Chapter 11
GIOVANNI
Elvio Moretti’s voice always sounds like it’s been dipped in aged bourbon and rolled across gravel.
It’s not rough in a way that offends. It’s elegant, dangerous, and I know better than to not trust the power behind it.
His silver hair is slicked back, his eyes sharp despite the lines creasing his face.
He’s lean, almost wiry, but his presence fills the room, his tailored suit pristine against the fancy backdrop.
He'd been a partner of my father for years and now, by extension, mine. Even though he's Camilla's father, and he's more like a father figure to me, I know business is business.
He leans forward now, elbows on the wide marble table, his gold ring catching the dimmed overhead lights as he slides a folded paper across to me.
Tomasso sits to my right, tapping the end of his pen against the folder we’ve just reviewed.
Three men from Elvio’s side hover at a respectable distance near the far wall, stone-faced and armed, just like mine.
He speaks, and his voice barrels across the table, worn in from too many cigars. “I’m hearing the Moroccan shipments will touch Sicily by the twelfth.”
“They will,” I reply. “Customs at Palermo. Two nights at the dock, max. Then inland.”
He grunts. “I want the run through my man in Messina. I’ve worked with him. He’s clean.”
I lean back slightly. “Messina’s slower. He’s clean, but not fast. I need speed on this.”
Tomasso, sitting beside me, his face a perfect picture of calm, tosses in, “And your man in Messina is clean… until he’s not. No offense, Elvio.”
Elvio’s gaze flicks to Tomasso for a second, then back to me. “And Catania’s any better?”
“Catania,” I say, “is paid enough to look away.”
Elvio pauses, as if he'd not expected me to say that, then smiles, the kind that doesn’t touch his eyes. “So we do it your way.”
I nod once.
He shifts and adjusts the front of his jacket. “I still want my trucks running the goods inland. You’ve got Sicily. I’ve got Calabria. That hasn’t changed.”
“No one’s contesting Calabria,” I say. “But the handoff needs to happen on my side of the strait. That way, if anything goes wrong, it’s on me.”
“Good.” He smiles faintly. “Now, we've moved on from that,” he slides a folded paper to me, “You’ll find the updated shipment schedule agreeable for the Cyprus deal.”
It's funny how men in this world like to deal everything on paper, despite the inception of advanced technology.
I unfold the paper he slides to me, and Tomasso leans over. My eyes scan the columns. Best, clinical writing. Weapons through Trieste, moved by sea to Istanbul, then rerouted with the cargo we’ve arranged for Southern Cyprus. Tight channels. No loose ends.
I close the paper. “Efficient.”
Tomasso murmurs, “Better than last time.”
Elvio chuckles, obviously pleased. “That was Ezio’s doing. He’s better suited for real estate. This—” he gestures toward the air like it’s something sacred “—requires finesse.”
Ezio is his nephew, who's being indoctrinated into the family business.
Tomasso flicks the pen onto the table and leans back, legs spread, his shoulders loose. “Finesse,” he echoes, like it’s a joke. But there’s no mockery in his eyes, only interest.
Elvio shrugs off the jab, clearly used to Tomasso’s tone. “You’ll have full access to the port manifests by Monday. As agreed.”
I nod. “And the customs clearances?”
“In your inbox by this evening.”
I reach for the folder and slip the paper in, and close it with finality. “Then we’re done.”
Tomasso whistles. “Two deals done in a day.”
Elvio extends a hand, and I grip it in a firm handshake.
The handshake signifies the impending goodwill of the deal, and it reflects in the room.
His men relax slightly, one adjusting his cufflinks, and another checking his phone.
The tension in the room eases… but not entirely. Business like ours never fully settles.
Elvio watches me for a while, his sharp gaze deliberating, then he holds up a hand to his men. “Wait outside.”
I do the same, and my men follow suit.
Elvio’s demeanor shifts, softening. I see the moment he steps out of the business dealer role into the father figure one. “I’ve been remiss, Giovanni. I haven’t asked after you. How are you?”
I arch a brow in a mocking and affectionate way.
He smiles. “Stepping into your father’s shoes can't be easy. How’s it treating you? Anyone bold enough to challenge you yet?”
I laugh, leaning into the relaxed atmosphere. “They try, Elvio. They always try.”
Tomasso grins, leaning forward. “A few whispers, and a couple of upstarts flexing muscles. But no one’s got the balls to face Gio head-on.”
My voice is smug. “They’d be foolish to try.”
Elvio nods, his eyes glinting with approval. “Good. You’re your father’s son. But you’ve got a little more iron in your spine.”
