Chapter Six
The suffocating Mediterranean heat had finally broken, leaving the Falco compound bathed in the long, violet shadows of early evening.
It was Tuesday. In exactly seventy-two hours, the wrought-iron gates would open, and Willa Contarini’s black SUV would crawl up the gravel drive, bringing the poison back into the estate.
For now, however, the air was clear.
Enzo Falco leaned against the limestone balustrade of the western terrace, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Below him, the vast expanse of the lower courtyard was alive with the sounds of training.
The rhythmic thud of fists against leather striking pads echoed against the ancient stone walls.
Roselia was in the center of the dust, her dark hair pulled back into a severe knot.
She was sparring with two of the newer enforcers, moving with a fluid grace that always left Enzo secretly awed.
She ducked a sweeping hook, twisted her hips, and drove the heel of her boot into her opponent’s thigh, sending the man staggering backward with a breathless grunt.
Enzo grinned around his cigarette. But as his gaze drifted away from the sparring ring, his smile vanished.
Standing beneath the shaded arches of the colonnade, partially obscured by the climbing ivy, was Lorenzo.
Enzo narrowed his eyes, tracking his older brother’s posture. Renzo wasn't just passing through. He wasn't casually observing the perimeter or evaluating the new recruits. He was unblinkingly focused on Roselia.
It was a look Enzo had never seen on the Don’s face.
It wasn't the cold, calculating stare of a mafia boss, nor was it the indulgent, absent gaze he usually reserved for Willa.
Renzo was watching Roselia the way a starving man stares through a window at a banquet.
His dark eyes tracked the line of her throat as she tipped her head back to drink from a water bottle.
He watched the way her shoulders moved, the way she laughed with the men she had just dropped into the dirt.
There was an almost devastating reverence in Renzo's expression. It was the look of a man who had suddenly awakened from a decades-long coma, only to realize the most magnificent creature on earth had been standing in his courtyard the entire time.
Enzo took a slow drag of his cigarette, a sudden, fierce spike of irritation burning in his chest. Oh, absolutely not, he thought, crushing the cherry against the stone railing.
He didn't wait. Enzo turned on his heel, striding through the open French doors and down the sweeping marble staircase. He found Marco in the billiards room, chalking a cue stick under the low-hanging amber lights.
"Put that away," Enzo ordered, his voice tight. "We have a problem."
Marco paused, leaning against the edge of the green felt. "If the shipment from Palermo is delayed again, I swear to God—"
"It’s not the shipment," Enzo interrupted, closing the mahogany doors behind him to seal them in. "It’s Lorenzo."
Marco straightened up, the casual demeanor instantly melting into the sharp vigilance of a syndicate lieutenant. "What happened?"
"He’s tracking her, Marco. Roselia," Enzo explained, pacing the length of the room. "I just spent ten minutes watching him lurk in the colonnade. He’s staring at her like he’s never seen a woman breathe before.
He’s following her movements, watching her laugh.
He has this look on his face—like a man who just realized he’s holding a diamond after treating it like glass for years. "
Marco’s jaw tightened. He tossed the cue stick onto the table, the wood clattering loudly in the quiet room. "Where is he?"
They found their older brother exactly where Enzo had left him. Renzo had stepped slightly out of the shadows, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes still fixed on the courtyard where Roselia was now untaping her knuckles.
Marco and Enzo didn't announce their presence. They simply walked into the colonnade and positioned themselves squarely in front of him, forming a solid, impenetrable wall of tailored suits and furious sibling protectiveness.
Renzo blinked, the spell breaking as his view of the courtyard was abruptly severed. He looked at his younger brothers, his brow furrowing in irritation. "You are blocking the air, Marco. Move."
"We aren't moving an inch," Marco said, his voice dropping into a quiet register. He stepped closer, invading the Don’s personal space—a move that would have gotten any other man in the compound shot. "What exactly do you think you’re doing, Lorenzo?"
Renzo’s eyes narrowed. "I am standing in my own home. Is that a crime?"
"It is when you’re using it to play games with her," Enzo fired back, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder toward the courtyard. "If you think you can suddenly decide she’s interesting and start orbiting her, you can shut it down right now."
