12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Maximo
The heavy gold signet on my right hand has passed from one Don to the next for generations.
It belongs to me now.
Less than an hour ago, Father removed it before every capo, made man, and old ally gathered inside the family chapel. Then he placed it in my hand and declared that the family was mine.
The formalities afterward were brief. Aldo, as consigliere, offered his loyalty first. The others followed, one by one, until every man in the room had acknowledged what most of them had accepted long ago.
I am Don Marco.
Now the chapel’s incense and solemnity have given way to soft music, whiskey, and cigar smoke in the ballroom.
Conversations gradually turn to business, and the altered hierarchy is already apparent. Men who once approached Father first turn to me without hesitation. Others watch more carefully, assessing how my leadership might benefit or threaten them.
Good. Uncertainty keeps men attentive.
Aldo remains near me for much of the evening, subtly managing the flow of people approaching me while Gabe handles the smoother social maneuvering across the room. Rafa looks thoroughly entertained, intimidating half the younger soldiers merely by standing near the bar.
Remo disappeared ten minutes ago. I find him in one of the side lounges with his laptop open despite my direct order not to work. At least he has moved from chapel surveillance to financial reports.
Women circulate through the gathering too, their attention drifting my way in careful intervals. More than one man finds a reason to bring his daughter into a conversation with me, each introduction accompanied by polished smiles and calculated eye contact.
None of them interests me.
“I was beginning to think you planned on ignoring me all evening.”
Vittoria Bellandi steps into my space with a champagne glass in one hand. Her blonde hair falls in glossy waves over one shoulder, diamonds glittering at her throat beneath the golden light. Every movement is practiced to perfection.
Vittoria was raised for rooms like this. Raised to become someone’s queen. Her father has been angling for an alliance with my family for years. Even if Mialina wasn’t in the picture, I’d have no intention of giving him one.
“You’ve survived,” I tell her.
A faint smile curves her mouth. “Barely. Half the room looks terrified of you now.”
“They should.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my right hand. “The ring suits you.”
The worn gold feels heavier now that she’s drawn my attention to it. Father wore it for more than thirty years, just as my grandfather did before him. Its edges have been smoothed by generations of men carrying the same responsibility.
“It should,” I say. “It was made for a Don.”
Vittoria looks at it for another moment. “Though I imagine it won’t be the only new ring required of you.”
It’s a subtle reminder that a Don needs a wife, indirect enough that she can pretend she isn’t offering herself for the position.
“That matter is already decided.”
Her composure slips. “You’re engaged?”
“Not yet.”
Her expression stills, but years of social conditioning quickly mask the reaction.
“I see.” She takes a small sip of champagne. “My mother asked me to remind you that we’re hosting New Year’s at the Bellandi estate this year.”
She recovers quickly, disguising her father’s maneuvering as nothing more than a social invitation.
“I’ll remember.”
“Then perhaps you’ll bring the woman you’ve chosen.” The words are light, but curiosity sharpens her gaze. “I’m sure everyone would like to meet her.”
“You’ll meet her in time.”
Something unreadable flashes through Vittoria’s eyes before she inclines her head.
“Whoever she is, I hope she understands what she’s walking into.”
Then she moves gracefully back into the crowd. Gabe appears beside me almost immediately.
“I can’t stand that woman,” he mutters.
Rafa joins us, grinning openly. Eavesdroppers, both of them.
“Are you going to tell us?” Gabe asks.
I take a slow sip of whiskey. “Tell you what?”
“Who your bride is.”
I contemplate keeping it private until my plans are firm and I actually have her agreement, but my brothers deserve to know.
“Mialina Accardi.” Both of them go still. “Her mother is a Leonardi,” I say, as though that alone explains my choice.
Gabe blinks once before nodding in approval. “Old Sicilian blood. Nice.”
“Well, shit.” Rafa lets out a low whistle. “The Bellandi girl never stood a chance against that.”
“She’s too ambitious,” Gabe says. “Too aware of the crown itself.”
Exactly. Vittoria wants power.
Mia doesn’t, which ironically makes her far more suited to stand beside me.
Gabe studies me carefully. “Does Mialina know you’ve apparently already married her in your head?”
“I proposed.” Kind of.
“And did she agree?”
“No.”
Rafa nearly chokes on his drink. I ignore him because it changes nothing.
Mialina is young, stubborn, and understandably resistant to the idea of a man she barely knows dictating her future. Once she sees what I can offer her, she’ll reconsider.
And if she doesn’t, I’ll find another way to convince her. The outcome remains the same.
Much later, after the last guests leave, I return alone to what is now my study.
The fire has burned low. My mother’s portrait remains above the mantel, untouched by the shift that took place beneath it today.
I move behind the desk and look toward the western side of the estate. Darkness covers the gardens now, but I can already see what will stand there.
A place where winter cannot reach.
Interesting how naturally the image formed after meeting a woman who loves flowers and hates the cold.
I open my laptop and write two short emails. I read both messages once, then send them.