Chapter Seventeen
The soundproofed oak doors of the master suite were designed to keep the violent, turbulent realities of the European underworld firmly on the outside. Tonight, however, they were failing to contain the unmitigated chaos occurring on the inside.
"I am a dragon! Papa, look! Fire!"
Four-year-old Leo Vellucci bounded across the expanse of the plush bedroom rug, his little arms flapping wildly as he launched himself toward the four-poster bed.
A fraction of a second later, his identical twin brother, Theo, shrieked with delighted laughter, abandoning his wooden blocks to scramble up the velvet chaise lounge in a desperate attempt to evade the imaginary flames.
Shahrzade Vellucci stood near the open doorway of her expansive dressing room, her arms crossed over her chest, trying incredibly hard to maintain a stern, maternal frown. She was failing miserably.
"It is a quarter past eight," Sheher announced, her voice attempting to carry a note of strict authority over the joyous screeching. "The dragons need to brush their teeth and go to sleep. Immediately."
Dario Vellucci, the undisputed Don of the most powerful crime syndicate on the continent, was currently lying flat on his back in the center of the bed.
He was still wearing his tailored dress trousers and a crisp white shirt, though his tie had been discarded hours ago.
He caught Leo effortlessly as the boy launched himself onto the mattress, hoisting his son high into the air, eliciting another peel of breathless giggles.
"But dragons do not sleep at eight, Mama," Dario argued, his deep, rumbling voice devoid of discipline.
He lowered Leo, pressing a loud, exaggerated kiss to the boy's cheek before looking over at Theo, who was now attempting to scale the footboard.
"Isn't that right, Theo? Dragons are nocturnal creatures. They must guard the castle."
"Guard the castle!" Theo echoed triumphantly, his dark eyes—a flawless mirror of his father’s—sparkling with pure mischief.
Sheher let out a long, exasperated sigh, though her amber eyes danced with amusement. She walked over to the bed, resting her hands on her hips. She looked at her towering, husband, a man whose mere name made rival capos tremble in the dark and shook her head.
"You are useless," Sheher teased, leaning down to pluck a wriggling Leo from Dario’s chest. The boy possessed her amber eyes, looking up at her with a highly calculated, innocent pout.
"The entire European underworld bows to your every command, Dario.
Men cross oceans to avoid your wrath. And yet, you cannot enforce an eight o'clock bedtime in your own house. "
Dario propped himself up on his elbows, a lazy, thoroughly unrepentant grin spreading across his handsome face. "The underworld follows my orders because they fear me, amore. My sons do not fear me. Therefore, I have no leverage. I am at their mercy."
"Papa says we can stay up until the moon is high!" Leo declared, wrapping his arms securely around Sheher’s neck.
"Papa is a terrible influence," Sheher corrected, kissing the crown of Leo’s dark hair before pointing a commanding finger at Theo. "Down from the footboard, little one. Teeth. Now. Both of you."
It took another twenty minutes of negotiations, two glasses of water, and a highly elaborate story about a knight guarding a coastal fortress before the twins surrendered to their exhaustion.
When their synchronized, steady breathing filled the adjacent nursery, Sheher quietly pulled the door shut, leaving the door cracked just an inch, and walked back into the master suite.
Dario was standing by the window, pouring two glasses of sparkling water. He handed her one as she approached, wrapping his free arm around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest.
"You undermine my authority on a daily basis," Sheher murmured, resting her cheek against his shoulder, the exhaustion of wrangling two four-year-olds settling into her bones.
"I cannot help it," Dario confessed softly, resting his chin on the top of her head. "When they look at me, Sheher... when they ask for one more minute, or one more story... the word 'no’ vanishes from my vocabulary. I am weak."
Sheher tilted her head up, looking into his eyes.
There was no trace of the hollow, frozen monster she had collided with on the street years ago.
He was a man undone by love, fiercely protective, and besotted with the life they had built.
She reached up, gently tracing the line of his jaw.
"You are an incredible father, Dario. They adore you. "
***
The reality was that the entire estate had been thoroughly conquered by Leo and Theo.
The following afternoon, the autumn sunbathed the southern courtyards in a warm, golden glow. Sheher was sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, reviewing a curriculum proposal for her educational foundation, when the sound of riotous laughter echoed from the nearby rose gardens.
