23. Lina
Lina
The gravel of the lake house driveway grits beneath my thin sneakers, the freezing Maine mist biting through my yellow cardigan as I march straight into the gray morning fog.
I don't look back at the heavy oak door of the safehouse, even though every step away from Gio feels like a tearing inside my chest.
I walked out. I actually walked out on him.
A mile down the deserted lakeside road, the low, steady rumble of an engine sounds behind me. I don't run. I can't. My muscles are too stiff from the cold, and my arms are locked tight around my mother's cardboard box.
When a black sedan with tinted windows rolls to a crawl beside me, the lock clicks open.
The passenger window slides down. A massive man with a face like an unreadable brick looks out at me.
I've never seen him before in my life, and my fingers instinctively tighten around the corner of the wet cardboard, preparing to swing it if he reaches for me.
"Lina Rossi," the man states, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "My name is Enzo. I work for Don Salvatore. Your father told me to pick you up. Get in."
"I don't know you, why should I trust you?" I glance at him with skepticism.
"Because Matteo's scouts are already past the Maine border, and you're walking on an open road in a bright yellow sweater, you look like an easy target.” He rasps.
He pulls a heavy, encrypted phone from his jacket, taps the screen, and holds the glowing display face-out toward me.
A video connection clicks open.
The face on the screen is old, sharp-nosed, and lined with deep, heavy creases that look like they were carved with a knife.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as my mind flashes back to the bottom of the cardboard box.
I recognize him instantly. He is the young, dark-haired man in the faded photograph my mother had kept wrapped in velvet, hidden right beside her letter.
The nose and the hard, unyielding set of the jaw are exactly the same, only weathered by twenty years of winter.
It’s him. My father.
"Lina," the old man's voice crackles through the speaker, low and slightly breathless. "Let Enzo bring you to New York. You are not safe on that road."
"I’m not safe with you either." I snap directly to the screen, my grip on the cardboard box tightening.
"Yes, you are," Salvatore retorts, a faint, raspy sigh escaping him. " You are my daughter, and I will not harm you. Get in the car, Lina."
The screen goes black as Enzo lowers the phone and slides it back into his pocket.
He leans over and pushes the rear door wider, his expressionless face completely unbothered by my hostility.
I slide onto the leather seat with my mother's box clutched tightly against my ribs, and lock the door myself.
"Take me to Salvatore." I tell him, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
He doesn't say another word. He just nods, shifts into drive, and hits the interstate. Five hours of silence and blurry rainy highway later, the sedan clears the high iron gates.
The mahogany doors of the Manhattan townhouse are thick enough to block out the roar of the city, but they can't quiet the pounding in my ears.
I stand in the center of a massive, dark-paneled library that smells of old leather, pipe tobacco, and heavy wax.
My canvas sneakers are still damp from the Boston rain, leaving small, dark circles on a Persian rug that probably costs more than my entire bookstore.
I clutch my mother’s cardboard box tightly against my ribs, the wet edges of the cardboard soft under my fingernails.
He’s sitting right there. The man who started the storm.
An older man sits behind a heavy, carved desk near the window.
He has thick white hair, a sharp nose, and a face lined with deep, heavy creases that look like they were carved with a knife.
He looks incredibly fragile, his shoulders slightly hunched under a dark wool suit.
He stares at me, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands shaking slightly as they rest on the polished mahogany.
"Maria’s eyes," he whispers. "You have your mother's eyes, Little princess."
"Do not talk about my mother," I snap, my voice trembling but sharp as a razor. I take a step forward. "You don't have the right to say her name."
Don Salvatore lets out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. "I spent almost two decades looking for you. I thought you were dead, Lina."
"She was hiding from you," I scoff, my grip on the cardboard box tightening.
"She lived in Chicago, in Boston, in a tiny town in Maine where the wind never stops.
She died when I was thirteen because she didn't have the money for a decent doctor until it was too late.
And she did all of it because she was terrified of what you would do if you found us. "
"She was wrong," he whispers, his voice suddenly hard, carrying a cold, autocratic authority that makes my teeth grind. "I would have protected her. I would have protected you."
"By trading me like cargo?" I demand, my natural stubbornness flaring through the raw grief. "By signing a betrothal contract when I was five years old? You sold me so you could buy a shipping line in Palermo."
