Chapter 18
RENZO
It’s been four days since my brothers and their wives descended on Ortigia like a biblical plague.
Four days since Cesare gave orders with that Underboss glint in his eye, since Rafa paced holes into my terrace muttering about weasels and sins, since Dante raided my liquor cabinet like it owed him money.
Four days of Giada sleeping in my arms every night and waking up with her thighs trembling around me every morning.
I should be relaxed. Instead, I’m wound tight enough to snap. Because even with her warm in my bed, her fingers tangled in my shirt holding me close even in sleep, even with the promise of a future humming through my veins…
Danger is circling.
And it’s getting closer.
So when my phone vibrates on the table just after dinner, it feels almost inevitable that the notification that pops up is from this particular individual.
Nightowl
Incoming footage. Eyes open, lover boy.
I open the feed and watch the grainy surveillance footage roll. A dark convoy moves through the Sicilian countryside. High-end cars, blacked windows, armoured plating glinting under street lamps.
The message attached is simple.
Nightowl
Lapdogs Prancing. ETA… Imminent. Hope your dick is worth dying for.
I grit my teeth. ‘Motherfucker.’
Giada is in the kitchen with Maddie and Sofiya, making coffee and smiling like she hasn’t a clue a wolf is prowling towards us with murder in his heart.
Another ping.
A new message.
Not from Nightowl.
From an unknown number. But I don’t need to know the number to understand the words. Because at least this particular asshole doesn’t know the art of being cryptic.
Return the girl or bury what remains. VM.
Vittore Mancinelli.
I type back.
Renzo
VM. Short for Vafanculo Motherfucker?
VM
At least my madre is still alive, racer boy.
I chuckle with zero humour as Sicilian rage, pure and clean, slides down my spine.
I hit CALL.
He answers on the third ring, laughing softly, like he’s already picturing Giada in a body bag.
‘Renzo Salvatore,’ Vittore purrs. ‘Tell me, how does it feel knowing you stole something that never belonged to you?’
My jaw tics. ‘You want to threaten me? Fine. But if you ever refer to my mother again or dare to speak Giada’s name, I swear I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ he interrupts. ‘Fight a war? Against the remnants of her own blood? Against the man who kept her safe when your family left her to die?’
I grip the edge of the table so hard the wood creaks. ‘You and I both know you’re lying. Giada was taken because El Topo ordered her erased. While you hid in the ground like some damn weasel. And now you’ve – what? Picked up the family hobby? You think you’re ready for the big leagues, little man?’
Vittore goes silent for several beats, seething, then he clicks his tongue. ‘Return her. Or I return what’s left of you to your brothers in a box.’
The call cuts and the world narrows.
I take three breaths, then walk out onto the terrace where my brothers are already waiting – because of course they sensed something was off.
Rafa stares at me with that wolfish glint. ‘What the fuck was that? You look like you’re chewing iron filings.’
‘Vittore,’ I say.
Cesare straightens, cigar freezing mid-air. ‘He contacted you directly?’
‘Yeah.’ I toss the phone onto the table. ‘He wants Giada returned. Or he escalates.’
Dante snorts. ‘Returned? Like she’s a UPS package?’ He turns to the sea, muttering, ‘Che testa di cazzo.’
Cesare’s gaze cuts to me. And then, because our timing is shit and fate likes theatrics, my phone rings again.
Orazio.
Of course.
I answer. ‘Nonno.’
His voice booms through the speaker like thunder rolling over the ocean. ‘You little shit. You kept her from me? YOU?’
Giada hears it in the other room and she freezes.
Great.
Orazio barrels on. ‘Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you have any idea the storm you’ve stirred by keeping this quiet? Where is she? Put me on video.’
I grimace, do as I’m told and slowly turn the phone towards her.
Her wide gaze drops to the grey-haired old man glowering at her, and she jumps. Her sisters murmur to her as Orazio falls silent for three heartbeats.
Then: ‘Madonna Santa. It is really her.’ A sharp inhale. ‘A Mancinelli face with Salvatore fire in her eyes. No doubt that fire will be tested soon enough.’
I flip the phone back as Giada sways.
Sofiya grips her elbow as Maddie wraps an arm around her baby sister.
I’m tempted to switch back to audio but I know Nonno will tear me a new one. ‘She’ll meet you in New York.’
Orazio snarls. ‘And what if she’s dead by then? That upstart is making moves in Sicily. Matteo is stirring shit in Calabria. The Russians are restless. El Topo has cousins none of us knew about crawling out of sewage pipes.’
Which is why I don’t have time for this conversation. I glance at Cesare, signalling for him to step in. He raises an eyebrow and leans harder against the terrace pillar.
Culo.
‘He won’t touch her,’ I bite. ‘I won’t let him.’
‘You better not. If she dies before we all get answers, I go to war again. And this time? No survivors.’
