Forty-one
Ciro
Massimo stands just inside the room, two of his men fanning out behind him, another holding position at the door like it already belongs to them.
I don’t shift. Chiara is behind me. Jim is to my right, close enough that I catch the slight turn of his shoulder, the signal passing without a word as his team tightens behind us.
I hold where I am, measuring distance, exits, and lines of sight. He didn’t come alone. Neither did I.
And I’m not the one adjusting.
“She doesn’t answer to you.” My voice stays level as I hold my ground, my hand settling lightly at my side instead of reaching back for her. I don’t give him a reason to shift this into something louder.
Massimo’s mouth lifts, faint, like I’ve confirmed something for him instead of cutting him off. He adjusts his stance just enough to square himself to her again, his shoulder angling past me, as if I’m a piece of furniture he’s already accounted for.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” he says, his tone even as his gaze stays locked behind me.
I step half a pace to the left, closing the line he’s trying to open, forcing him to acknowledge me if he wants her. “Then you’re done here.”
Behind me, I hear the soft controlled rustle of fabric as Chiara moves closer to me.
Massimo notices it too. His focus sharpens, his head tilting a fraction as if he’s taking her in piece by piece instead of rushing the moment.
“You’ve had your fun,” he says. “It’s time to go. Palo is waiting for you.”
She moves between me and Jim.
My hand lifts then settles at her hip to hold her in place without making it a fight. “You don’t have to.”
Massimo’s gaze drops to my hand at her hip and then lifts back to her face. The change is slight, but it’s there.
“You still check the locks twice before you sleep?” Chiara challenges him.
Massimo watches. Her comment obviously hitting a bullseye.
Then he steps forward, unhurried, closing the distance by a fraction. “I was starting to think you had a new mouthpiece.”
I move with him, matching the distance without making a show of it, keeping the space fixed. “That’s far enough.”
His attention moves to me. “You think this is about them.”
I hold his stare, not giving him anything to work with. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” His focus slides past me again, right back to Chiara. “You already crossed it when you moved her into your house.”
Chiara exhales, controlled, like she’s deciding what matters and what doesn’t. Her hand lifts, brushing my arm for a second before settling at her side again.
“What do you want Mass?” she asks.
His expression doesn’t change. “You were so kind to lead us to dear old mom.”
My hand tightens slightly at her hip before I force it to ease, keeping the contact steady instead of reactive. “They’re leaving with us.”
Massimo’s gaze drops again, tracking the contact, the space I’m holding without saying it outright. Then it lifts, meeting mine fully this time. “I don’t think so.”
“I do.” I puff my chest up. Whatever happens, she’s not leaving with them. Not if Jim and I have anything to say about it.
He studies me for a second, the silence stretching just long enough to register, and then lets out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh. “You’re standing in the middle of something you don’t understand.” He looks directly at me. “And you think saying it out loud makes it true.”
Movement draws at my back, subtle but deliberate. Not Chiara—Patrizia. She eases a step away from the center of the room, controlled, and measured.
Chiara tracks it immediately.
Massimo catches it too, his gaze cutting briefly toward the movement before returning to her, as if that single step told him everything he needed to know. “She’s already leaving you,” he says quietly. “Just like she did when we were kids.”
“Stop,” Chiara says, sharper now.
I release her. She doesn’t step past me or fall back. She isn’t his, and she isn’t mine.
“You don’t get to walk in here and tell me what I’m doing.” Her gaze locks on Massimo. “Not anymore.”
Massimo’s expression changes again. He takes another step, smaller this time, testing the space she just opened.
“I don’t have to tell you,” he says. “But I’ve always known she was alive.” He turns to Chiara. “If you want the chance at a reunion with our mother, then you’d better do as you’re told.”
“When are you going to get it?” I keep my voice level trying not to escalate the situation. “You’re out numbered here and out gunned.”
Massimo’s mouth curves, faint, as if I’ve confirmed something instead of stopping anything. “I wasn’t speaking to you.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. His attention stays fixed past my shoulder, locked on her like I’m not the one standing here.
I shift half a step, without making it a challenge, enough that if he wants her, he has to come through me. He doesn’t adjust. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I knew if Alyssa told you he knew where she was, you’d dump him in a second and come running.” His gaze still on Chiara. “I told them you would.”
Chiara gasps, and the room goes quiet behind me.
“You’re done here,” I say, keeping my tone even.
Massimo’s attention comes to me at last, unhurried, assessing rather than pushing. “You think this ends because you’re standing there.”
Movement draws at my back, controlled and deliberate. Her mother. She’s already shifting her position, angling herself toward the edge of the room. I take it in without turning, the intent clear in the way she moves. She’s not waiting to see how this plays out. She’s planning her exit.
“Stop,” Chiara says from behind me. “Not like this.”
I step forward, closing the space he’s been taking in pieces, and make him deal with me directly.
“You walk out,” I tell him, keeping my tone even as I hold his gaze. “Now.”
Behind me, Chiara adjusts her position, not stepping away and not moving in, just enough that I feel the change against my back and register that she hasn’t stayed where I set her. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
At my back, her mother moves a measured step that takes her closer to the edge of the room and closer to the door.
Chiara tracks it.
Her mother doesn’t stop. “You need to go,” she says, not looking at any of us, her focus already fixed beyond the room. “All of you.”
“There it is,” he says. “You don’t even ask her. She knows what this all means.”
I shift my weight back a fraction, not giving ground so much as resetting the space. “Chiara,” I say, without turning. “We’re leaving.”
Her breath catches behind me.
Patrizia steps forward from the edge of the room. “Tell your father I’m alive and where I am. He’ll want to hear that from you.”
Massimo’s attention focuses fully to her now. He doesn’t move, but the change is there.
“And tell him if he comes near me or my daughter,” she continues, “I go to the press with what I have on the O’Malley deal.”
The room stills.
The room goes quiet, the kind that draws attention without forcing it. The men along the walls shift their focus to Massimo, waiting to see how he takes it.
His expression holds, but something tightens in his gaze as it settles on Patrizia.
She doesn’t look away. “He’ll understand exactly what that means.” She lets it sit before adding, “And so will the FBI.”
No one steps in. Chiara stays beside me, silent, steady, the tension in her contained but present.
Massimo takes a moment, studying Patrizia as if he’s reassessing the ground under him. “You’ve been sitting on that.”
“I’ve been staying alive.”
I move forward, reclaiming the space he’d been working to take, placing myself back between them. “You heard her.”
He looks at me, and then back to her, the calculation still there, but altered. The certainty he walked in with doesn’t hold the same way now.