CHAPTER 1
ANGELO P.O.V.
Ten years for one night. Better be worth the wait.
I’m crouching in the salt-crusted brush just outside the perimeter wall of the Silvestri estate, the air heavy with the smell of rotting seaweed and the distant, thumping bass of a party that costs more than my entire fucking life.
I yank at the collar of this stolen security blazer because the cheap polyester is itching against the scarred skin on my neck and it’s pissing me off.
I check my watch, the dial glowing faint green in the dark.
Ten years of exile coming down to the next sixty minutes.
Through the iron bars of the outer gate I watch the patrol patterns of the men on the wall, tracking the lazy arrogance in their stride.
They're soft. Fat on my family's blood. My heart is a steady, slow drum in my chest, but the weight of the Glock tucked into the small of my back is a constant temptation to just pull it out, start shooting, and end the entire Silvestri bloodline tonight.
I reach down and carefully peel a thick piece of dried mud off my boot, tossing it into the grass so it doesn't flake off and leave a trail on their pristine marble floors later.
I step out of the brush and walk toward the secondary entrance, rolling my shoulder and faking a slight limp so I look like a tired guard coming off a brutal double shift.
The outer checkpoint is manned by a young kid with a smooth face that hasn't seen a day of real war.
He steps out of the booth as I approach, holding his hand up.
I present the forged ID card without looking him in the eye, acting cold and professional to bury the hatred boiling in my gut.
He takes the card and clicks a flashlight on, holding the harsh beam right over the plastic.
He pauses, his eyes flicking from the low-res photo on the badge up to the thick scar that splits my left eyebrow.
The kid's hand hovers dangerously close to the radio clipped to his chest harness.
I evaluate his carotid artery in a split second, calculating exactly how long it would take to snap his neck and drag him into the bushes if his fingers actually touch that mic.
Instead of moving on him, I reach into my pocket, pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes, and offer it to him as a distraction.
"Shift change is a mess, eh? Don Alessio's got everyone's balls in a vice tonight.
" I shake the pack slightly. "Check it twice if you want, kid. I’m just looking for a coffee.
" He looks at the cigarettes, the tension leaving his shoulders, and hands the ID back with a shrug.
I push through the heavy service doors and step into the main hall, and the sheer opulence of the place is an immediate assault on my senses.
There is gold leaf plastered over every cornice, massive crystal chandeliers dripping light like diamonds onto the floor, and hundreds of guests swarming the room in masks that cost more than a Sicilian village makes in a year.
I stand near a marble pillar at the edge of the room, clasping my hands behind my back to play the perfect invisible servant while the cloyingly sweet scent of expensive lilies and the rustle of heavy silk gowns threatens to suffocate me.
Look at this shit. Built on bones. They celebrate while the world burns.
My vision actually tunnels when I spot a painted ceramic vase sitting on a pedestal near the stairs—a vase I know for a fucking fact was stolen from my mother's house during the raid ten years ago.
I reach up and adjust my earpiece, pretending to listen to security chatter while I'm actually memorizing the layout and scanning every single exit point in the room.
I start systematically dissecting the crowd, my eyes darting from group to group.
I identify the primary lieutenants scattered around the room, men who were just hungry foot soldiers when I was a boy but are now fat off the Silvestri payroll.
Everyone is wearing a mask—venetian, animalistic, macabre bullshit—which makes identifying the exact targets a tactical nightmare of posture and gait analysis.
Suddenly a drunk guest in a ridiculous feathered mask stumbles backward into me, spilling half a glass of sticky prosecco down the sleeve of my stolen uniform.
My muscles lock instantly. I have to physically swallow the urge to grab him by the throat and snap his fucking wrist. Instead, I pull a silk napkin I found on a catering table out of my pocket and wipe the wine off my sleeve with slow, rhythmic movements, keeping my head down.
"Scuse, signore. My apologies," I mutter, gritting my teeth.
He just laughs and turns away. Cazzo, watch your step.
I go back to mentally checking off my kill list, noting exactly where each Silvestri man is positioned around the room.
Then my eyes lock onto him. Alessio Silvestri.
He’s standing near the center of the room holding court with a bunch of local politicians, exuding the kind of unearned arrogance that makes my stomach turn.
He has aged into a bloated, sweaty version of his father, wearing a gaudy gold lion mask with his chest puffed out as he laughs at some joke.
The urge to assassinate him here and now is a physical weight crushing my ribs, my fingers twitching with a phantom itch for the trigger of my Glock.
I stare at his hands gripping his glass—the same fucking hands that signed the death warrant for the Ferraro children.
To focus the physical pain and distract from the blinding rage threatening to derail the slow ruin I promised myself, I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until I taste hot copper blood.
There you are, you son of a bitch. Not tonight.
Tonight you just lose the first piece. I swallow the blood, letting the sharp tang coat my throat, imagining that golden lion mask melting to his face in a fire.
Death is too easy for Alessio. He needs to suffer first.
The orchestra suddenly swells, hitting a high note that makes the entire room pivot toward the grand staircase.
Fiorella Silvestri appears at the top of the stairs, and the sudden hush of the crowd is deafening.
She’s wearing a gown of midnight-blue silk that looks like spilled ink flowing over the steps, her dark chestnut hair piled high with a few loose strands framing her sharp face.
Her honey-amber eyes catch the chandelier light from behind a delicate black lace mask.
She commands the room's attention instantly, looking like a fucking saint trapped in a room full of sinners.
The princess arrives. I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, prepping the muscles in my legs for the chase.
She is flanked by four heavy guards—professional private military types, not the sloppy street thugs Alessio keeps on his personal payroll.
Reaching her is going to be a surgical strike.
The most expensive debt in Sicily. I don't see a woman when I look at her; I just see a ledger.
She is the currency I am going to use to bankrupt her brother's soul.
She descends the stairs and moves through the crowd on the dance floor with a practiced, icy grace.
She accepts hands for kissing from the older men, but her posture remains totally stiff, completely unyielding.
I track her from the shadows of the peripheral pillars, matching her pace while noting the way she explicitly avoids looking anywhere near her brother.
She’s a bird in a gilded cage, and she knows the bars are closing in.
She stays dead in the center of the dance floor, where the light is the brightest and the guards are the thickest. She’s unhappy.
Good. The crown is heavy, isn't it, Fiorella?
I pick up a stray champagne glass from a passing tray and hold it against my chest, pretending to be clearing it while moving parallel to her path.
The glass is slick with cold condensation in my sweating palm as the scent of jasmine trails behind her, cutting through the stale party air.
I watch every micro-expression, every twitch of her shoulder, looking for a weakness in her—a tremor in her hand, a look toward an open window. Anything I can exploit.
She drifts toward the bar at the edge of the room, looking like she needs a drink to survive another hour of this bullshit.
I anticipate her path, moving through the crowd with the fluid, invisible motion of a trained predator, sliding between oblivious guests until I position myself near the heavy velvet curtains that lead out to the terrace.
I measure the distance to her in my head.
Three long strides. Ten feet. Nine. Just a little further, princess.
A security supervisor is checking posts near the exits, his eyes scanning the guards.
I have to look busy or risk being questioned about why I'm off my designated perimeter spot.
I reach out and pretend to adjust the heavy velvet drapes, running my fingers over the rough texture while secretly checking the metal latch on the glass doors behind them to make sure it's unlocked.
I can smell the sharp bite of gin and tonic wafting over from the bar and feel the cool draft leaking in from the terrace.
I am standing perfectly still, counting her breaths from across the room, timing my own heart rate to match her rhythm.