Chapter 13 #2
I cross the room to her. I take the scarf from her hands, feeling the weight of it. The wool is soft, dense, threaded with patience and care. The color stops me for a moment. It's storm-gray, exact, like my own eyes.
“Liliana.” Her name slips out quieter than I intend, as though the air itself might catch the sound and keep it for me. Something shifts deep in my chest, solid and steady.
I draw her into me, one hand sliding to the back of her head, holding her there as though she might slip away if I don’t. I breathe her in, lavender and the faint warmth of sleep, the quiet presence that’s become more than habit. I’m in love with my wife. Entirely. Absolutely. Without condition.
When I pull back, I don’t step away. My hands stay on her face, my thumbs brushing over the soft line of her cheeks. I press my mouth to her forehead, then the curve of her cheek, then her lips. “Thank you,” I tell her, the words heavier than they sound. “I love it.”
Her eyes flick upward, still shy, like the weight of my words is something she can’t hold yet.
“Ti amo.”
Her smile is small, faint, the kind of smile that tells me she’s still holding herself back, that she needs time. I don’t need her to say it back. Yesterday she told me I was hers, and that’s enough for me. I can wait for her to fall the way I have.
I smooth my palm over her hair one last time, letting my fingers linger before ruffling it gently. It is harder than I want to admit to step away from her, but I force myself to turn, pulling the door quietly behind me.
In my own room, I move on instinct. The shower is quick, the water cold and bracing, stripping away the last traces of warmth clinging to my skin. It sharpens me, clears the haze of the morning, but it doesn’t touch what she left inside me. That stays.
I towel off, then dress in a charcoal suit and black shirt, each movement practiced, deliberate.
My hands pause briefly when I take the scarf.
I pause for a moment. It’s long, meant to wrap around my neck, the storm-gray knit close and even, every stitch neat and precise.
It isn’t winter yet, so I don’t wear it.
Instead, I set it carefully in the drawer where I keep the few things I won’t risk losing. I close it slowly, the weight of it still sitting in me even as I turn away.
When I step outside, Tomasso is leaning against the car, arms crossed, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes sweep over me, assessing, amused. “Shipment gets hit, and you show up looking like that. Good mood for bad news.”
I don’t bother with a reply, but my mouth tilts in a smile.
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Must be a good morning.”
I open the door and slide into the car without a word, still.
The gates are already rolling open when I catch sight of movement on the drive. Dario is coming in, walking at an easy pace until he notices me and Tomasso. His shoulders straighten, his step sharpens. His greeting is polite, careful, that faint note of wariness threading through his voice.
I acknowledge him with a single nod. I had disliked him when he first came visiting, but it's obvious Liliana loves her cousin. She is at ease with him. He makes her smile, and I trust that. I have looked into him thoroughly enough to know he is nothing like Renato. Dario will not harm her.
Tomasso’s gaze slides toward him as we pass. “You’ve got him half afraid of you.”
I keep my eyes forward, watching the road. “As it should be.”
“Ah, he speaks,” he says, his tone dry, amused.
I glance at him, the kind of look that warns against pushing further. He chuckles anyway, unfazed.
His attention shifts, his voice settling into business. “Messina dock crew was intercepted at dawn. Rival group. Three of us were injured. Like I told you earlier, the shipment’s been partially taken. We’ve got a location on where they moved the goods.”
“Names.” My voice is calm, but it’s not a question. It’s an order waiting to be filled.
“Small crew. But someone’s backing them. We’ll know more when we’ve got them.”
The city starts to fall away behind us, the streets opening into long stretches of road. The hum of the engine fills the quiet, the rhythm steady as we move closer to the water.
By the time we reach the docks, the air has shifted.
It carries the bite of salt and the weight of oil, the kind of scent that clings to everything it touches.
Gulls circle overhead, their sharp cries slicing through the steady rush of the tide.
Men are already waiting, their positions deliberate, spaced along the length of the pier.
I step out of the car, the wind moving off the water and cutting through the stillness. I adjust the cuff of my suit jacket, the quiet shift of fabric grounding me.
Tomasso falls in at my side, matching my pace as we walk the length of the dock. The old boards give faintly under our steps, the sound steady, measured, until we reach the far end.
Three men are kneeling there. Rival crew. Their wrists are bound, their heads lowered, shoulders set tight like they understand exactly where they stand.
One of my men steps forward. “Caught them trying to move the cargo inland.”
I look them over once, my gaze moving from one face to the next. “Where’s the rest?”
One of them lifts his eyes briefly, only to drop them again.
Tomasso’s voice is low, precise. “He asked you a question.”
The three remain silent, their heads bowed.
I step forward, closing the distance until my shadow falls across them. My voice drops, smooth, deliberate, carrying the weight I want them to feel. “You hit my shipment. You injured my men. And you believe silence will protect you?”
The one in the middle shifts slightly. His jaw tightens. It tells me everything I need to know. He is not talking. None of them are.
I straighten, my decision final. “Take them in. We’ll deal with them somewhere private.”
Two of my men move immediately. The sharp sound of boots striking wood fills the pier as the bound crew are dragged to their feet. They stumble but do not resist, the silence between them growing heavier with every step toward the waiting vehicles.
Tomasso falls in beside me again. His tone is clipped. “Cargo has been secured. Damaged, but intact.”
I nod once. The damage is contained. The men are in custody. The problem will not stay open for long.
Tomasso glances at me out of the corner of his eye, a faint curve of amusement at his mouth. “Still in a good mood, Gio?”
I keep my ahead. “Something like that.”
We leave the docks, the car rolling smoothly over the uneven stretch of road. The silence in the cabin is heavy, broken only by the hum of the engine.
Tomasso glances at me again, his expression knowing. “We’re heading where I think we’re heading, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” My answer is short, certain. There’s only one place to go when questions need answers and patience is already worn thin.
His mouth curves faintly, a low chuckle escaping him. “Good thinking.” He settles back against the seat like he already knows how this will end. He’s been with me long enough to remember how my father handled these situations. The place hasn’t changed. Neither has its purpose.
It’s an old network, one built carefully under my father’s hand and inherited by me.
Informants tied to the streets, the ports, the crews that orbit the city’s undercurrent.
They know how far their loyalty runs and what it costs to betray it.
When my father needed names, routes, or the truth that didn’t travel through polite channels, he went there. Now I do the same.
Whoever stood behind the men who touched my shipment will have a name before the day is out.
My informants are thorough. They always have been.
I trust them to dig through the silence, to pull the truth to the surface.
And when I have that truth, the weight of their mistake will crush them.
It will serve as a clear warning to anyone else watching what happens when they interfere with what belongs to me.
The city rolls by, the steady movement of the car a backdrop to my thoughts.
My mind slips back to the morning: Liliana's hands, small and careful, as she placed the scarf in mine.
The gray of it matches my eyes. The way she kept her gaze turned away, her wrist moving in that nervous rhythm I have come to know so well.
It was such a simple gesture, but it settled in me like something permanent. I know how long it must have taken her, and the effort, too.
The memory stays with me now, anchored in the middle of everything else, steadying the sharp edge of my temper. It pulls my mind back from the place it wants to go, gives me something solid to hold on to that is not driven by anger alone.
It keeps my focus sharp, my purpose clear. The storm waits beneath the surface, ready to break when I have the truth I came for. And I will have it.