Chapter Two #2
"Nonna," Roselia greeted, her voice dropping into a tone of warm, easy affection. She leaned over the desk, kissing the older woman’s cheek. "The perimeter is secure. The new rotations Marco set up are holding well. They’re tight."
"Marco is sloppy, but he learns," Valentina replied, a rare smile gracing her lined face as she looked up at the younger woman. "It is good that you check his work."
"Don't tell him that his ego will swell," Roselia chuckled.
She casually rested her hip against the edge of the desk, crossing her arms. Bruno immediately trotted over, leaning his entire body weight against her leg.
She let her hand drop, absently stroking his head. "I came to ask you about tomorrow."
"Ah, yes. The lunch," Valentina sighed, looking mildly pained.
"I was thinking," Roselia said, keeping her voice light.
"I know we made plans for tomorrow, but maybe instead of tomorrow, we push the city trip to Saturday? Ana wants to go to that new boutique in Posillipo, and she hates going without backup. If we go Saturday, we can combine all of it. Lunch, the boutique, and getting Ana out of Uncle Sal’s hair for the afternoon. "
Valentina considered this, tapping her pen against the blotter. "Saturday. Yes. That makes more sense. Ana mentioned she wanted you there to tell her the truth about how the clothes look. She says I am too mean, and Willa only tells her what she wants to hear."
At the mention of Willa’s name, Roselia didn't flinch, didn't roll her eyes, didn't react at all. She simply nodded. "I’ll be brutally honest with her, don't worry. I’ll call her and set the time."
Renzo stood by the chaise lounge, his knuckles white around his crystal glass.
He was watching a masterclass in familial intimacy, and he was locked out of it.
He watched the way his grandmother’s eyes softened when she looked at Roselia.
He watched the way the dog practically worshipped the ground she stood on.
He listened to the casual mention of his mother, Ana, relying on Roselia’s company, seeking out her honest opinion, genuinely desiring her presence.
Renzo took a slow breath, the scotch burning the back of his throat.
His mind, trained to dissect complex logistics, to break down rival families, to read the microscopic shifts in a room full of killers, finally began to turn its calculating focus inward.
He looked at Roselia. She was strong, capable, unapologetic, and deeply entrenched in the very fabric of his family. She brought warmth into the room, even though she refused to share it with him. She commanded respect without demanding it.
Then, unwillingly, his mind conjured Willa.
Whenever Willa entered this parlor, the air turned stiff. Valentina became politely frigid. Ana found reasons to leave the room. The dog growled. His brothers made excuses to disappear. The only person who softened when Willa arrived was Renzo.
Why?
The question hit him not with the force of an explosion, but with the quiet, unsettling drip of water on stone.
Why was Willa the only person in his entire sprawling complicated orbit who didn't seem to like Roselia?
Willa constantly painted Roselia as a bully, a threat, a chaotic force determined to ruin her life.
For years, Renzo had accepted this narrative.
He had protected his delicate, soft fiancée from the rough, dangerous woman raised by a Capo.
But looking at the scene before him... looking at his grandmother smiling, his dog resting his head on Roselia’s boot, and Roselia herself unbothered, indifferent to his power.
What if the narrative was wrong?
What if Roselia wasn't the problem?
For the first time in his life, Renzo Falco—the Don, the man who prided himself on seeing every angle, every threat, and every truth—felt the chilling sensation that he had been looking at a masterpiece, oblivious to the fact that he was standing in the blind spot.
"Saturday it is, then," Roselia said, pushing off the desk. She gave Valentina’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll let Ana know. I'm going to take Bruno down to the lower gardens to run off some of this dramatic energy."
"Do not let him chase the peacocks," Valentina called after her.
"I make no promises," Roselia laughed. She turned, snapping her fingers. "Come on, monster. Let's go."
She walked toward the oak doors. Once again, she had to pass Renzo.
This time, Renzo didn't let her just walk by. He shifted his weight, stepping ever so slightly into her path. It wasn't an aggressive move, but it demanded acknowledgment.
Roselia stopped. She looked up at him, her dark eyes void of the warmth they had just held for his grandmother. She looked at him the way she looked at a locked door—a minor inconvenience to navigate around.
"Don Falco," she said, her voice polite and distant.
"Roselia," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a strange, unfamiliar weight. He searched her face, looking for the jealousy Willa always claimed was there, looking for the bitterness, the troublemaking spirit.
He found none of it. Only a vast, impenetrable indifference.
"Excuse me," she said softly, stepping neatly around him without waiting for his response.
She walked out the door, the dog trotting happily at her heels. The wood swung shut behind her, plunging the room back into silence.
Renzo stood in the center of the parlor, the ice in his glass melting.
He turned slowly, looking back at his grandmother.
Valentina had resumed her writing, the scratching of her pen the only sound in the room.
She didn't look up, but Renzo didn't need her to.
The seed had been planted, deeply and securely, in the dark, fertile soil of his mind.
And he knew, with certainty, that he was going to watch it grow.