CHAPTER 18
MARCELLO
I told Antonio the day before that I’d be coming to Sicily.
Bringing Roxanne was an impulse. A reckless one.
The kind of decision you make when you’re tired of pretending you don’t feel.
And I was tired. And I don’t let impulses win.
Not since Elaine. Yet all it took was Roxanne—one look, one breath beside me—and the rules I built around myself cracked.
I barely recognised the man who let himself feel this.
My chest tightened, remembering the kids yelling—
Uncle Marcello has a girlfriend!
Is that what she was? What were we, really? Nothing. Not yet—but the echo of that word wouldn’t leave my chest. I still didn’t know what I felt for her. How could I, when wanting her already felt like a risk?
All I know was this pull—to keep her close, to keep her safe.
And the fact that it came so instinctively unsettled me more than it should have.
Antonio poured me another glass of whiskey. I took a large sip. Letting it burn the back of my throat.
“Slow down, big man,” he said.
Antonio Leopardi—my brother-in-law, my closest ally. He married my sister, Alessia, ten years ago. Their wedding was the only time I’d seen my mother cry from joy.
She hadn’t shed a tear when my father died. She was as much a part of the business as he was. But she always let him wear the face.
She worked in silence, always behind closed doors. She was the one who orchestrated my father’s revenge—quietly, ruthlessly.
When he died, I was twenty-five. Too young to inherit a kingdom built on shadows. But she stood behind me. Not in front. Never in front.
She let me wear the crown, but she held the sword. She never asked for credit. But every move I made in those early years had her fingerprints on it. Part of me admired her for it. Part of me hated that she had to.
Even when Elaine came into my life, my mother stayed close. She didn’t interfere. Didn’t approve either. But she respected my choice. And when Elaine died—when Lorenzo’s recklessness turned fatal—something in me broke. Something dark. A part of me that believed in softness died with her.
My mother saw it. She stepped back. Not out of fear, but out of grief. It took years to crawl out of that rage. And even now, I’m not sure I’ve left it behind.
My father built our name in the shadows—arms, art, and silence. He taught me how to spot a forgery before I could drive. After his death, I expanded the business. My mother guided me through everything—until Elaine. That’s when she stepped back.
Counterfeit art became our cover. Dubai, Istanbul, New York, Geneva—clients who wanted beauty and power, no questions asked. I kept the real pieces for myself. The ones that spoke to me.
Elaine had loved the art and the danger too, until Lorenzo took it too far. Until the accident. Until the blood.
I never forgave him. And I never will. I’ve never forgiven myself for giving him that weapon. Not for the betrayal. Not for the silence. Not for the way he turned love into leverage.
The house was quiet now. The kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—only reminds. Of what’s been lost. Of what still lingers. The fire was low. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was loaded. We all knew what name would come first. And what blood might follow.
Antonio broke the silence.
“I looked into Isabella again. She’s working with Lorenzo. Helping him transport teenagers across Bulgaria.”
Rage tightened my jaw. My hands balled into fists. Cold fury slid through me like ice through fire.
How many did he touch? How many did he ruin?
“Chidda cagna vilena,” my mother spat.
(That vile bitch.)
I’d almost forgotten she was in the room.
“She was at the auction in Rome. She bumped into us.”
“Does Roxanne know about her?” Antonio asked.
“Know about who?” Roxanne’s voice cut through the room as she took a seat in the armchair opposite me.
I shifted in my seat. Antonio looked at me like a child who’d accidentally spilled the beans.
When did she come down?
I’d been so lost in thought, I barely noticed.
“Isabella,” Antonio said.
“Who?” Roxanne asked, brows raised.
“The woman who won the emerald necklace,” I said through gritted teeth, not looking at her.
“Ahh…the one who got all handsy with you—and then you left me alone at the palazzo?”
Her voice was sharp, controlled, almost mocking. Yet there was a flicker in her eyes—a tiny spark of something she didn’t want to show. I felt it too. A twist of possessiveness I hadn’t expected.
“It’s not like that,” I said, trying to justify.
She tilted her head, looking at me. Waiting. I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Antonio and my mother stood.
“We’ll leave you two to talk,” she said, squeezing my shoulder.
Translation: Don’t fuck this up.
I motioned for Roxanne to sit beside me. She did—curling her legs onto the sofa, pulling a blanket over them, facing me. She took a sip of her wine, eyes fixed on the fire as it crackled.
“Isabella had a way of appearing when the lights dimmed, and the stakes were high,” I began.
My voice felt heavier than I expected—it had been years since I said her name out loud.
“We met at an auction in Paris two years ago—she wore her smile like armour and walked like she already knew my secrets. She lured me in. Seduction wasn’t the game—it was the weapon. We had an affair. Brief. Intense. I thought I was the one in control.
Until I found out she was with Lorenzo.”
She sat listening, silent. Still.
I continued. “Lorenzo had been like an uncle to me once. He married my mother’s best friend—Octavia. A woman with grace and grit, who deserved more than he ever gave her. He treated her like furniture—something to warm the bed and serve hot dinners.
“He never saw her mind. Never saw her worth. She came to me a couple of times—busted lip, a bruise here and there. Lorenzo always told me not to interfere in family matters. After all, I was just a boy.”
I scoffed. Because I wasn’t a boy then. And I still did nothing. I still let her die. I dragged my hand over my face.
“My aunt couldn’t take the torture. Couldn’t take being passed on to his partners like a trophy. She ended it—her life.”
Roxanne gasped, hand over her mouth, tears beginning to form in her eyes. And I hated that I was the one who put them there.
“Lorenzo got the Mexicans in as clients. Little did we know he started his own side business with them—drifted from arms to drugs, then trafficking children. Little girls, boys as young as seven. He corrupted everything he touched. We knew he orchestrated my father’s death—indirectly, quietly. But we couldn’t prove it.
I built the empire after my father died. Arms. Counterfeit art. Beauty and danger—sold in silence.
“Lorenzo didn’t just want our businesses. He wanted power. But he didn’t come for the business first. He came for Elaine. She was my only weakness. And he knew it.
That’s why I never let anyone in. Not until…”
My throat closed around the words. I let the words hang. Roxanne didn’t speak. She just stared at the fire, chin resting on her knees, her face unreadable. Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
It was too much. I could see it in her eyes—the way her breath slowed.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving in two days.”
I stung me to say that, but if it meant keeping her safe, I’d endure the pain. She shifted, just enough to make my chest coil tightly. Just enough for me to feel the distance.
“Let’s head back,” I said.
But what I meant was: Please don’t push me away. Please don’t let this be the moment I lose you to fear.
What had I done? Did I just distance myself from her? Burden her with my troubles? Or worse—put her in danger?
She didn’t answer. Just stood quietly and walked into the living room. We said our goodbyes. My mother held on to Roxanne a little longer—gentle, comforting. As I reached the door, my mother pulled me aside.
“Give her time,” she said, her voice low. “She’ll come around. I know it in my heart.”
Time. It was the one thing Roxanne and I didn’t have—and the one thing I couldn’t steal. She kissed my cheek softly. And let me go.