Salvadore and Gabriella Vellucci were supposed to be supervising the twins while Dario attended a syndication meeting. Instead, the grandparents were actively participating in the delinquency.
Sheher watched in amusement as Salvadore, leaning on his silver-handled cane, was acting as the designated target for a barrage of wildly thrown, brightly colored foam balls.
Gabriella, seated on a stone bench, was actively supplying the ammunition from a wicker basket, cheering her grandsons on with blatant, unrestrained favoritism.
"Get him, Leo! Aim for his knees, Theo, he cannot move fast!" Gabriella encouraged, laughing brightly as Salvadore dramatically feigned a mortal wound when a foam ball bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.
Sheher shook her head, taking a sip of her tea.
She had long ago abandoned any hope of enforcing discipline when the grandparents were involved.
Salvadore and Gabriella had fully embraced their second chance at life, doting on the boys with a fervent, unapologetic intensity.
They slipped the twins chocolates before dinner, allowed them to run rampant through the formal drawing rooms, and treated every drawing the boys produced as if it were a lost masterpiece of the Renaissance.
The sheer joy the twins brought to the estate had even managed to infiltrate the most sacred, guarded spaces of the Vellucci empire.
Inside the main manor, the mahogany doors of the syndicate boardroom were securely closed.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted espresso and the quiet, intense hum of strategic planning.
Dario sat at the head of the long table, flanked by Enzo Marchione, Rocco Belladonna, and Bruno Castigliano.
They were deeply entrenched in a discussion regarding a complex expansion of their supply lines through the southern Mediterranean ports.
Dario was in the middle of issuing a strict, uncompromising directive regarding border security when the brass handle of the boardroom door slowly turned.
The three Capos instantly fell silent. Enzo’s hand discreetly drifted toward the holster beneath his tailored jacket, old instincts flaring to life.
The door creaked open, revealing a highly flustered nanny standing in the hallway, her face pale with terror. But before she could apologize, two small figures squeezed past her legs and marched boldly into the room.
Leo and Theo, dressed in matching navy suspenders and pristine white shirts, walked directly toward the head of the table, unfazed by the presence of Europe's most dangerous men.
"Papa!" Theo announced loudly, holding up a remarkably detailed wooden toy boat. "The wheel broke. It needs fixing."
Dario did not scold them. He did not order them out of the room. The Don of the Vellucci family simply sighed, setting his gold pen down on the ledger, and extended his hands. Theo climbed effortlessly onto his father’s lap, dropping the broken boat onto the highly sensitive shipping manifests.
Enzo relaxed, a fond, highly amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Rocco, a mountain of a man who routinely intimidated rival syndicates simply by walking into a room, leaned forward across the mahogany table. His rough, weathered face broke into a gentle grin.
"Let me see that, little boss," Rocco rumbled, reaching out with hands the size of dinner plates to take the wooden boat from Dario’s desk. He inspected it carefully. "Ah, the mast snapped. I can fix this. I know a thing or two about boats, you know."
"Can you make it go fast?" Leo demanded, marching over to stand fearlessly beside Bruno Castigliano’s chair, inspecting the Capo with wide, inquisitive amber eyes.
"Faster than any ship in the harbor," Bruno promised, reaching out to gently ruffle the boy’s dark hair, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of a multi-million-euro negotiation.
Dario watched his most formidable lieutenants melt in the presence of his four-year-old sons.
He leaned back in his leather chair, a deep, resonant hum of contentment vibrating in his chest. He was a ruthless, merciless Don to the outside world, a man who protected his borders with unapologetic violence.
But within these walls, he was surrounded by a loyalty and a love that transcended blood oaths.
Later that evening, after the estate had quieted and the twilight shadows stretched long across the manicured lawns, Dario walked alone along the stone pathways of the northern terrace.
The cool evening air brushed against his face. He stopped by the edge of the stone balustrade, looking out over the vast, secure expanse of his territory.
He was forty-four years old. He was a man who possessed everything he had ever wanted, and infinitely more than he had ever deserved. As he stood in the quiet night, a fleeting, transient thought drifted through his mind.
Zorah.