6. Giovanni
— ? —
Giovanni
The Falcone deal is one meeting from done, and I can feel the end of it like a physical weight lifting off my shoulders.
Three months of careful work. Three months of letting Ludovica Falcone believe she had a chance with me, of watching her father through the gaps in her armor, of gathering intelligence piece by piece until I had enough to neutralize their threat to everything I’ve built.
After tonight, it’s finished. After tonight, I take my wife home to Milan and spend the rest of my life making up for every moment I’ve stolen from us.
But first, I have to survive the day.
My phone buzzes as I’m heading out - Beppe calling from Milan.
“The meeting’s at six,” he says without preamble. “Corrado’s compound. Full security protocols - phones and weapons collected at the door. Should be wrapped by seven if everything goes smoothly.”
“It never goes smoothly.”
“Which is why I’m calling.” A pause. “Rino says the signora seemed unsettled this morning. When he did his rounds.”
I stop, one hand on the car door. “Unsettled how?”
“She’s been restless all morning. Keeps going back to the terrace. Hasn’t eaten much. Keeps checking her phone like she’s waiting for something.” His voice is careful, measured. “Might be she needs you there tonight, boss.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
Something has been different with Cielo these past few days - I can see it in her face, hear it in her voice, feel it in the careful way she holds herself when I’m close. Whatever is weighing on her, I haven’t given her enough of myself to ask.
“One more night,” I say, more to myself than to him. “After tonight, I’m done. I’ll be here. Whatever she needs to tell me, I’ll be here to listen.”
“Rino’s on the villa while you’re gone,” Beppe says. “Territory’s allied - Marchetti’s people, not the Falcones - but I don’t like leaving her with just local staff.”
“The villa belongs to Marchetti, not the Falcones - separate territory, separate loyalty. Corrado’s truce doesn’t even cover that land because it was never in dispute.” I open the car door. “Keep Rino close anyway. I want eyes on every entrance until I’m back.”
“Done.”
* * *
The drive to Corrado’s compound takes me through hills that turn gold in the afternoon light, past villages that have stood for centuries, along roads that wind like snakes through terrain that doesn’t forgive mistakes.
I’ve made this drive a dozen times in the past three months, but today it feels different.
Heavier. Like I’m driving toward something I can’t quite see.
I think about Cielo as I drive. About the woman who stood in front of a Caravaggio five years ago and argued with a security guard about lighting, so passionate and so sure of herself that I couldn’t look away.
About the woman who married me knowing exactly what I was, who moved into my world without flinching, who let me train her to defend herself because she understood that love isn’t always enough to keep you safe.
She’s been unhappy for weeks. Longer, maybe. I’ve watched it settle over her like a fog, and I’ve told myself that finishing this deal was more important - that I was building something that would keep her safe forever, even if it meant making her miserable now.
But what if the deal costs me the thing I’m trying to protect?
The thought lodges itself under my ribs like a splinter, and I don’t have an answer for it.
* * *
Ludovica is waiting in the compound’s entrance hall when I arrive, dressed in dark green silk that matches her eyes and clings to curves she makes no effort to hide. Her smile when she sees me is warm and knowing, the smile of a woman who thinks she’s finally about to get what she wants.
“Giovanni.” She crosses to me, her heels clicking on the marble floor. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”
“I don’t get lost.”
“No.” Her hand comes up to rest on my arm, lingering too long. “You don’t. You always know exactly where you’re going, don’t you?”
I don’t pull away - not yet, not while we’re in the open where anyone could see - but I keep my voice flat. “Is your father ready?”
“He’s waiting in the study. Final review of the terms before the formal signing.” Her fingers trace a pattern on my sleeve. “But we have a few minutes. I thought we might talk first.”
“About what?”
“About what happens after.” She tilts her head up, and her eyes are bright with something that might be hope or might be calculation. “When this is all done. When the deal is signed and the truce is official and there’s no more need for… formalities.”
I know where this is going. I’ve known for weeks, watching her circle closer and closer like a shark that’s scented blood.
Ludovica has been patient - I’ll give her that.
She’s played the long game, waiting for the moment when the mission was complete and my pretense of availability might become something real.
