Chapter 7
GIOVANNI
It’s been a week. Seven long days. And I've thought about Liliana—my wife—for every goddamn second of it. Every hour away from her feels like torture.
Before her, I'd existed just fine. But now, merely being away from her is not even a welcome thought.
Tomasso and I are in Livorno, tying off a deal that should’ve been simple. But nothing is simple anymore. Not since my father died. Not since I became Don. Not since I married her.
We’re meeting in a portside warehouse that reeks of fish, salt, and damp cement.
The Bassini crew shows up half an hour late deliberately.
I know it for what it is: a game of ego.
They want to test how much of my father’s presence I’ve inherited.
Whether they can press into the cracks of my new reign.
I let them play the fool. Let them mistake my silence for indecision.
I’ve learned that power isn’t in talking too much, but in the amount of steel in you.
The meeting spirals the moment their underboss speaks out of turn.
He's young and way too eager. I know his type. All bravado and slick smiles. He's the kind of man who likes the sound of his own voice and doesn’t realize it’s about to get him buried.
He tries to twist the terms of the deal while pretending to clarify them.
I listen in silence. My fingers are still, my face unreadable.
Tomasso shifts beside me, but doesn’t speak. He knows I will, when I’m ready.
“I think what Don Renzetti meant,” the underboss says, too casually, “is that control over the northern routes can be reviewed again. Temporarily.”
That’s not what I meant.
I stare at him and let the silence stretch until it begins to itch. Then I speak, my voice quiet and even. “Do I look like a man who says something he doesn’t mean?”
He falters. “No, I—”
“Then why are you trying to reinterpret me?”
He opens his mouth. Words fail him. He closes it.
I look at Bassini himself, who’s been silent this whole time. He's an older man with slippery eyes. Perhaps, he was entirely different in his youth. Now, he's a man who should know better than to let a boy speak for him, but here we are.
I stare straight at him. “I don’t renegotiate agreements I’ve already signed.”
The room stills.
“We had a deal, Bassini. I honored it. You will too. If you want to adjust territories, bring me facts. Not suggestions from a boy playing to be a man.”
No one dares to breathe. He turns to the underboss, whose name I don't bother remembering, and mutters something in low tones to him.
Not taking my eyes from Bassini, I continue, “You’re losing control of your crew,” I tell him. “That’s not my problem. But if you ever try to shift territory lines again, it will be.”
Bassini raises his hand like a tired grandfather. “He meant no disrespect.”
My eyes don't waver from his face.
The underboss scrambles up to utter words of apologies, Bassini had obviously demanded he offer. I don't acknowledge him, nor his apologies.
I rise from my chair. “He did. But I’ll overlook it. Just this once.”
There’s no need to threaten violence. I don’t need to yell or wave a gun. Men like Bassini understand restraint better than noise. They know when the hand that hasn't moved yet is the one that breaks the table.
Tomasso stands beside me. He’s calm and unreadable as ever, but I can tell from the tightness in his mouth that he’s relieved.
The deal holds. Just barely. But it holds.
Livorno remains ours. Control over the customs office remains tight.
No one dies tonight, which is a kindness they don’t deserve, but I’m not here to make a spectacle. I’m here to make a point.
It's a good thing. It'll be added to the long list of successful missions since I became Don.
We walk out through the back, past the warehouses that stink of stale fish and diesel. I’ve always hated this place. Too fucking loud. Too many men who try too hard to sound important.
“You didn’t have to handle it yourself,” Tomasso says once we’re alone. “I would’ve stepped in.”
“I wanted to.”
“You’re getting sentimental.”
I don’t answer.
He lights a cigarette, and I watch as the smoke curl towards me. He catches me watching, and he chuckles. “I know.”
“That thing will kill you one day.”
He shrugs and grins. “I take it this means we’re heading back tonight,” he says dryly.
I glance at him. “Why else do you think I let that meeting end when I did?”
He exhales a plume of smoke, his grin softening. “You miss your wife.”
I don’t deny it. He knows. He’s seen me these past days. I’ve been pacing through hours like they’re too tight around my skin. I’ve been sleeping light, if at all. I haven’t touched another woman since I met her, and I haven’t wanted to. The idea of anyone but her makes my stomach turn.
