Chapter 17
GIOVANNI
Liliana has stopped looking at me like I am a man she must survive.
That quiet watchfulness is still there, the kind born from years of being careful, but it has shifted.
When I reach for her hand now, she does not pause before placing hers in mine.
When she meets my gaze across the table, there is no immediate retreat.
It satisfies me more than I will admit, that slow erosion of her wariness. Every degree of trust she gives feels deliberate, something she has weighed before offering. It makes me want to protect it, even as I know I could shatter it if I am careless.
But there is something else I cannot ignore.
She is paler some days. Slower to rise from bed. Her movements at times seem tired, her eyes heavier. She brushes it off with that same quiet composure she has for everything she does not want me to see.
I notice. I don’t press. Not yet. She'll tell me when the time is right, when she trusts me enough to let me know.
It stays with me as I move through the day, lodged in the back of my mind even as I sit through meetings, even as I deal with the steady habit of work that never ends.
Even now, as I leave the quiet of my room and head for my study, the thought doesn’t leave me.
Tomasso is waiting when I step inside. He doesn’t need to speak for me to know. I can read it in the set of his shoulders, in the stillness of his stance.
Another shipment.
His voice is low, steady. “Same as before. Small crew. Professional. No traces left.”
The memory of the last hit sharpens immediately. The men we caught. The silence they thought would save them. It hadn’t. But this—this is cleaner. Too clean. Whoever’s behind it knows what they’re doing.
Tomasso’s tone stays steady. “We went back over the first hit. Looked deeper. The money trail is slower than we’d like, but we got a lead.”
I glance at him, waiting.
“Vittorio Greco.”
The name lands in my mind like a weight I’ve heard before.
I know him. His name is famous in our world.
Vittorio is the kind of man who wears polish like armor, smooth enough to stand in any room.
Snake-oil charisma over a darker truth. The kind of man who funds his own reach by putting others in debt, and making sure they never stop paying.
Tomasso’s gaze doesn’t shift as he goes on. “I kept digging. He’s more than just another financier. He was close to Renato Marchelli. Your wife’s father.”
Renato. Everything keeps circling back to that fucker. I say nothing.
Tomasso continues. “The connection isn’t surface. Renato owed him more than money. From what I was able to piece together, Greco has been bankrolling him for years. Not out of generosity. Out of expectation. There’s talk—old talk—that Renato promised him something when the time was right.”
I already know what it is before Tomasso says it. There's only one thing that's of value Renato could exchange with Greco.
“Liliana,” I say, a deadly calm washing over me.
“Liliana,” Tomasso confirms.
The word settles hard in my chest.
“That’s the rumor,” he adds. “He funded her father with the understanding she would eventually be his. He’s been patient for a long time. Your marriage to her changed that.”
The pieces shift. The docks. The hits. The precision of every move against me. This isn’t about money. This isn’t about territory.
This isn’t business. This is personal. And now he’s not just aiming at my shipments. He’s aiming at her.
If Renato is involved, he’s made the same mistake twice. I let one go before. Twice will be unforgivable.
The drive to the docks is quiet, the kind of silence that leaves space for the weight of the thought. The road stretches long and flat, the city pulling away behind us until it’s nothing but open asphalt and the hum of the engine.
Salt hits the air before we even see the water. The docks spread out ahead, familiar in the sharp bite of brine and the low groan of wood under pressure. My men are already in place, stationed with precision.
The cargo is secured. Damaged, but intact. The insult isn’t in what’s been lost—it’s in the attempt. In the fact that someone thinks they can keep coming at me without consequence.
I walk the length of the pier, my steps slow and deliberate. The old boards groan under my shoes, each sound sharp in the quiet.
“This is the same hand as before,” I say to Tomasso, my voice low but certain.
He nods once. “It’s Greco. He’s not hiding his reach. He thinks you won’t see it until it’s too late.”
My gaze shifts to the water. The tide rolls in slowly, steady, carrying faint traces of reflected light on its surface.
Vittorio Greco.
Renato’s friend. His financier. A man who has built a career on patience, convincing himself it makes him untouchable.
I turn from the pier, decision final. “Double the security. Lock every route. Nothing moves without my word. And start preparing a message for Greco. He needs to understand that touching what’s mine isn’t a game he can afford.”
Tomasso doesn’t argue. His phone is already in his hand, fingers moving as he starts the call.
But my mind is already gone from here.
It’s at the estate.
With her.
The drive back feels longer than it should. The road heavy under the tires, the hum of the engine steady and low, each mile an anchor against the impatience building under my skin.
When I step through the doors, the house is as it always is—quiet, controlled, every detail in place.
I don’t have to ask where she is.
Liliana is in the garden.
I see her from the terrace. She's seated near the far edge, sunlight spilling across her hair. Her posture is easy in a way that makes me stop for a moment, just to watch. When she hears me, she looks up. Her eyes find mine with that same quiet steadiness she’s been carrying lately.
