Page 18 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

I want to break it, piece by careful piece.

Game on.

3

GIANNA

There are mornings that feel forgettable, and then there are mornings that begin with your brother reminding you to seduce a Salvatore.

I’ve had both, but this one falls into the latter category.

The mirror shows me a woman in crimson, the slit in her dress riding up her thigh.

The neckline is precise, not plunging, but enough to catch the eye of any man with a pulse.

My hair is parted down the middle, blown straight and sleek.

I have gold cuffs clasped around my wrists like an afterthought.

The heels match the dress.

My smile does not.

It is sharper.

The Rossi town car slips down the narrow streets of the portside business district, past rows of shuttered cafes and high-riseoffices, all of them too clean, carrying no memory of the blood they were built on.

Nuova Speranza is already awake, merchants shouting over crates of lemons and silk, engines sputtering in protest at the sea-slick roads.

The air is cool and flat in the car.

My laptop is open on my lap, the screen showing the quarterly figures that were finalized late last night.

Everything is ready.

The numbers align, the shell companies will hold, the customs records are scrubbed just enough to pass.

The location for the meeting is one of those half-finished Salvatore real estate ventures, perched like a relic above the old waterfront tower.

It was once the administrative hub for the port authority, back when the government still pretended it controlled this city.

Now, the upper floors are repurposed as Salvatore offices, a blend of steel, glass, and Sicilian marble, their windows overlooking a view of docks that stretch out into a murky sprawl of commerce, secrets, and salt.

It’s a clever place for a meeting—visible, yet above scrutiny.

The Salvatores no longer operate in the dark.

They have stepped into the light, and they dare you to question what you see.

A man I don’t recognize holds the car door open as we arrive.

I step out into a courtyard paved with stone that is too white to be anything but imported.

The building rises in clean lines, all smoked glass and restrained wealth.

Inside, the lobby smells like bergamot and fresh paper.

A young woman at the desk checks my name without meeting my eyes and waves me toward the private elevator.