Page 56

I step away from the grave and allow the others to throw their roses inside. My father has taken my mother off to the side, giving her the privacy and decency to break away from the proximity of the crowd.

I lift my head again, and like before, he is watching me. His eyes are like lasers—precise and deadly in their sharpness. His expression is blank. I can’t get a good enough read on him to guess what he could possibly be thinking.

All I know is that this man’s presence alone is enough to make me feel uneasy. If the Warlord is here, it means that death and chaos are not far behind.

I splash my face with cold water, trying to wake myself up. The chardonnay has finally caught up to me, and my body is beginning to feel the downhill effects. I lift my head and stare at my now bare face in the mirror.

My eyes are bloodshot from all the tears I’ve cried. My neatly pinned bun has stayed in place all day. My cheeks are flushed from the icy water, but other than that, I don’t seem too off-putting.

“Smudged mascara, red eyes—time to paint over the wreckage.” I reach under my bathroom sink and pull out some concealer. If I didn’t have to go back down and mingle with the rest of these people, I would be on my second bottle of chardonnay. It’s what my brother would have wanted.

Antonio always used to say, “Every second is a good time for bubbly.”

I choke out a laugh as I apply my concealer. Tears brim in my eyes, but I do my best to hold them back. The last thing I need right now is to ruin my makeup for the second time.

Go down. Talk to parents—mainly my father. Then drink my sorrows away in my bed.

That is my game plan, and a solid one at that. I’m sure the wine will be a better conversationalist than the people currently in my home.

I come out of my room after about twenty minutes. I walk to my parents’ door and open it slightly. There, I find my mother lying on the bed, her chest rising and falling gently.

The pills worked.

I am not in favor of drugs helping her cope, but I popped a Xanax this morning to get through the day. If this is what helps her sleep and keeps her from being hysterical, then it’s a win for all of us. I hate hearing her bloodcurdling scream. I hate not being able to soothe her pain.

“Fuck, Antonio,” I curse my dead brother as I make my way down the stairs in search of my father. There are still people lingering around the house to ‘console’ us. But I know this world like the back of my hand. These people are just circling sharks who linger because they can smell blood.

The Faravelli heir is dead, and their family is weakened.

The anger pours into my system all over again. I have been robbed of my brother because of nothing but greed and a thirst for power. I have this undeniable bloodlust that fills my system. I am murderous. Whoever killed Antonio will rue the day they ever laid a hand on a Faravelli.

“Maria, a moment, please?” a woman I don’t recognize calls out as she sees me walking down the hallway.

“I need to go and call my father,” I say with an apologetic smile, though truly, I don’t want any more of their fake condolences. “I’ll be back.”

Her shoulders sag in disappointment, but I could give two shits what makes her sad or not. I’m in mourning. Not her.

I round the corner and come to a halt when I see my father and Matteo Davacalli walk into his office. They’ve been having hushed conversations all day. At first, I thought they were simply catching up, but now my little spider senses are tingling—something isn’t right.

“What are you up to, Papá?” I whisper under my breath. I wait for the door to close, then tiptoe toward it, wanting to hear what they’re saying.

I stand outside my father’s study. I can hear the muffled voices of the two men inside. There’s something about Mr. Davacalli that stirs something in me. I don’t know if it’s fear or something else. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of anything that could otherwise be considered inappropriate.

I am at my brother’s wake, for God’s sake.

I step closer to the door and strain my ears to catch what’s going on inside.

I hear the words, urgent and necessary. As far as I know, my father has been staying clear of any heavily connected links within the mafia—particularly the Italian sector, which just so happens to be Matteo Davacalli.

So why is he meeting with him? What could this man possibly have to say to my father?

“This will be for the betterment of your family, Marcelo.” I hear Matteo Davacalli’s deep voice seep through the door. Heavy footsteps follow, and I stiffen. I step away and quickly rush around the corner to hide.

Seconds later, the door opens—and out walks the mafia king himself. As before, his stature is domineering and demands attention. It’s almost impossible to look away. My lips part as I gaze at him, but this time from behind the shield of the wall.

He easily towers over the majority of the men who attended today’s funeral, including my father.