I drive us back. I'd sent the driver on a different errand earlier. Tomasso leans into the seat, relaxed, smoking his cigarette, content to let silence fill the car. I'm a better driver than him. I don’t bother with music. The only thing I want to see right now is her.
The silence persists as the coastal lights blur past us in muted streaks.
We're nearing the estate. I should be tired. We’ve been up since before sunrise.
But I’m wired. The kind of wired that sits in your chest and claws to get out.
Or the kind of wired that the certainty of seeing your wife brings.
She’s waiting for me. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s regretting getting married to me already.
I don’t know what I’m walking into, and it makes me want to tear the road in half just to get there faster. Tomasso is eyeing me with a quiet deliberation. I pay him no mind.
By the time we reach the estate, it’s close to midnight. The air is cooler, softer. The moon hangs low, fat and golden over the trees. There are no guards in sight, but I know they’re there. Always. They're just better at disguising themselves.
I tell Tomasso to go home, and he doesn’t argue. He's tired anyway. He'll probably relieve himself with one of the whores he keeps handy.
I walk toward the entrance, my footsteps soundless on the stone floor of the garage as I head to the main apartment.
The moment I step through the front doors, something in me settles.
This place doesn’t feel hollow anymore. It holds her.
And suddenly, having a wife to come home to is the most perfect thing in the world.
I take the stairs slowly. My body’s tired but my pulse is erratic. I need to see her. Touch her. Remind myself she’s real.
The apartment is quiet. The staff has retired for the day. The hallway is dim, only one sconce burning low at the far end. Her door is closed. I stop in front of it, my hand hovering just short of the wood.
Will she be excited to see me?
My body stirs at the thought of seeing her again. My Liliana. My wife. I lift my hand and knock, once, twice. And for the first time in a week, I let myself breathe.
The door creaks open, and the air shifts, heavy with lavender and the faint musk of her skin. Liliana stands barefoot before me, her hair wet and clinging to her shoulders in dark, glistening strands. That fucking hair that's enough to bring me to my knees.
A thin robe hugs her curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the delicate arc of her collarbone, still damp from her shower.
My breath snags, my chest tightening like a vise. She’s a vision, a storm I want to lose myself in, and the sight of her sets my blood ablaze, every nerve sparking with need. Dio, she’s beautiful, more than I remembered, and a week without her has been a slow, burning torment.
Her eyes meet mine, wide for a split second, then she lifts her hands to sign. You're back.
She has her aid on. I don't sign back, just mutter “Liliana.” Dammit. I want her. Then, I sign, I couldn't stay away for much longer.
I see surprise, then a flicker of something deeper, a want that mirrors the hunger clawing through me. My pulse pounds a wild rhythm in my throat, my cock already stirring, pressing hard against my trousers.
I’ve carried her with me through every moment of this cursed mission, her face haunting my sleepless nights, her lips under mine in our wedding kiss, soft and yielding yet fierce. Now, standing here, I’m unraveling, my control fraying at the edges.
She steps tentatively aside, and I step inside and close the door, the soft click loud in the quiet room.
The lamp by her bed casts a warm glow, painting her skin in gold, shadows pooling in the hollows of her throat.
My boots feel heavy on the hardwood, my shirt clinging to the faint sweat of Livorno’s docks.
I should clean up, should give her space, but I can’t. Not when she’s looking at me like this, her lips parted, her breath shallow, her fingers clutching the edge of her robe like it’s her last defense.
“Liliana,” I say again, my voice rough, barely my own. I want to tell her how she’s consumed me, how I’ve dreamed of her every night, but words feel too small.
My eyes drop to her mouth, full and soft, and the memory of our wedding kiss floods me. The taste of her, sweet and warm. The way she'd melted into me. My cock throbs, and I shift, trying to rein it in.
I want to take her, roughly, viciously. But I know I have to be careful with her. I don't want to scare her away. I want her to unfurl, to give herself to me, not because I demand it, but because she wants it.
She steps back, her hands tightening on her robe, pulling it closer. But the fabric betrays her, clinging to her damp skin, outlining the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts.
My throat closes up, my hands itching to touch her, to peel that robe away and feel her warmth. I take a step closer, slow, deliberate, watching her eyes for any sign of fear. There’s none. Just molten heat, and something softer, something that makes my chest ache.