"It was an alliance," he replies, standing up slowly, his cane clicking against the floorboards as he steps around the desk.
He looks at me, his amber eyes searching my face.
"The Ferrante family holds the docks. We hold the capital.
Together, we are untouchable. It was the only way to secure our legacy. "
"I am a human being!. Not an asset to be passed around for the sake of legacy like you and Ferrante did."
"The boy is trying to survive, Lina," Salvatore says, stepping closer.
"His uncle Matteo wants his head. My captains want Palermo.
If the merger is dead, Matteo will have the numbers.
Giovanni will be hunted. He dissolved the betrothal contract to give you a choice, but he signed his own death warrant to do it. "
"I didn't ask him to do that," I whisper.
"But he did," the old man responds, his voice dropping to a quiet, solemn cadence. "Because God help him, he loves you."
I turn away from him. "I'm tired."
"Of course," Salvatore breathes, gesturing to the guard standing by the door. "Enzo will show you to the guest suite on the third floor. You are safe here, Lina. Nobody can touch you in this house."
"Except you," I mutter, walking past him.
The guest room is huge, covered in dark blue silks and heavy velvet drapes, but it feels like a mausoleum. I set my mother's cardboard box on the mattress, then drop down beside it, my knees pulling to my chest. I pull my phone from my pocket.
The screen is dark, but the notifications are full of missed calls and messages.
Gio. Gio. Gio.
I don't open them, but my finger hovers over his name, my heart doing a ridiculous, violent flutter against my ribs.
He tore up the contract. He called Salvatore and ended the merger because I asked him to. He let me walk out of that safehouse into the fog, fully knowing that without the Salvatore alliance, Matteo's soldiers would surround him in Maine.
"He’s going to die," I whisper to the quiet room.
I stand up, my muscles locking into a rigid, stubborn focus. I wash my face in the tiled bathroom, wiping away the traces of tears until my skin is clean and my jaw is set in a hard, granite line. I pull the beige wool dress Vivienne chose, my fingers steady as I twist my dark hair back.
I walk out of the room, descend the grand wooden staircase, and push open the door of the library.
Don Salvatore is still sitting behind his desk, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He looks up when I enter, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sees the change in my posture, the cold, unyielding fire in my gaze.
"Lina," he says, setting his glass down with a quiet click.
"I have some terms," I tell him, walking straight to the desk and leaning my hands flat on the polished mahogany. I look him straight in the eye, my voice steady, carrying a quiet, sharp weight that makes him blink. "And you are going to agree to them."
"Your terms?" A tiny, dry twitch of amusement touches his lips, but he doesn't smile. "You are in no position to dictate terms to the New York syndicate, little one."
"I’m a Salvatore, and I’m the only key to Palermo you have left. If I walk out of this door, the merger is dead, your legacy is gone, and Giovanni Ferrante's faction will be slaughtered. You need me. And that means I set the rules."
Salvatore watches me for a long second, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Speak, then."
"First, the coffee shop stays open," I start.
"My mother built that place, and it is the only piece of her I have left.
I am not letting your mafia war ruin it.
Second, Maya and her shop are kept under maximum security.
Your men make sure she is untouched. And third...
" I pause, my throat going dry, my heart hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I will marry Giovanni."
Salvatore’s eyes widen slightly. "You will?"
"Yes," I reply, my voice dropping to a quiet, lethal purr.
"But not as a transaction. Not as a trading card you use to buy Palermo.
I am marrying him as a player, Don Salvatore.
I am signing the merger papers, but I am the one who holds the pen.
If I am going to live in your world, I am going to have a seat at the table. "
A sudden, deep laugh escapes Salvatore’s chest, a booming, genuine sound that rattles the quiet room. He looks at me with a sudden, fierce pride in his amber eyes.
"You are your mother's daughter," he says, shaking his head. "She had the same iron in her spine, but she used it the wrong way. Very well, Lina. The terms are agreed. The merger will be signed on your terms."
"Good," I tell him, my breathing settling, my mind clicking with a sharp, unpolished clarity. "Now, call Giovanni."
"You want to speak to him?"
"No," I turn on my heel and walk toward the door. I stop, looking back over my shoulder, my face a cold, unyielding mask. "Tell him the merger is back on. Tell him the wedding is in Maine, next week. But tell him... if he wants his bride, he has to come get her."
I step out of the library, letting the heavy doors click shut behind me.