but intent. Her shoulders are drawn tight with tension she’s trying not to show.
“There will be no intimacy,” I say, carefully, my voice earnest, “because I’ll wait for you to give in to me. Not because I don’t want you.”
Her eyes widen, just enough for me to see the crack in her composure.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, my tone low and unwavering.
“Make no mistake, Liliana. I want you.” I pause, letting that truth settle between us. “I want you in ways I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. But I won’t take what isn’t freely given. When I touch you, it’ll be because you want it. Because you ask for it.”
Her lips part slightly. She blinks once, twice. A flicker of something passes across her face—shock, maybe. Or confusion. Or maybe just the kind of disbelief that comes from a lifetime of being handled, never heard.
“I’ll wait,” I say again, my voice softer now. “Not because I’m a patient man, but because I know you will be worth the wait.”