Renzo was genuinely taken aback. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the syndicate head slipped, revealing the stunned older brother beneath. His own blood—his most trusted commanders—were actively barricading him.
A complex knot of emotion tightened in Renzo’s chest. He was fiercely annoyed by the insubordination, yet an overwhelming, staggering surge of pride crashed into him. They were protecting her. From him.
"I am not playing games," Renzo said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous drawl. "And I don't recall asking for your permission to observe my own family."
"Did you honestly think we would just stand by and let you corner her?
" Marco challenged, his dark eyes burning with defiance.
"You’ve spent two decades proving you are a complete liability to her peace of mind.
Every single time she was attacked in this house, you looked the other way.
You let a viper tear her to shreds and then you handed the viper a crown.
Why in God's name would we ever let you near her now? "
The words struck Renzo with the force of a physical blow. The unvarnished truth of it tasted like ash in his mouth.
"She requires a man who puts her first, Lorenzo," Enzo added, his tone unwavering.
"Someone who doesn't need a mountain of forensic evidence to believe her word over a liar's tears. She deserves to be the center of someone’s world.
You have spent your entire life showing her she isn't even worth your benefit of the doubt. "
Marco leaned in closer, his voice fierce. "We bleed for you because you are our Don. We respect the seat you hold. But as a man? We wouldn't trust you to hold her coat, let alone her heart."
Silence descended over the stone archways. The distant sounds of the waves crashing against the cliffs filled the void.
Renzo stood before them, absorbing the brutal, merciless judgment of his own blood. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pull rank. He simply let his hands drop to his sides, stripping away the armor of the Don to leave only the raw, unguarded truth.
"I am not going to cause her any more pain," Renzo said softly, the quiet intensity of his voice carrying more weight than a scream. "I swear it."
Marco let out a harsh, bitter sound. "You’ve drawn blood from her more times than any rival family ever could. A lifetime of collateral damage. What’s your plan, Renzo? Are you just going to hand her a bouquet and say sorry for a thousand betrayals?"
Renzo met Marco’s furious gaze without flinching. "I will carve the apologies into the stone with my bare hands while on my knees, if that is what she requires."
Marco froze. Enzo’s breath hitched in his throat.
The Don of the Falcons bowed to no one. Kings, politicians, and killers trembled in his presence. Yet here he was, staring down his younger brothers, promising to drop to his knees for a woman who currently wouldn't spit on him if he were on fire.
"Are you..." Enzo swallowed hard, exchanging a deeply shocked look with Marco. "Are you serious?"
"I have never been more serious in my life," Renzo replied, his dark eyes blazing with conviction.
Marco studied his older brother's face, searching for any hesitation, any lingering fragment of the delusion that had plagued him for years. He found only cold, hardened resolve.
"Fine," Marco said slowly, taking a fractional step back.
"That’s a beautiful sentiment. But Willa comes back in three days.
And if you think you can court Roselia while that parasite is sleeping in the east wing, you are more delusional than we thought.
Willa will gut her all over again, and we both know it. "
The temperature in the colonnade plummeted. Just hearing Willa’s name now caused a violent, visceral reaction in Renzo’s blood. The illusion was dead, leaving behind a cold, calculating rage.
"Willa Contarini will never breathe the same air as Roselia again," Renzo said, his voice a quiet promise. "She will not be permitted within a mile of her. I will ensure it permanently."
Enzo crossed his arms, his posture remaining rigid. "That is the bare minimum, Lorenzo. It’s a first step. But understand this: we are watching you. Every move you make toward her, we are evaluating. You don't get the benefit of the doubt."
Renzo felt a dark, sharp smirk touch the corner of his mouth. The audacity of his brothers was staggering, and he respected the hell out of it. "Of course," he murmured smoothly, stepping around them to head back into the estate. "Watch me all you want."
While the Falco brothers waged a silent war over her future, Roselia Zanetti was oblivious, standing in the industrial kitchen of the main house.
She leaned against the marble island, eating a slice of fresh melon while Ana Falco bustled around the stovetops, lecturing the prep cooks in rapid-fire Italian.
"You need to eat more iron, cara," Ana scolded, pausing to point a wooden spoon at Roselia. "You are running yourself ragged with those new recruits. Your father agrees with me."