His short black hair is slicked back, the style revealing the sharp features of his face—chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that look like they could cut diamonds.

Not to mention the way his tailored suit hugs his body, leaving you wondering just how chiseled he really is.

A rush of heat moves throughout my system, and I catch my breath, embarrassed at how intensely I’m staring. There is no way in hell that I am… ogling my father’s old friend. There is no way I can— shit .

Matteo rounds the corner and smacks right into me. His hand shoots out and helps to steady me so that I don’t completely lose my balance. Little sparks of electricity move from the place where his palm touches my back.

He smells like expensive whiskey and something darker—something dangerous. His grip is firm, warm, steadying. I pull back, resisting the urge to shiver, and avert my gaze to the floor. His eyes scan me—slow, assessing.

“Careful, Miss Faravelli. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there, Mr. Davacalli. I was on my way to see my father.”

Why am I explaining myself? This is my house. I live here. If anything, he should be the one explaining why he was?—

“That’s all right,” his deep voice filters into my ears, and I all but lose my shit. It’s this silky, textured kind of symphony that kisses my eardrum.

Is it hot in here? My chest heaves up and down, trying to take in as much air as possible before I finally release my breath. A shiver travels up and down my spine until I steel my back and remember where I am.

“Um, thank you for… uh… coming to the funeral. I’m sure my papa appreciated your presence.” I force a smile onto my lips and look into his eyes.

He stares into my pupils as if searching for something. His gaze is unnerving—it feels like he has me under a microscope. I clear my throat and break eye contact, unable to take the heaviness of his presence.

This man is intimidating. I’ve met many dangerous and ruthless men in this world, but there’s a silent danger about Matteo that gnaws at my chest.

“Safe travels back to the States.” I give him one last smile, then sidestep him toward my father’s study. I’m almost at the door when he starts to speak again.

“Actually, I believe I will be staying a while. Some matters require my urgent attention here in Florence.” He says to my back, “I will be seeing you, Miss Faravelli. Quite a bit, I imagine.”

I don’t know why, but his words slither down my spine like a premonition. A promise. A threat. Whatever this man wants, it is more than just a courtesy visit.

I look over my shoulder at where he stands, but the man is no longer there. I stand in place for a few seconds and wait. The interaction with Matteo is not something I had been anticipating. I try to shake him from my mind and continue toward my father’s study.

I stand at the door, raise my fist, and knock.

“Entra.” Come in. I hear his muffled voice from inside.

I let out a shaky breath, preparing myself for whatever awaits me inside. Mamá is always the easier one to handle of the two.

I open the door. I find my papa by the small bar cart, pouring himself a whiskey neat on the rocks. From the drink choice alone, I know he’s deep in his sorrow—Papá only ever reaches for the whiskey when something’s broken inside him.

“Papá, stai bene?” Dad, are you okay? I walk in cautiously, as if I’m approaching a wild boar. My heels click against the hardwood floors, and the strong scent of oak and cigar smoke filters into my nose.

He grunts his reply and then takes a sip of his drink.

He turns to look at me. His dark brown eyes smolder with despair—and something else I just can’t place.

He gestures for me to sit by the loveseat in the center of his study.

I make my way over to the expensive leather seat and settle into the cold fabric.

The air is thick, and my heart hammers with anticipation of what lingers in it. I have a feeling that whatever he’s going to say is likely to shift the entire trajectory of my life.

I try not to let my mind get ahead of itself, but I can’t help it. There’s something that isn’t settling well within my soul.

“How is your mother?” Papá leans against the bar cart and stares at me. He’s stalling. “Is she asleep? The doctor said he gave her one of those pills to calm her.”

I nod my head once. “I just left her room before I came here. There are still some guests who have lingered behind, waiting to speak with you, I’m presuming.”

Back straight. Chin up. Legs crossed.

This is the posture that has been drilled into me from the moment I could speak.

I have been raised to be the perfect woman.

In our world, the class and elegance of a woman is a father’s pride.

I am a reflection of the success of my father and my mother.

I can never afford to walk out of step or speak out of tone when it matters most.

“And you? How are you keeping?”