Chapter Fourteen
The Saturday morning sun washed over the Falco estate in a brilliant, unblemished tide of gold, casting long, warm shadows across the limestone terraces.
Inside the grand dining room, the atmosphere was a chaotic, musical blend of clinking porcelain, the rich aroma of freshly pulled espresso, and the lively cadence of family bickering.
It was a perfectly mundane weekend, a rare luxury in the syndicate world.
Ana, Valentina, and Roselia were preparing to leave for a private women’s luncheon in the heart of Naples—a long-standing tradition that had been joyously reinstated now that the suffocating presence of Willa Contarini was nothing but a toxic memory.
Roselia stood near the oak sideboard, pouring a splash of cream into her coffee. She wore a tailored, dark plum pantsuit that was undeniably elegant, though it still allowed for the seamless concealment of the twin throwing knives strapped to her thighs.
She took a sip of her coffee, her dark eyes narrowing in exasperation at the man standing across the room.
Lorenzo Falco was currently cornering Casimir Valente by the archway, his voice was a low, intense hum of authority as he reviewed the security logistics for the fourth time.
"Two lead vehicles, two in the rear," Renzo instructed, his dark eyes devoid of compromise.
"I want plainclothes men inside the restaurant, securing the kitchen exits, and a sniper on the adjacent rooftop overlooking the piazza.
No one gets within a twenty-foot radius of their table without clearing a pat-down. "
Roselia set her cup down with a sharp, echoing clatter. "Lorenzo, I am going to eat a Ni?oise salad with your mother and grandmother. We are not negotiating a ceasefire with the Russian mob. You do not need to position a sniper on a bakery roof."
Renzo paused his briefing, turning his head to look at her. The cold, tactical mask he wore for his enforcer instantly melted into an expression of fierce, unapologetic devotion. He walked across the room, ignoring the amused smirks from Marco and Enzo, who were seated at the table.
"You are wearing a silk suit, Roselia, not Kevlar," Renzo countered smoothly, stopping just inches in front of her. He reached out, his long fingers gently adjusting the lapel of her jacket.
"I have three blades on my person," she reminded him, batting his hand away, though the corners of her mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. "I can handle a threat. You are acting unhinged."
"I am acting like a man who knows exactly what he possesses," Renzo murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet register meant only for her.
He leaned in, his breath brushing against her cheek.
"You are the center of my world, stella mia.
You are my entire universe. And I am not letting my universe walk out those front doors without an ironclad perimeter.
You will endure the security, or I will lock the gates, and you can eat your salad in the courtyard. "
Roselia rolled her eyes, but the traitorous, overwhelming warmth that had become a constant presence in her chest flared to life. "You are a tyrant."
"And you are beautiful," he whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth.
A high-pitched, vibrating whine shattered the intimate moment.
Down on the Persian rug, Bruno was sitting perfectly upright, his blocky head tilted back as he unleashed a sound of pure, unadulterated canine misery.
The hundred-and-fifty-pound Cane Corso thumped his tail against the floor, looking from Roselia to the open front doors, letting out another pathetic, vibrating whimper.
"No, Bruno," Roselia said gently, looking down at the beast. "You cannot come to the café. They do not allow giant monsters near the pastries."
Bruno huffed, a deep exhalation of protest. He stood up, wedging his frame between Roselia and Renzo, looking up at the Don with dark, pleading eyes before unleashing a whine so loud it echoed off the chandelier.
Renzo closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "For the love of God."
"He knows you are leaving," Marco laughed around a mouthful of biscotti. "He’s calculating his abandonment."
"He is calculating how to make my life a living hell if he stays here," Renzo sighed heavily. He looked at the dog, pointing a stern finger. "You are a lethal weapon. You are supposed to strike fear into the hearts of men. You are embarrassing your bloodline."
Bruno responded by leaning his entire, crushing body weight against Roselia’s legs, looking heartbroken.
"Fine," Renzo surrendered, throwing his hands up in defeat.
"Take him. Take the damn dog. He has devolved into your personal lapdog anyway.
If you leave him here, he is going to pace the floors and whine until the windows shatter, and I have international ledgers to review. Get him out of my sight."
"He’s not a lapdog," Roselia grinned, burying her hands in the thick fur around Bruno’s neck. "He’s just highly discerning about company. Come on, you giant baby. Let’s go."
