Page 125 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

"They say your wife," he continues, sprinkling the words like a garnish, "still holds ties to traitors. That her presence in your house is not simply a matter of marriage, but proximity. That she walks among you as a Rossi first, and a Salvatore second."

The words are spoken gently.

No accusation or bite.

Just as a possibility.

I place my glass down slowly and allow the moment to settle.

I let him see the patience in my silence.

The restraint.

"I trust my wife," I say simply.

Calvetti smiles, faintly.

"Trust," he murmurs, "is the most expensive currency left in our world. It doesn’t spend well twice."

There it is.

Not war, nor betrayal.

Just a question, spoken softly enough to echo in the halls of other men’s thoughts.

We sit in a moment of stillness so thick the waitstaff doesn’t dare refill the wine.

I don’t rise or reach for a knife or the gun in my holster.

That’s not how men like Calvetti are answered.

Not when you still need them in your ledger.

Not when you know they haven’t chosen their allegiance fully yet—but they haven’t withdrawn it either.

So instead, I speak without smiling.

"You’ve backed us before. Not because of sentiment. Because it was profitable."

He nods.

No denial.

"And it still is," I continue. "Unless you’ve seen a better offer."

"I’ve seen movement," he says. "Quiet things. Unnamed hands. That’s what concerns me. Not your house. But the ones trying to build a new one behind yours."

"The blood under the stone," I say.

He lifts his glass. "Exactly."

The final course arrives—chocolate tart, thin as a coin, served with unsweetened espresso.

I take one bite and leave the rest untouched.

Marco hasn’t spoken since we sat down.

His silence has weight.