Chapter 15
RENZO
My men haul him in like a sack of badly tied meat, boots thudding against the villa’s stone floor, the salt air still clinging to our clothes, still humming with the aftermath of what I just did in that alley.
This Mancinelli lapdog is bleeding enough to paint a fresco. The other is already dead. The third – well, he found the good sense to run. Sense is rare in Mancinellis these days, but I’ll grant him that much.
Giada is still in the doorway when we come in. She’s pale, eyes too wide, gelato forgotten in her hand, a smear of pistachio melting down her wrist.
She takes it all in without screaming or fainting… just stares at the man we’ve dragged in; stares at the blood on his face, at the way my men move around him like it’s just another Tuesday.
Then she looks at me.
Not horrified or wounded.
I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.
‘Renzo…’ Her voice is soft, unsure, like she’s stepping onto soft ice. ‘Why have you brought him back? What are you going to do?’
I don’t answer yet. I don’t trust my mouth right now. Anger is still roaring through me, and I’m trying to keep it leashed, because she doesn’t need to see that animal. Not yet.
‘Take him downstairs,’ I tell my men. ‘Tie him to the chair.’
They move without question as Giada takes a step forward.
I catch her wrist. Gentle enough not to bruise. Firm enough that she understands it’s not a request. ‘No, baby. You’re not coming with me.’
Her brows snap down. ‘Why not?’
Because the next part of me is not the part you should watch.
Because whatever fragile stitching is holding her mind together right now could split at the sight of what I’m about to do.
Because I am not a saint and I’m not about to pretend I am.
‘Not closing your eyes when I asked you to is one thing, ragazza,’ I say, low, controlled, ‘but this is something else.’
Her chin lifts. A flash of that old fire I feel under her skin. ‘You don’t get to decide what I can handle.’
‘I do right now.’ I step closer, voice dropping another notch. ‘And I’m not about to risk your health for this.’
‘For what?’
‘For me getting answers in ways you don’t need burned into your head. Not yet.’
She opens her mouth to argue, and I beat her to it.
‘So you can let me do this on my own’ – I lean in, smile hard – ‘or we can leave this fucker to rot while we go upstairs and fuck some more. Your choice.’
Her gasp is sharp enough to cut marble. Behind her, two of my men pretend not to hear. They fail spectacularly.
Giada’s eyes flare, scandalised and luminous all at once. ‘Renzo!’
‘You heard me.’
‘People can hear you.’
‘I hope they do.’ I tilt my head. ‘Maybe they’ll learn something useful, like not testing me in my own city.’
Her cheeks go molten. Fury fights with embarrassment, but I can see her clocking the truth and she knows she’s not going to win this one. Not if she throws every saint in the book at me.
She yanks her wrist out of my grip with a vicious little motion and storms away down the corridor, dress snapping around her calves like a flag of war.
‘Giada—’
She doesn’t stop.
I let her go, not because I want to but because I need her to know I’ll protect her even from herself, even if she hates me for it for an hour.
Even if she hates me for it for a lifetime.
I take a breath, force my body to recalibrate, and head towards the basement.
The room down here is cool and spare. A place built for weathering storms. Thick stone walls, a single overhead bulb, a drain in the floor I never pray over.
The lapdog is slumped in a chair, wrists zip-tied behind him, his lip split and one eye already swelling shut. He tries to straighten when I enter.
Fails.
Good.
My men stand to either side, silent as gravestones.
I pull my phone out first.
Nightowl’s earlier message still crawls across my screen like a smug riddle.
Weasels make chessboards out of the wood when Rats desert sinking ships.
‘Cryptic worst,’ I mutter, thumb stabbing the keys.
Renzo
Your riddles nearly made her collapse, you fucker. Stop playing prophet and speak like a human.
Three dots appear. Pause. Then:
Nightowl
If I spoke like a human, capo, you’d forget I’m not one of your men. Comfort makes you sloppy.
I feel my temper crackle. ‘Motherfucker,’ I tell the screen.
Renzo
I’m not sloppy. I’m pissed. Give me facts or get out of my way.
Nightowl
Facts are expensive. You already paid by winning in an alley. Keep winning if you want the rest.
The arrogance in it is almost admirable.
Almost.
Because they’re still a puppet pulling strings and every one will be extracted in the juiciest pound of flesh, ally or not. I type harder than necessary.
Renzo
Next time you send clues in riddles, I’m coming for you.
Nightowl
Always were dramatic. Enjoy your guest. He has a name you’ll want to taste slowly. Carnage comes.
I stare at that last line, jaw grinding.
Then I put the phone away before I crush it and step towards the chair.
The man flinches when my shadow falls over him. Tries to mask it with bravado.
‘Who sent you?’ I ask quietly.
He lifts his chin. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
I smile. ‘Sure you don’t.’