The call ends. I feel her before she speaks.
‘I’m a spark on the edge of a war,’ Giada whispers.
‘No,’ I correct, walking over to her, sliding a hand to her waist. ‘You’re the reason that war ends.’
But as I hold her, breathing her in, feeling her tremble… I know she’s a ticking bomb.
If her memories come back too soon, too fast, the shock might break her mind again.
If Vittore gets to her?
He’ll kill her before she can speak a single truth.
My phone vibrates again.
Nightowl
You’ve got company near Ortigia Dock. Lapdogs. Want me to play?
‘No,’ I hiss out loud, grateful they’re not fucking with cryptic messages for once. ‘My turn.’
I show the message to my brothers and Rafa cracks his knuckles, a manic grin creasing his face. ‘Let’s go hunting.’
Cesare tucks his gun into his waistband. ‘We do this quiet. No bodies on the street if we can help it.’
Dante smirks as he checks the knives secreted about his person. ‘Define quiet.’
I’m not listening. I’m too busy kissing my girl. ‘Be right back, baby. Save that sweet mouth for me.’
* * *
The Docks – Later
The docks of Ortigia shouldn’t be this quiet.
The sea slaps lazily against the stone pilings, moonlight carving silver bones through the water. A humid, fish-salted wind rolls through the shipping crates. The perfect kind of night for violence.
We move like shadows – me, Cesare, Rafa, Dante. Four Salvatores with the kind of presence that shifts air pressure.
I feel the moment my brothers sense it too.
Rafa mutters, ‘Small crew. Pathetic.’
Cesare scans the perimeter. ‘You’d think he’d send a bigger team. I’m not sure whether to be insulted or amused he’s tickling our balls.’
He’s testing us. Testing me. Testing to see how far I’ll go to protect her.
A figure shifts behind a forklift. Another crouches near the boat ramp. A third near the rusted bollards.
They’re pathetically sloppy… but not scared.
Good. Fear makes men stupid. Confidence makes them bleed better.
Cesare flicks his chin. ‘Take them clean. No noise unless necessary.’
We move.
The first clash is fast as blades catch moonlight and boots grind flesh into gravel. One of Vittore’s men lunges at Dante with surprising speed. They trade blows, vicious and tight, Dante taking a punch to the ribs, grinning as he returns one that cracks bone.
Rafa and I double-team another. He swings a crowbar at me and misses by an inch. Rafa grabs him from behind, slamming him face-first into a crate while I drive my knee into his gut.
For a moment, it’s surprisingly evenly matched – the lapdogs have sharp teeth, it seems – Salvatore precision against Mancinelli ferality.
Then something shifts.
Rage, maybe.
Purpose.
Bloodline.
This bullshit’s been going on long before we were born. With El Topo off the board, it should’ve died a natural death. But apparently, culos will be culos.
The four of us synchronise the way only brothers raised in war can.
Cesare drops his opponent with a brutal elbow to the throat. Rafa gets his man on the ground, knee on his spine, twisting until cartilage pops.
Dante disarms the one with the knife and sends it spinning across the pavement; he follows it with a kick that knocks the bastard unconscious.
The last one tries to bolt.
I grab him by the collar and slam him into the container wall so hard it rattles.
‘You came to my island?’ I snarl into his face. ‘To watch my home?’
He spits blood. ‘Vittore wanted eyes.’
‘He’ll have them,’ I promise, ‘in a bag.’
Cesare steps up beside me. ‘Alive. We need answers.’
I shove the man forward. Dante cuffs him. Rafa wipes blood off his knuckles with a smirk of disappointment.
‘That was it?’ he scoffs. ‘Three half-trained pricks and a runner? I expected more.’
‘So did Vittore,’ Cesare says coldly. ‘He wanted to see how fast we’d respond.’
‘Fast enough,’ I mutter.
‘Too fast,’ Dante counters. ‘He’ll escalate.’
We drag the bound survivor towards the SUV, the night humming with leftover adrenaline. The high of it all is electric. Ugly. Familiar. A taste of how the old wars used to feel.
As we load the man in the back, Rafa lights a cigar, exhales thick, savage smoke. ‘When do we get the real fight?’
My phone starts buzzing.
Unknown number again. At this point, I’d cut a dozen more bastards for a quiet night. My stomach knots, even before I swipe to answer.
I say nothing. Waiting.
‘I see you enjoyed my greeting,’ he purrs. ‘Don’t get too excited. Those were merely the… most disposable of my men.’
He lets that hang; the implication is clear.
I have many more.
‘You’re used to dealing with an old dog and his weakling son,’ he continues. ‘Yes, they’re my blood, and for honour’s sake I will avenge them…’
Rafa steps closer, listening over my shoulder.
Cesare goes still and Dante’s jaw tics.
‘But this?’ Vittore says softly. ‘This was just a taster.’