“That's our Gio.” Tomasso’s voice is fond. I shoot him an irritated look, but I'm grateful for his support. Always.
Elvio adjusts his cuffs and adds, almost as an afterthought, “I heard about the marriage. Quiet affair. No fanfare. Why keep it under wraps?”
My mind flashes to Liliana, to three days ago when she kissed me boldly in the hall, only to run and avoid me since. I feel a lightness in my chest. She's stepping out from the shadows she'd been confined in since childhood. It's slow, but it's progress.
She'd been bold enough to kiss me, but not bold enough to face the aftermath of her awakening a primal urge in me. She’s been elusive since. Not as distant as she was before, but distant enough to frustrate me.
I’ve allowed it because I’ve been buried in paperwork, new alliance talks, internal security restructuring, and a meeting with the Inter-Northern Syndicate that nearly went to bloodshed. But the memory of that afternoon hasn’t left me.
"I didn’t want to publicize it," I say, leaning forward. "Not with everything still settling. I’ve inherited more than my father’s seat, Elvio. I’ve inherited his enemies too. And putting her in a spotlight could’ve made her a target.”
He grunts in approval. “Smart. Shame, though. It's been the grandest thing in Italian history. I’m sure she’s remarkable.”
I don’t hesitate. “She is.” I don't bother to hide the pride in my voice.
Tomasso smirks. “He’s in love. Head over heels.”
I don’t correct him, but I shoot him a glare.
Elvio’s face softens, his voice warm. “Love’s a rare thing in our world.
I had it with my Teresa, God rest her. She softened me, Giovanni.
Not many knew that. But she did. When she died, she took a piece of me with her.
” He pauses, as if recollecting old memories, then he smiles fondly. “Cherish what you have, Giovanni.”
There’s a weight to his words. I nod in respect. The silence stretches for a breath, then another. I break it by shifting the subject. “Where's Renata these days? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Elvio chuckles, shaking his head. “That girl’s off gallivanting the globe. Paris, Tokyo, who knows? Last I heard, she was in Bali. I've stopped keeping track. Camilla’s the one with her head on straight. She's the spine of this business.”
There's no real condescension for his second daughter. He loves her just as much as Camilla; that much is obvious.
He scratches the side of his neck. “If I drop dead tomorrow, maybe I’ll name her Don just to piss off the old men in the business.”
We all laugh. Tomasso’s laugh is the longest, and I don’t miss the way he tries to cover it with a cough. I glance at him, amused. He couldn’t have made it more obvious if he tried.
Business is concluded, small talks done. Elvio bids us farewell with one last handshake and a pat on my shoulder. We step out into the tiled hallway, walking toward the exit.
As we round the corner, Camilla appears, walking towards us, all peach linen and quiet confidence.
Her gaze lifts as she catches sight of us, and her eyes flickers.
There's a glint of recognition, familiarity, and fondness. But it's aimed at me, not Tomasso. I don’t miss the way her gaze lingers a second longer than it should. Tomasso doesn’t either.
I glance at him. The slight downturn of his mouth is swift, but telling.
She comes to a slow stop in front of us, her steps light, deliberate, as though she’s calculating the weight of every movement. Her gaze skips over Tomasso with professional indifference. He attempts a greeting. She glides past it, moving closer to me.
“Giovanni,” she says, brushing her lips against my cheek. Her hand lingers on my arm longer than necessary. “I assume the deal went through?”
I nod once. “It did.”
She hums low in her throat, pleased but not surprised. Her gaze flickers again, as if she’s weighing whether to ask the next question. Then lightly, almost as an afterthought, but I know better, she asks, “And your wife?”
“She’s well,” I say, meaning it.
She hears it in my voice because her smile is stiff as she pulls back. “Goodbye, then,” she says smoothly. She turns on her heel and disappears down the corridor.
Tomasso watches her go, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed just slightly.
In the car, the air is cool, a soft mist clinging to the windows. The sky is a pale silver, heavy with the promise of evening rain. The driver ignites the car, and we head towards home.
Tomasso lights a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating his face. I know that habit. He only smokes when something sits heavy on him, or when he’s too pleased for words.
I watch the way the smoke curls around his fingers and decide it’s the former. Camilla’s dismissal definitely cut. Before, I'd have jested. But now, I know the taste of love, I understand him, and even sympathize with him.
“You know she’s got a thing for you, right?” he asks suddenly.
I laugh under my breath. “Camilla?”
He flicks ash out the window. “She’s subtle. But it’s there.”
“I’ve known,” I say.
He glances at me. “And?”
I grin. “She’s nothing but a friend.”