19. Cielo
— ? —
Cielo
I’m dressed and moving before the echo of Giovanni’s footsteps fades, my hands shaking as I pull on the clothes I discarded an hour ago when everything was soft and safe and stupid with hope.
The alarm is still screaming through the house, and underneath it I can hear other sounds - shouts, running footsteps, the particular chaos of a household under attack.
I know these sounds. I’ve heard them before, in a different house, in a different life, when I was younger and more naive and still believed that love was enough to keep me safe.
Gio.
The thought hits me like a physical blow, and I’m out the door before I finish buttoning my shirt, running down the hallway toward the playroom where Delphine was supposed to be watching him.
“Cielo!” Giovanni’s voice cuts through the noise, and I turn to see him at the top of the stairs, his expression hard and focused. “Stay with me.”
“Gio-”
“Delphine has him. She’s moving him to the safe room, exactly like we planned.” He’s at my side now, one hand on my arm, the other holding something I don’t want to identify. “But I need you to stay close. Can you do that?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I can’t get to my son without going through whatever’s happening downstairs, and Giovanni knows this house better than I do, knows where the danger is and where it isn’t.
“Okay.” He keeps his hand on my arm as we move down the hallway. “We’re going to circle around, meet Beppe at the back entrance. The main breach is at the front - they hit the gate hard, got through before the secondary system locked down.”
“How many?”
“Enough.” His jaw is tight. “But not more than we can handle. It feels like a test, Cielo. Like someone’s probing our defenses, looking for weak points.”
The words send ice down my spine. A test means there will be more. A test means this isn’t over.
We reach the back staircase, and Giovanni goes first, his movements careful and controlled in a way that reminds me of the man I married - the man I tried so hard to forget, the one who moved through danger like it was his native element.
“Stay behind me,” he says over his shoulder. “If anything happens-”
“I know. I remember the training.”
He pauses for just a moment, something flickering in his eyes - surprise, maybe, or recognition - and then he nods once and keeps moving.
* * *
The safe room is in the basement, behind a door that looks like part of the wall until you know where to push. Giovanni explained it to me when we first arrived, along with three different escape routes and a list of protocols I never thought I’d need.
We’re almost there when we round a corner and find two men in the hallway.
They’re dressed in black, professional, armed in a way that speaks of training and resources. One of them raises his weapon, and Giovanni moves so fast I barely see it - one second he’s beside me, the next he’s in front of me, and the man who was about to shoot is on the ground.
The second man goes for me.
I don’t think. I just react - the training Giovanni drilled into me years ago, the muscle memory I thought I’d lost, coming back in a rush of adrenaline and instinct. My elbow connects with something soft. My knee comes up hard. The man staggers, and Giovanni finishes him before he can recover.
“You okay?” He’s breathing hard, his eyes scanning me for damage.
“Fine. Keep moving.”
We keep moving.
* * *
The safe room door is open when we reach it, which is wrong - it should be sealed, locked from the inside, impenetrable until the all-clear sounds.
My heart stops.
“Gio-”
“Wait.” Giovanni’s hand on my arm again, holding me back. “Let me check.”
He goes in first, weapon raised, and I count the seconds until his voice comes back to me.
“It’s clear. They just got here.”
I push past him into the safe room. Delphine is at the door mechanism, her hand on the interior lock - she must have been seconds from sealing it when we arrived.
She steps back to let us through, then finishes engaging the lock behind us before crossing to the corner where Gio is huddled, pulling him into her arms. Her face is pale but determined.
Gio is pressed against her chest, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole body trembling.
“Mamma?” His voice is small, terrified.
“I’m here, piccolo.” I cross the room in two steps and drop to my knees beside them, pulling him into my arms. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
“The bad men came.” He’s crying now, tears streaming down his face. “There were loud noises and Zia Delphine said we had to hide and I was scared, Mamma, I was so scared-”
“I know, baby. I know.” I hold him tighter, feeling his heart hammer against mine. “But you’re safe now. Papa’s here. We’re all here.”