I drag another chair across the stone and sit facing him, close enough to smell his fear. Close enough that he can see the blood I didn’t bother scrubbing off my knuckles.
‘You followed me,’ I say. ‘Here in Ortigia. In public. That’s either suicide or a message. I’m assuming you didn’t come to die.’
His swallow is loud.
‘Tell me who gave the order,’ I say, ‘and you walk out of here breathing.’
He laughs once – thin, broken. ‘You think you can promise that?’
‘I don’t promise.’ I lean forward a fraction. ‘I buy outcomes.’
His mouth tightens. He’s young. Too young for this confidence. Probably got handed a gun and a surname and thought that made him immortal.
Mancinellis love to breed that delusion.
‘I work for the famigghia,’ he says.
‘Which famigghia, puta?’
He hesitates. That’s all I need.
I stand smoothly, cross behind him, and set my good hand on the back of his neck. Not squeezing yet. Just resting there like a quiet prophecy.
He shudders.
‘Which famigghia?’ I repeat conversationally.
Silence. I squeeze. Just enough to remind him he’s not the one in charge of air any more.
‘Okay,’ he chokes. ‘Okay—’
‘Talk.’
He exhales raggedly. ‘The order came from… Vittore.’
The name lands strange in my mouth.
I still. ‘Say that again.’
‘Vittore Mancinelli.’ His voice shakes now, speeding up. ‘He’s Matteo’s cousin. New blood. He’s… he’s running things while Matteo regroups.’
My gut goes cold. Because that is not a name I’ve heard once in my life.
And I should have.
‘Where is he?’ I ask softly.
The lapdog shakes his head in violent panic. ‘I don’t know. I swear. He moves. He doesn’t stay in one place. We get orders through intermediaries.’
‘Intermediaries like who?’
‘I don’t know names – just contacts. Dead drops. Phones we discard. He’s careful.’
‘Careful doesn’t mean clean.’ I step closer, crouch so we’re eye-level. ‘What does he want with Giada?’
His eyes jerk towards mine.
A flicker too quick to be accidental.
Oh.
So he does know that part.
‘Tell me,’ I say.
He wets his lips. ‘His niece… she knows something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’ His breathing is fast now. ‘Just… that she was there. That if she remembers, it’s over. For all of us.’
I hold his gaze for another long beat – sifting for truth in the tremor of his pupils, in the sweat on his brow.
He’s telling me what he knows, which means the rest is higher up the chain.
Vittore.
New threat. Old blood. Tight leash.
I straighten, pull a cloth from the table, and wipe my hands slowly, as if I’m wiping the last of his usefulness off me.
He realises it too.
‘Wait—’ he blurts. ‘I told you—’
I toss the cloth into the bin. ‘You told me enough to make me curious. You didn’t tell me enough to live.’
His face crumples into sheer terror. ‘You said I’d walk out—’
‘I said you’d walk out breathing if you were honest.’ I shrug. ‘You were honest about what you knew. Unfortunately for you, it wasn’t much.’
One of my men steps forward.
‘Dispose of him,’ I say.
‘No – no, please—’
The pleas fade behind me as I stride out. Steel in my chest. Ice in my veins. A hot, pulsing need to get upstairs and find Giada and make sure she’s okay. Make sure she hasn’t been out of my sight long enough to make plans that will give me heart attacks.
My phone is buzzing again before I reach the top step.
I see the name.
Cesare.
Of course.
I answer as I hit the corridor, forcing my breathing to sound normal. Knowing I’ve failed miserably even before I hear his low growl of control barely holding.
‘You choose to answer your phone now, frate? You’re bordering on insubordination, you know—’
‘Who the hell is Vittore Mancinelli and why haven’t I been told about him?’ I interject.
My brother goes silent. Which can mean two things at once. One, they know the name now. And two, they’re already moving.
‘First of all, if you’d answered your fucking phone, you would know too. But more importantly, how the fuck do you know?’
I close my eyes a second. ‘Because he just sent men after us in Ortigia,’ I say quietly.
A pause so razor-thin it could cut. Then Cesare exhales like a man suppressing fire. ‘Us?’
‘Yes… us.’
He exhales. ‘You know we’re coming. So I suggest you stay where the hell you are. Don’t do anything stupid until we get there.’
I laugh once, humourless. ‘You mean beyond what I’ve already done?’
‘Renzo.’
‘Cesare.’ I lower my voice. ‘Bring Maddie. Bring Rafa. Bring Sofiya. Bring the fucking apocalypse if you want. But nobody touches her. Unless they go through me. Capisci.’
Another pause.
Then, colder, more final: ‘We’re already wheels up.’
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Then I tuck it away and start moving again, pulse spiking, because upstairs there’s a furious, frightened woman with a heart I don’t deserve and a memory that could start a war.
And I’m about to tell her – whether she wants it or not – that the storm has found us.