Chapter 3
EMILIA
In this life, everything is orchestrated.
Its precision is like a conductor standing before their musicians; when they lift their hands, a collective inhale pulls all the oxygen out of the room.
The silence that follows feels heavy with anticipation.
But when he moved his arm for the first beat, the story was set in motion.
Music flooded the hall, washing over the audience in waves of sound.
This moment has always soothed my soul, but something was different tonight.
The air in the music hall was thick, oppressive, like it was the middle of summer, even though it was December.
The heating system must have been working overtime, or perhaps it was just my imagination.
A slight movement of the curtains behind me drew my attention from the Christmas carol the orchestra was playing.
The heavy velvet shifted, revealing a sliver of light from the hallway. Someone had entered our box, a man.
I could feel his presence behind us, a disturbance in the air, a shift in the energy of the small space.
The cologne he wore was almost intoxicating.
A mixture of cedar, lavender, and a hint of vanilla, an unusual combination, but it worked.
The scent wrapped around me like smoke, impossible to ignore.
My God, Emilia, now is not the time to be entertaining the merits of a cologne.
I silently reprimanded myself, refocusing my attention on the stage.
I needed to be present and on guard. This man was a stranger.
He shouldn't be here. My damn handbag had been too small to conceal a weapon, sitting neatly on my lap like a useless accessory, but it hadn't been too small for a syringe of potassium.
The small vial pressed against the silk lining, a cold comfort.
You're a ruthless killer, Emilia, not a love-struck woman. Get yourself together.
The stranger sat behind my father, who was seated to my right. The chair slightly creaked under his weight. It was a private box, surrounded by guards and bulletproof glass. No one else should be in here except the family. My pulse quickened, but I maintained a calm face and perfect posture.
"Relax, my belle, there is nothing to be anxious about.
" He reached over and took my hand, his fingers warm and firm around mine.
His words were soft, but not at all reassuring.
The Italian endearment felt wrong coming from his lips, too familiar.
He made no attempt to remove his hand. For the next hour, he kept me in his grasp, his thumb occasionally brushing over my knuckles, leading me to think that not all was as well as he tried to convey.
The musicians played on, oblivious to the growing tension in our box.
My father wanted to be feared and to lead, but he lacked the skills to think of anyone other than himself.
He was all bluster and no substance, a hollow shell of what a don should be.
He had no desire to expand his territory nor the financial ability to wage war against other families.
Under his leadership, the Carminatti family stagnated, becoming a joke whispered behind closed doors.
Letting my mind wander, the music fading into background noise, I thought back to the days after Marco was killed two years ago.
The golden son, the heir apparent, was shot in a warehouse dispute that never should have escalated.
He lost his drive, he was a don without a male heir, a mob boss with no one he could trust in his organization to take over for him.
Nobody but his daughters, and in his world, that was the same as having no one at all.
Except me.
Weeks passed, and the organization was in turmoil. Money stopped flowing. Deals fell through. Men questioned orders. That's when a silent member of the extended family stepped up and took control. Anonymous. Efficient. Ruthless.
My father corresponded with this person multiple times a day, encrypted messages on burner phones, and handed over all control and decision-making.
Somehow, despite all his years in this life, he had yet to figure out it was me.
When he'd pushed for meetings, I'd made them impossible.
Scheduling conflicts. Security concerns. Always an excuse.
When deals were ready to go down, he'd get all of his information to pass on to the Capos, detailed instructions that left no room for error.
Nobody knew where it was coming from, but it was all me.
Every decision. Every order. Every drop of blood spilled in the Carminatti name for the last two years.
One trusted person in my father's inner circle knew the truth, but I'd made sure he knew what would happen if anything leaked.
His loyalty was bought with equal parts ambition and fear.
It helped that he hoped his future would include me at his side, and then he'd take over as don of the Carminatti family. A foolish dream, but one I’d let him keep.
Mathias Turini was more than capable as an underboss, strategic and loyal in his own way, but he didn't have the connections to move higher.
His bloodline wasn't pure enough, his network not extensive enough.
He'd always be second, but I was how he'd become first. I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me, that hungry, calculating expression.
But little did he know it would never happen.
I'd kill him while staring into his eyes before I'd become his wife.
I'd already planned three different ways to do it if it came to that.
The curtains went down, the heavy fabric falling with a soft whoosh, and the crowd erupted with appreciative applause.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be having a thirty-minute intermission.
Please make yourself comfortable in the lobby, where wine and spirits are part of your evening.
" The emcee of the night stood on the stage as people stood and milled about, their voices rising in a pleasant murmur of conversation.
Heavy curtains closed around our box, pulled by unseen hands from outside, which only happened when there was business to take care of. The red velvet formed a cocoon, isolating us from the rest of the world.
"Niccolò." My father said, in his heavy Italian accent, and for a brief moment, my world spun.
Everything stopped. My stomach sank to my feet.
It was hard to breathe. I tugged on the high tulle collar of my dress, the fabric suddenly scratchy against my skin, but I didn't turn.
I might have pushed the limits of propriety by taking control of the Carminatti family, but I knew when not to show my hand.
Years of training kept my face neutral even as panic clawed at my insides.
My father stood, his movement stiff and formal, and held out his hand for my mother to take before turning to face the man behind us. "It is good to see you again." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father smile, then hug the man—an almost genuine gesture.
"Oh, come now, Emilia, don't be rude. You must greet our guest." My father extended his large, weathered, and scarred hand from decades of life, and I took it.
Standing upright, smoothing my dress with my free hand, I turned to face the man whose intoxicating cologne filled the air.
"Niccolò Venosa, I'm pleased to introduce you to my daughter, Emilia.
" This felt too informal; it smelled like a plot, and I didn't like it one bit.
My father never introduced me to men from other families. Never.
"Pleasure," I said, demurely as I held out my hand, letting it hang limply in the air between us like I'd been taught.
Niccolò took it gently and bowed, pressing his lips to the back of my hand.
The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me.
His broad shoulders made the seams of his well-tailored jacket pull slightly before he stood up to his full height, towering over me despite my heels.
This man was a monster, in more ways than one.
I could feel the power radiating off him like heat.
"The pleasure is all mine." He crooned sweetly, his voice deep and rich, as he smiled and our eyes locked. His eyes were black, bottomless, impossible to read. I felt like I was falling into them.
"Well, you two, we’re going to go see where our wine is.
" My father patted this man on the back as he and my mother exited the box, leaving behind a trail of my mother's expensive perfume, and for the first time in my life, I was left alone with a man.
Not just any man, but a man of a rival family.
A man who had the power to end me with a flick of his wrist. A man who'd been there this morning and seen me leaving a brutal murder scene.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
"Please, sit." He motioned to the chair next to him, his voice carrying an edge of command despite the polite words.
Kicking the train of my dress out of the way, the fabric heavy and cumbersome, I tucked my worn shoes beneath the hem.
I wasn't sure I could polish them with a marker anymore without it being obvious.
The leather was cracking at the toes; the heels scuffed beyond repair.
I needed a new pair soon. But kept a smile pasted on my face just as I was taught in etiquette classes, finishing school, and being raised in a 'proper' society gave me the grace to pretend nothing was wrong. I'd perfected the art of the mask.
"Are you enjoying the evening, Emilia?" His voice was casual and conversational, like we were old friends catching up.
"It's Ms. Carminatti, and it's a lovely evening. Listening to the symphony is one of my favorite things." I smiled modestly at the man, my hands folded in my lap like a proper lady.