Ana and Valentina appeared from the hallway, dressed immaculately, laughing as they watched the Don of Europe get successfully bullied by a dog.
"We will return by three, Lorenzo," Ana promised, kissing her son’s cheek.
"Keep your comms open," Renzo called after them, following them to the door.
He stood on the limestone steps, watching as his mother, his grandmother, the woman he loved, and the hound climbed into the armored SUV.
He didn't turn back into the house until the motorcade had disappeared past the iron gates, the security detail flanking them perfectly.
***
Two hours later, the Falco estate was a portrait of quiet, focused industry.
Renzo sat at his sprawling mahogany desk in the west wing, his reading glasses pushed up into his dark hair as he cross-referenced a stack of shipping manifests with Enzo.
Across the room, Marco was slouched on the leather sofa, cleaning a customized 1911 pistol, a low jazz record playing softly in the background.
It was peaceful. It was controlled.
And then, the world violently fractured.
The oak doors of the study burst open with such explosive force the brass handle dented the plaster wall. Casimir Valente stood in the threshold, his chest heaving, his face drained of all color, holding a crackling security radio in a white-knuckled grip.
"Code Red," Casimir choked out, his voice unrecognizable. "The café. They’ve been hit."
The silence that followed lasted only a fraction of a millisecond.
Renzo didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. The mahogany desk chair crashed to the floor as he vaulted over the corner of the wood. Marco dropped the disassembled gun, grabbing his shoulder holster, while Enzo was already sprinting down the hallway before Casimir had even finished his sentence.
The drive to the city center was a blur of apocalyptic speed and terrifying silence. Renzo drove the armored Maserati himself, his foot pinned to the floorboards, tearing through the winding coastal roads with a reckless, suicidal velocity. His mind was a blank, blinding static of pure terror.
When they slammed to a halt outside the upscale café in the Piazza del Plebiscito, the scene was a nightmare painted in broad daylight.
The floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the restaurant had been blown out.
Shattered glass blanketed the cobblestones like diamonds.
Smoke from overturned tables and fired weapons hung thick in the air.
The piercing wail of police sirens was closing in from the distance, but the perimeter was currently held by Casimir’s surviving men, their weapons drawn, their faces grim.
Renzo threw the car door open before the vehicle had even fully stopped.
He tore through the police tape, his dark eyes scanning the wreckage with frantic, desperate violence. "Mama! Nonna!" he roared, the sound ripping from his throat.
"Lorenzo!"
He spun around. Huddled behind a shattered marble pillar near the rear of the café, surrounded by a shield wall of syndicate enforcers, were his mother and grandmother. Ana was shaking violently, clutching Valentina, but they were uninjured. There was no blood on them.
Renzo let out a ragged gasp of relief, Marco and Enzo instantly rushing to their mother's side.
But Renzo didn't stop. His eyes swept the ruined dining room. Where was she?
"Boss!" one of the enforcers yelled from the far corner of the patio, his voice cracking.
Renzo broke into a dead sprint, his shoes crunching over broken porcelain and shattered glass. He rounded an overturned table and stopped dead, his heart physically failing in his chest.
It was a scene of devastation.
Bruno lay on his side amidst the wreckage, a pool of dark, expanding crimson staining the white stone tiles beneath him.
The beast was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, having taken a high-caliber round straight through his thick shoulder.
He had thrown his hundred-and-fifty-pound frame directly into the line of fire.
And trapped beneath the dog’s protective weight, her plum suit stained a horrific, blinding red, was Roselia.
"No," Renzo whispered. The word carried no authority. It was the sound of a man watching his soul being ripped from his body.
He dropped to his knees in the broken glass, oblivious to the sharp shards slicing through his expensive trousers. He shoved the ruined table away with a burst of frantic adrenaline, reaching for her.
"Roselia. Roselia, look at me," Renzo begged, his voice cracking as he pulled her upper body into his arms. His hands were instantly slick with her blood. The bullet had caught her high in the abdomen, just beneath her ribs.
Roselia’s head rolled back against his forearm. She was pale, her skin slick with a cold sweat, but her dark eyes fluttered open. She coughed, a terrible, wet sound, her hand instinctively pressing against the wound.