But it was always pretense. Every moment of it. And I’m done pretending.
“There is no ‘after’ for us,” I say, and I make sure my voice carries no ambiguity. “This was business, Ludovica. Only ever business.”
Her smile freezes. “Business.”
“You provided information. I needed that information. When the deal is signed tonight, our arrangement is finished.”
“Our arrangement.” She pulls her hand back like I’ve burned her. “Is that what you call three months of-”
“Of what?” I keep my voice level, even though something in her expression is setting off alarms in the back of my mind. “I never touched you. I never promised you anything. If you imagined something that wasn’t there, that’s not my responsibility.”
“You let me imagine it.” Her voice drops, and underneath the hurt, I hear something harder. “You let me think the marriage was nothing. A convenience. Something you’d walk away from when something better came along.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You let me believe it. Every dinner you missed with her. Every late night you spent in my father’s house. Every time you looked at me like-” She breaks off, her jaw tight. “I thought it meant something.”
“It didn’t.”
The silence stretches between us, thin and sharp. I watch her face cycle through emotions - hurt, anger, humiliation, and then something else. Something cold and calculating that makes me think of her father, of the years of clan violence that shaped them both.
“You should stay tonight,” she says finally, and her voice is different now - lighter, almost casual. “After the signing. We’re hosting a dinner for the witnesses. It would look strange if you rushed off.”
“My wife is waiting for me.”
“Is she?” Ludovica’s smile returns, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “How nice. Such a devoted husband.” She steps back, smoothing her dress. “You should know - I think you’ll regret leaving early tonight. The dinner is going to be… memorable.”
It sounds like a warning. Or maybe a threat.
But she delivers it so casually, with such theatrical lightness, that I file it away as wounded pride.
Ludovica has always been prone to dramatic pronouncements - it’s part of what made her such a useful source.
She feels too much, talks too much, gives away too much without realizing it.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say. “The meeting?”
“Through there.” She gestures toward the study. “My father’s waiting.”
She walks away without looking back, and I watch her go with a prickle of unease that I can’t quite name.
* * *
The security station is at the end of the corridor, just outside the meeting room where Corrado is waiting.
I’ve been through this process before - weapons collected, phones surrendered, everything locked away until the business is concluded - but tonight it feels different.
Tonight, I find myself hesitating with my phone in my hand.
Cielo hasn’t called since this morning. Hasn’t texted.
The silence isn’t unusual - she’s been pulling away for weeks, drawing into herself the way she does when she’s hurt and doesn’t want to show it - but something about it nags at me.
Something about Beppe’s words this morning, about my wife sitting on the terrace since sunrise, waiting for something I haven’t given her.
I should call her. Just a quick word, a promise that I’ll be home soon, a reminder that she’s not forgotten.
But the meeting is starting, and Corrado doesn’t tolerate lateness, and this is the last night. The very last. After this, I have nothing but time.
I silence the phone - leaving it on, but muted - and hand it to the keeper at the security station.
He’s an older man, stone-faced and professional, and he places it in a cabinet with half a dozen others, each in its own marked slot.
The cabinet door closes with a soft click, and he turns a key in the lock before pocketing it.
“Signor Falcone’s daughter has a key as well,” the keeper mentions, almost apologetically. “He authorized her access to retrieve messages for guests if anything urgent comes through.”
I nod, filing that away. Ludovica with access to my phone. Ludovica able to see who calls, who messages, who might be waiting for me to answer.
She appears at my elbow as if summoned by the thought. I hadn’t heard her approach - she moves quietly when she wants to, a predator’s skill in a silk dress.
“All secure?” she asks, and her eyes flick to the cabinet, to the keeper, to the key he’s tucking back into his pocket. “Good. My father hates interruptions.”
She’s standing close enough that she could reach the cabinet without moving. Close enough that if a call came through, if that dark screen lit up with a name, she’d see it before anyone else.
“After you,” I say, gesturing toward the meeting room.
She smiles - that cold, calculating smile that’s replaced the warmth - and walks ahead of me through the doors.
I follow her in, and the doors close behind us, and my phone stays in its cabinet, silent and waiting.