Chapter 13
“Sir, you need to put your seatbelt on. We’ll be starting our descent shortly.”
The flight attendant’s voice cuts through the low vibration of the engines, pulling me back from the memories I shouldn’t be entertaining.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and sit up straighter, tightening the seatbelt across my hips.
Raising the visor, I squint against the harsh light spilling through the oval window.
Below, the Italian countryside stretches out in a sun-drenched tapestry—olive groves and vineyards quilted into rolling hills, pale roads cutting like scars through the landscape, golden haze softening the edges.
Minutes. That’s all I have left before we land on the Cosa Nostra’s private airstrip. Minutes until I’m face-to-face with the man who engineered this whole nightmare of a marriage contract, and, far too soon for my liking, meeting the girl I’m supposed to marry.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
The jet banks left, beginning its descent, and Turin slowly unfolds beneath us—a labyrinth of narrow streets, terracotta rooftops glowing red-orange in the heat, the distant Alps like ghostly sentinels blurred on the horizon.
It’s a city carved in stone and history, ancient and unyielding, like the fate I’m chained to.
The plane bumps against the tarmac, jolting me back to reality. A little over two hours in the air and every muscle aches like I’ve gone five rounds with my Da in the Pit. I stretch my legs and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness before making my way to the front.
The flight attendant greets me with a bright smile as she opens the cabin door. “Welcome to Italy, sir.”
Yeah. Fanfuckingtastic.
I slip on my sunglasses before stepping into the furnace outside. The air hits instantly—dry, heavy, tainted with jet fuel and the sickly sweetness of overblown gardenias.
At the foot of the stairs, they’re waiting. Antonio, flanked by his son, Nico, and half a dozen soldiers in tailored black suits. But it’s not the guards that make my blood run cold.
It’s the girl standing at her father’s side.
Halfway between eighteen and nineteen, she still carries the soft roundness of youth, despite the thick mask of makeup plastered across her face.
She looks like the perfect answer to someone else’s prayers.
The good girl. The well-bred Salvatore daughter.
Every inch of her screams obedience, duty, sweetness.
And fuck you, Matt—this is your future.
But then I see it, the flicker beneath the surface. The way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’d rather be clenching them into fists. The way her dark, glossy eyes dodge mine, the twitch of her lip as she reluctantly looks at me.
And maybe the cruellest part? None of this is her fault.
She’s just another pawn in the game. A sacrifice disguised as a bride.
She didn’t ask for this anymore than I did, and yet I can’t bring myself to pause as she tries to introduce herself.
Instead, I focus my attention on Salvatore, ignoring the staccato click of camera shutters.
Fucking hell.
Did they really have to bring the paparazzi with them? I can already see how they’ll spin this and know that by nightfall, every news feed from Rome to New York will be flooded with images of me landing in Turin, meeting my soon-to-be bride.
And Lily will see it.
That thought lands hard and sudden, sinking like a stone in my gut.
Lily, alone in her flat in Lyon. Watching.
Judging. Hating me a little more than she already does.
I should relish that, let her have a taste of her own medicine and see how she likes it, but my conflicted feelings for her make that anything but straightforward.
Part of me wants to push her away with this, make her feel the sting of helplessness, the same way she’s made me ache for months. And yet… there’s a knot in my chest at the thought of her watching, imagining her soft gasp, the tilt of her head, the way her dark eyes always pierce me.
I hate that I think of her like that. Hate that a part of me craves her judgment, her attention, even in moments I should use to punish myself for letting her get under my skin.
And yet I can’t. I can’t pretend I don’t care.
Can’t pretend that a single glance from her doesn’t set my pulse racing, makes me grit my teeth, makes my body remember exactly how she feels in my arms.
The anger at Salvatore, at the entire staged spectacle, battles with the ache for Lily, twisting me from the inside out. I should be focused, calculating, ready to strike, and yet all I feel is this pull, this damn pull, that has nothing to do with revenge, and everything to do with her.
Salvatore steps forward—short and thick-set, silver hair slicked back, every expensive detail of his suit screaming control. His sunglasses hide nothing of the sharp calculation in his eyes, and I can feel the weight of it all before he even speaks.
“Matthew O’Malley,” he calls out, spreading his arms like a doting father greeting a long-lost son. “My future grandson-in-law.”
I force a handshake, his palm dry and his grip weak—deceptively casual. I want to crush every bone in his hand.
“Don Salvatore,” I say flatly. “Pleasure.”
He laughs, deep and booming, as if I’ve just delivered the best joke of the day. “Please, call me Antonio. We’re family now, no? Come inside before we roast like pigs. You must be tired after your flight. There’s a bottle of our finest vintage waiting. And your future bride, eh?”
He glances at the girl behind him, smoothing her skirt. I barely acknowledge her. I don’t want her. I don’t want any of this. What I want doesn’t wear pearls or forced smiles. She carries secrets and defiance, she’s wild, untamed, alive. But it doesn’t matter. It never has.
“Tonight,” Salvatore says, “we dine, we talk, we drink. We can discuss the future. You’ll meet my wife, Vera, and get to know my granddaughter. She’s a sweet girl. Very obedient. Her mother—God rest her soul—made sure she understood her duties.”
I grind my teeth. Obedient.
That’s what they want. A son who plays the part and marries the girl. Pops out heirs. Keeps alliances stitched tight.
