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6

MATTEO

Iloathe people. But what I hate more? A party full of them. If I had it my way, Maria and Daniele would have eloped by now. But I have to honor Marcello and his daughter by granting her a wedding for the ages.

The violin strums in the background, setting the mood for a classy and elegant aesthetic. A ballroom filled with drug lords, murderers, and prostitutes—all dressed to the nines to hide the ugly red stains we pretend we don’t carry.

“Fucking boring.” I brood in the corner of the room, away from the hustle and bustle of the mafia elite.

I watch Maria and my son work the room like pros. She smiles and hangs on to him with a light in her eyes that is not only captivating but makes you stop and stare. Something in the way she carries herself draws your eyes to her.

She is beauty personified.

I shake my head and try to rid my mind of these thoughts. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts—not when she’s wearing my son’s ring. She’s meant to be a Davacalli. My daughter-in-law. I take a sip of whiskey and grimace. SurelyMarcello could have sprung for the good liquor. I’m paying a hefty fee for this wedding to begin with.

“Enjoying the party, Mr. Davacalli?” Marta Faravelli, Marcello’s wife, comes to stand beside me. She offers me a small smile and a raise of her glass. “I must say, the ring chosen for my daughter is stunning. And her birthstone, no less.”

I know little of the madame of the house, but from what I do know, she has Marcello’s ear and is one of the main reasons he’s been so successful—after the clusterfuck of a head his father was before him. She made the man who now stands in the corner of the room, smiling with the rest of the wolves.

“I must say, you’ve outdone yourself, Marta. The hall looks impeccable on such short notice.” I offer her my appreciation. She’s had less than a week to make this all work, and she’s done well.

“Mhmm.” She hums her agreement. She holds the stem of her wine glass and pats her palm on the skirt of her midnight-blue, floor-length gown.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry for being such a bother, but matters like these require the highest urgency.”

“I’m aware. The murder of my son has left my family… in need of some power. And you just so happen to be willing to lend a helping hand.”

There is accusation in her tone, but I don’t indulge her. I’ve already taken from her. I can take whatever thoughts or grievances she may have. She’s a grieving woman—and her son’s body is still warm.

The crack of the gun and the whizz of the bullet ring in my mind. I have to force myself to remain composed as the memories try to trickle their way back in.

“You know this world we live in, Marta.” I sip the shitty whiskey to keep my mouth preoccupied. “This world is all about power plays and moves. Your husband was once invaluable tome, and now he can be again. My son needs a bride, and I need a trusted ally. We all win here.”

She manages a grimace of a smile. “Yes, everyone wins. My son is dead, and you can’t wait to make a power move. But what am I to expect from the Warlord himself?”

This time, I give her my full focus. It strikes me just how much of her was in her son—the same son who lies dead in a hole thanks to me. Her eyes are locked on our children on the other side of the room, but I know her words are meant for me.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Marta,” I say gently. “Losing a child… I can’t imagine that kind of pain.”

She stiffens. Her eyes stay on our children standing nearby, but I see her grip tighten around the glass in her hand. She’s barely holding it together. Planning this wedding has been her distraction—her way of avoiding the grief. But in moments like this, when Antonio’s name lingers in the air, I can see her break a little. The pain hits, and so does the reality—he’s never coming back.

She wipes at her eye and then turns to look at me.

There’s hurt in her eyes, yes—but also something sharper. Anger.

“This world already took one of my children,” she says, her voice low and steady. “And now you and your son want to take the last one I have left. You’re dragging her back into the middle of all this—excuse me—bullshit. Right into the line of fire.”

She steps closer. She’s small—barely over five feet—but right now, she feels ten feet tall. Her rage fills the space around us.

“You may be feared. You may be powerful. But if a single tear falls from her eyes—if one hair on her head is harmed—I swear to God, I will burn your world to the ground. No amount of power, money, or reputation will protect you from me. She is my last child. I carried her for nine months. I labored for eighteenhours to bring her into this world. You better honor that—and keep her safe.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. Every word hits like a strike to the chest.

And for the first time in a long time, I have nothing to say back.

“You have my word that I will keep her safe.”

“I will hold you to that promise.” She gives me a lasting nod before making her way to the other side of the ballroom, where her husband stands with a few of ourcolleagues. It’s comical, really.