“Papa?” He lifts his head, and his eyes find Giovanni in the doorway.
And I watch my son’s face change.
Because Giovanni is still holding his weapon.
Giovanni is still covered in the evidence of what he just did, the particular marks of violence that can’t be hidden or explained away.
Giovanni looks exactly like what he is - the most dangerous man in this city, capable of things a four-year-old should never see.
Gio flinches.
It’s small, involuntary, the instinctive recoil of a child who’s just learned something terrible about the world. But Giovanni sees it. Across the room, I watch him register that flinch, watch something in his expression crack and harden all at once.
“Papa fought the bad men,” I say quickly, trying to bridge the gap. “That’s why he looks like that. He was protecting us.”
“He hurt them.” Gio’s voice is barely a whisper.
“He had to, piccolo. To keep us safe.”
“But-” He looks between me and Giovanni, his young mind trying to reconcile the papa who tells bedtime stories about space with the man standing in the doorway covered in proof of violence. “But hurting people is wrong. You said.”
“I did say that.” I brush the hair back from his forehead, choosing my words carefully. “But sometimes, when someone you love is in danger, you have to do things you wouldn’t normally do. To protect them.”
“Like a superhero?”
“Something like that.”
Gio considers this for a long moment, his brow furrowed with the particular gravity of a child working through a difficult concept. Then he looks at Giovanni again, really looks at him, and says, “Did you protect us, Papa?”
Giovanni’s voice, when it comes, is rough with emotion. “I will always protect you. Both of you. No matter what.”
“Even from the bad men?”
“Especially from the bad men.”
The tension in Gio’s small body eases slightly, and he relaxes back against me, apparently satisfied with this answer.
But I see what it costs Giovanni - see the way his jaw clenches, the way he quietly tucks the weapon out of sight behind his back before crouching down to Gio’s level.
He moves slowly, deliberately, making himself smaller, less threatening.
“Hey, piccolo,” he says softly. “Papa’s right here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Gio studies him for a moment, then reaches out one small hand to touch Giovanni’s face - checking, maybe, that this is still the same papa who tells bedtime stories about space. Giovanni holds perfectly still, letting himself be examined.
Whatever Gio finds must satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his small shoulders.
* * *
It takes another hour for the house to be secured, for Beppe and Rino to account for all the intruders and sweep every corner for stragglers. Giovanni stays with us in the safe room for most of it, checking in by radio, coordinating the cleanup without leaving our side.
When the all-clear finally sounds, we emerge into a house that looks mostly normal - a few broken windows, some overturned furniture, nothing that can’t be fixed with money and time. The bodies are already gone, handled by men whose job it is to make problems disappear.
But on the kitchen table, there’s evidence that wasn’t meant to be cleaned up: a torn piece of fabric, black, bearing a symbol I recognize.
The Falcone crest.
“The windows,” Giovanni says quietly to Beppe, gesturing at the broken glass scattered across the floor. “We’ll need repairs. Use the usual vetted supplier - bring the crew in tomorrow.”
“I’ll arrange it first thing,” Beppe replies.
I look at the shattered panes, the evidence of how easily they got in. More strangers in our home. More people learning the layout. The thought sits uneasily in my chest.
“They’re not even trying to hide it,” Giovanni says, his voice flat. “This is a message.”
I stare at the crest, and the cold that’s been building in my chest since the alarm first sounded crystallizes into something sharper.
“Falcone,” I repeat, and the name tastes like poison on my tongue. “Just like before. Just like Sicily.”
Giovanni’s eyes meet mine, and I see the same recognition there - the same terrible understanding.
“She’s still out there,” I say. “Ludovica. She’s still coming for us.”
“Yes.” His voice is hard. “This attack confirms the Falcones are still involved. Still coming for us.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the house, and I think about a phone call five years ago - a laughing voice, a taunt, the moment everything I thought I knew turned to ash.
I’m the reason for all of this.
And now she’s back. Or rather, she never left - she’s been out there this whole time, planning, waiting, and now she’s found us.
The Falcone crest stares up at me from the table, and I know exactly whose name it represents.