Chapter Three #2
She is amazing, Renzo thought, his chest tightening strangely. She is magnificent.
***
The culmination of his silent investigations arrived a few weeks later, on a balmy Friday evening. Willa had packed three Louis Vuitton bags and left for the Amalfi Coast to spend the weekend with her mother at a luxury spa resort.
The moment Willa's black SUV rolled out of the iron gates, the atmospheric pressure in the Falco estate shifted. It was as if someone had opened all the windows and let a fresh, warm breeze sweep through the stone corridors.
The tension that usually lived in Renzo’s shoulders—the constant, subconscious need to manage Willa’s moods and protect her from perceived slights—vanished. The estate became, quite simply, a home.
That evening, the entire family gathered in the vast, sunken living room overlooking the sea. The French doors were thrown wide open, letting in the scent of blooming jasmine and the rhythmic sound of the waves.
Renzo sat in his deep leather armchair in the corner of the room, largely hidden by the shadows, a glass of aged Barolo resting on his knee. He stayed silent, watching the scene unfold before him like a starving man looking at a feast.
The dynamic was intoxicating.
Marco was perched on the edge of the large velvet sofa, tossing a deck of cards between his hands, grinning wickedly at Roselia, who was sprawled elegantly in the armchair opposite him.
"I'm just saying, Ro, you cheat," Marco declared loudly, pointing a card at her. "You count cards, you distract Enzo with violence, and you rob us blind."
"I do not cheat," Roselia shot back, though a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "You two are just remarkably stupid. It’s not my fault you have a tell."
"I do not have a tell!" Enzo protested from the floor, where he was currently engaged in a losing game of tug-of-war with Bruno over a thick rope toy.
"Enzo, when you have a good hand, your left eye twitches like you're having a stroke," Roselia informed him flatly. "It’s embarrassing."
Salvatore Falco roared with laughter from his place by the fireplace, clapping his hands together. "She’s right, figlio mio! You have the poker face of a panicked goat!"
Andre Zanetti chuckled, swirling his wine. "I taught her how to play when she was seven. She took fifty euro from one of my lieutenants by the time she was nine."
"And now she steals from us, it’s a tragedy," Enzo groaned, finally letting go of the rope. Bruno at once trotted over to Roselia, dropping the slobber-covered toy onto her immaculate boots. She bent down, scratching the beast affectionately behind the ears.
Valentina sat elegantly on a chaise lounge, a soft smile on her lips as she watched the chaos. "Roselia," the matriarch called out, her voice cutting through the laughter. "Next week, the seamstress is coming to the house. I have ordered silks from Florence. We are getting you new dresses."
Roselia groaned, dramatically throwing her head back against the chair.
"Nonna, please. What would I do with dresses?
I live in a warehouse and a training ring.
I can't fight in a dress." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully.
"Or maybe I can fight in a dress. The mobility might actually be an advantage if the skirt is slit high enough.
But the dry cleaning bills would be atrocious. "
Ana walked into the room carrying a tray of espresso cups, shaking her head affectionately. "Oh, stop complaining. I always wanted a daughter, Roselia. When you arrived, I was so happy. I thought, Finally, I have a little girl I can dress up in pretty things."
Ana set the tray down on the coffee table, planting her hands on her hips and giving Roselia a stern, loving glare.
"I raised three giant, destructive boys.
I deserve to have you dress up like a girl and let me fuss over you.
But no! You refuse. You are acting exactly like a boy too.
It is deeply ironic, and I am suffering. "
Salvatore and Andre burst into fresh laughter, while Marco and Enzo cheered for their mother.
Roselia smiled, a brilliant, unguarded expression that transformed her face, making her breathtakingly beautiful. "Why would I want to wear a dress, Ana? I want to fight. I like hitting Marco. A dress restricts my striking distance."
"She’s an animal, Ma," Marco agreed, though he was smiling broadly. "Remember the one time Nonna actually managed to put her in a dress? For Uncle Luca's wedding?"
Enzo gasped, sitting up straight. "Oh my God, the yellow dress! I remember!"
Valentina covered her eyes with one hand, shaking her head. "Do not remind me. The silk was irreplaceable."
"She made that dress so dirty she could never wear it again," Marco said, pointing an accusing finger at Roselia. "She looked like she had been dragged behind a tractor."
"I was trying to rescue a cat!" Roselia defended herself, though she was laughing too hard to sound indignant. "It was trapped in the oak tree behind the chapel!"
"Ro," Marco deadpanned. "I was there. I think the cat was more scared of you than the tree. I don't think it thought you were trying to rescue it. By the way you were scaling that trunk in a silk gown, I am fairly certain the cat thought you were going to eat it."
The room erupted into laughter again. Even Bruno let out a soft "woof," as if agreeing with the boys, which earned him a light shove from Roselia's boot.
In the corner of the room, surrounded by the shadows, Renzo sat completely still.
The warmth of the scene struck him with the physical force of a blow to the chest. He looked at his mother, whose eyes were shining with joy.
He looked at his fierce, unyielding grandmother, who was smiling softly at the chaotic girl she had helped raise.
He looked at his brothers, relaxed, stripped of the burdens of the syndicate, acting like normal men in their twenties.
And he looked at Roselia.
She was glowing. Surrounded by the people who loved her, she was vibrant, funny, sharp, and profoundly alive. She was the beating heart of this room.
When Willa is here, this never happens, Renzo realized, the thought loud and clear in the quiet confines of his mind.
When Willa was in the room, Marco and Enzo went silent, exchanging tight looks. Ana made polite, hollow conversation. Valentina turned to ice. Salvatore found reasons to leave. And Roselia simply vanished.
Willa didn't just dislike Roselia. Willa suffocated the entire family.
Renzo looked down at the dark red wine in his glass. The seed of doubt his grandmother had planted was no longer a seed. It had cracked open, taking deep, violent root in his chest. The blind spot he had operated with for years was disintegrating, leaving behind a cold, brutal clarity.
He didn't just have a difficult fiancée and a rebellious childhood friend. He had a woman who was actively manipulating his reality, isolating him from the very people who anchored his soul.
He looked back up, his dark eyes locking onto Roselia as she laughed at something Enzo said, her head thrown back, her dark hair catching the warm light of the chandelier.
Renzo Falco, Don of the largest crime syndicate in Europe, set his jaw. He was a man who traded in secrets, who destroyed his enemies by knowing everything they tried to hide. He had been a fool, blinded by a soft voice and a fragile facade.
But the Don was blind no longer. He needed more information. He needed to dismantle the mask Willa Contarini wore, piece by piece.
And he needed to start paying very, very close attention to Roselia Zanetti.