It’s different, the way she looks at me now.
“Come inside,” I say, my voice even.
She rises without hesitation, falling into step beside me as we walk back through the halls. Her steps are measured, her silence calm, but there’s something beneath it that pulls at me all the same.
We don’t speak until we reach my study. I close the door.
“Another shipment was hit,” I say.
Her brow pulls faintly. She doesn’t speak, but I see the small shift in her expression, the slight tightening.
I step closer. “Vittorio Greco.”
The change is small, but I don’t miss it. The stillness in her posture is the kind she wears when she’s deciding how much she will let me see.
“You know him,” I say.
Her hands move slowly, deliberately. My father’s friend.
It’s not enough.
“Not just a friend,” I answered, my voice sharpening. “A man your father promised something to. A man who thinks my marriage to you is the reason he’s been denied what he’s owed.”
Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. But there’s something there—anger, hurt, something I can’t name threading through the space between us.
Greco isn’t hitting my shipments because of business. He’s hitting them because of her.
And that makes this a different kind of war.
Her stillness tightens something in my chest. “You knew he would come for you,” I say, my voice steady.
Her eyes don’t move. Her hands lift slowly, the signs careful. I knew my father owed him. I didn’t know what he would do.
It’s a measured answer. Too measured.
My jaw tightens. “He’s not just circling my business, Liliana. He’s hitting it because of you.”
Her hands falter, just slightly, before she signs again. I didn’t ask him to. I don’t want anything from him.
“That doesn’t matter to men like Greco,” I say. “He’s waited years. He thinks patience makes him entitled. My marriage to you burned whatever fantasy he’s been holding on to.”
Her eyes flash at that, the first real break in her composure. It’s quick, but I see it—the shift beneath the still surface.
“You think this is about him being denied something he was owed,” I say, my voice quieter now, sharper. “I think it’s about him thinking he still has a claim.”
Her hands are still. The quiet between us stretches. The air in the room feels heavier, thickening with everything neither of us is saying.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question leaves me before I decide to ask it.
Her hands move slower now. Because it wasn’t yours to carry.
I take a step closer. “Everything that touches you is mine to carry.”
Her eyes lock on mine, the set of her mouth tightening. Her signs are quick this time, sharper. You think everything is yours to control.
The words hang there.
It shifts something in me, the way she throws it at me, the first hint of real volatility I’ve seen from her since she came here.
I don’t answer right away. I look at her, really look, at the tension in her shoulders, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
“This isn’t about control,” I say finally, my voice low. “This is about a man who thinks he can take what’s mine. That makes it my problem.”
She looks away for the first time, her gaze moving to the edge of the desk like she needs to anchor it somewhere. Her hands lift again, but there’s hesitation in the movement. I’m not something to fight over. I'm not worth it.
The words land differently than I expect.
Something in my chest tightens. I move closer, close enough that the space between us feels smaller. “You’re not something to fight over,” I say, my tone quieter now. “You’re someone I will fight for. You're worth it, every fucking fight.”
She doesn’t look at me right away. Her hands stay still in her lap, her breath measured, but there’s a shift in the air between us.
Her eyes come back to mine, steady again, but I can see the weight behind them.
“I’ll deal with Greco,” I say. The words are simple, final. “And until I do, protection around you doubles. No movement without my clearance.”
Her brow tightens faintly, but she doesn’t argue. It’s the closest thing to agreement I’ll get from her now. Saying nothing more because fury still burns beneath the surface, I leave.
The conversation doesn’t settle cleanly. It lingers, a low burn beneath the surface as the afternoon moves on. I keep working, but my mind stays divided, pulled between the weight of Greco’s name and the way Liliana looked at me when she said she wasn’t something to fight over.
She’s quieter through dinner. It’s not the old wariness, but there’s distance there, the kind that isn’t born from fear but from holding too much inside. I let it stand for now.
Later, when the house is quiet again, I find her in the sitting room near the garden. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, the low lamplight catching in her hair. She looks up when I enter, her eyes following me with that same quiet steadiness.
I stop in front of her, the words from earlier still lodged somewhere in my chest. “Liliana.”
She tilts her head slightly, waiting.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that earlier,” I say. The words aren’t easy, but they are true. “I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at what your father’s debt has brought to our door.”
Her hands lift slowly. You don’t need to explain.
“I do,” I say. “Because I don’t want you thinking my anger belongs to you.”
Her gaze holds mine, her expression still. But there’s the faintest shift in her eyes, a softening so subtle I almost miss it. She doesn’t sign again. She just nods once.
I take that for what it is.
As I turn to leave, I glance back at her once more. The stillness she wears isn’t the same as it was months ago. There’s something beneath it now. Something I don’t fully understand yet. But I will.
And until then, Greco will learn exactly how costly his patience has been.