But all I can think about is Lily.
Five hours away in Lyon. So close. Too close.
She’s everything this girl is not. Sharp, where they demand softness. Wild where they want tame. She makes me feel alive, human.
And I miss her.
I miss her like a wound that hasn’t healed.
Inside the SUV, the cool air hits my face, carrying leather and faint cigar smoke. Nico slides in beside me, boxing me in between him and his father as a soldier climbs into the driver’s seat.
Turin’s outskirts blur past—industrial warehouses giving way to rolling hills, vineyards, and ancient villages baked by the sun. It’s a beauty laced with poison—seductive, dangerous, a trap disguised in sunlight.
Salvatore talks the whole way—business, family, how honoured they are the Points want to cement this business deal. Nico stays silent, phone glowing dimly as he types, eyes flicking up to me now and then, measuring.
I nod where expected, offer clipped responses, try to seem present enough for the sake of the charade, and keep my eyes off the girl sitting opposite me.
But my mind keeps pulling back to Lily.
The feel of her skin beneath my hands.
The way her voice wraps around my name like she owns it.
And then the darker thoughts creep in, oily and relentless—did she help her mother find girls? Funnel them to Angus and Benedict?
I don’t want to believe it. Christ, I don’t. I tell myself there’s no way. That Lily—the girl who’s spent her whole life clawing for freedom, burning too bright to be chained—couldn’t be tangled in that mess.
But doubt has teeth. Sharp, quiet, gnawing away until it bleeds. And seeing Jen say on more than one occasion Lily found her a new lead, a new victim, is like a knife to the back.
This morning, somewhere between London and Italy, I pulled up the latest file Liam sent.
Benedict’s last wire transfers, emptied just hours before Helen killed him, as if he knew his time was up.
One of those transfers went through accounts tied to Jen.
The rest splintered into offshore banks in places I’ve only seen on money laundering reports.
I stared at the numbers, the ghost companies, trying to make the nonsensical make sense.
Was Benedict paying them? And if he was, where did Lily’s cut go? Or was he hiding money for her somewhere else? Where? The questions keep piling up, gnawing at my mind until it drives me fucking insane. My gut screams that nothing adds up.
If Lily was getting a cut, why start camming?
And I don’t know what scares me more—the thought that she’s innocent and needlessly in danger, or the idea that maybe she’s not innocent at all. Because if she is innocent… and we’ve exiled her like this for no reason… it doesn’t even bear thinking about.
I close my eyes, imagining her laugh, the tilt of her head, the fire in her dark eyes. And I swear, if anyone—anyone—dares to touch her, I’ll burn the world down to make sure they regret it. Because innocent or guilty, I am obsessed with her, and that’s never changed.
Outside, sunlight glints off marble statues and church domes. Even the trees look ancient, older than sin.
Eventually, we leave the main road, winding down a cypress-lined driveway. Stone walls rise around us, ivy clawing over iron gates the size of billboards. Everything here screams old money and darker secrets. Cameras tilt as we approach.
Salvatore leans forward. “You’ll love it here, Matthew. My family has lived on this land since before your country even existed. Its security is unmatched. Carlo runs things like a well-oiled machine.”
There it is—a calculated reminder that Salvatore owns the air we’re breathing, and thanks to Carlo, there’s nothing that happens on this estate without his knowledge.
I give him a thin, courteous smile. “It’s a beautiful estate. If Carlo runs your systems, I’d like to be introduced. I prefer to know the people watching my back.”
“It is beautiful,” he agrees smoothly. “And soon it’ll be part of your family’s history too.”
He pauses for a beat, looking out the window before continuing, “As for Carlo… he is a very busy man. I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t see him until the wedding. He keeps… interesting hours.”
My chest tightens, wrapped in barbed wire.
Not because of Carlo and his nocturnal schedule.
Because every word is a reminder that this isn’t a visit.
It’s a cage, and the wedding is the lock snapping shut.
The gates swing open, revealing manicured gardens bursting with blooms, white statues gleaming in the sun. Beyond stands the Salvatore villa—a baroque monster of pale stone and wrought iron balconies. Marble stairs climb to towering double doors, the facade so bright it almost blinds me.
I step out, heat and birdsong enveloping me. My shoes crunch gravel as soldiers fan out discreetly, scanning the perimeter. Gianna walks ahead before pausing at the base of the stairs. Same stiff smile, perfect posture, as she tries again to speak.
“Hi. I… I just wanted to say I’m really happy you’re here.” Her voice is small, cautious. A kid trying her best. It almost makes me feel like shit for how hard I don’t want this.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” That’s about all the kindness I can muster up for today.
Salvatore waves her off. “Go inside, Gianna. Give us a moment.”
She obeys instantly, vanishing into shadow.
Salvatore turns to me, all fatherly warmth. “Come. Let me show you your rooms. We’ll talk more tonight. The chef has prepared something special. You like lamb?”
“I like whatever’s in front of me,” I say flatly.
He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder, and I fight the urge to move away from his touch.
As I follow him toward the house, a breeze lifts the scent of lavender and old stone. For a second, I almost forget why I’m here. But then Lily’s face flashes in my mind. Her eyes wide, her voice shaking as she said, “I’m not like my mother.”
And I wonder—for the thousandth time—if that’s true.