Page 84 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

But never useless.

And never unready.

"All right," I say finally. "Then teach me. Show me how you’ve been running this empire without me. I’m ready to know what I’ve been missing."

Luca gives nothing away.

But Marco smiles, just faintly, as he crosses the room to pour himself a drink. "Be careful what you ask for, little brother."

"I’m not asking," I say, standing. "I’m stepping up."

15

GIANNA

The light changes in the afternoon—less gold, more amber.

It slips across the floor of the south wing suite in long, warm bands, flickering where it hits the tall windows.

I sit at the edge of the chaise with a tea cup cooling in my hand, watching the girls chase each other between the couch and the low table stacked with puzzles and picture books.

They’ve taken to the estate better than I expected.

Children, it turns out, adapt faster than adults do, especially when the hallways are wide and there’s always a new corner to explore.

They’re quieter today, though, maybe sensing the shift that followed the wedding, or maybe just tired from so much newness.

I’m still dressed for the day, but I haven’t done much with myself.

A soft cream blouse and slacks, hair tied low at the nape.

It’s not that I’m trying to look polished, but I can’t look too relaxed either.

Halfway through brushing Arietta’s curls into something that might pass for neat, there’s a knock at the door.

Not the tentative kind the staff usually give when they’re bringing in tea or laundry, but brisk and purposeful.

I glance at the clock.

Dante won’t be back from the strategy meeting with Luca and Marco for at least another hour.

I open the door to find one of the estate’s senior servants—an older woman with an immaculate uniform and a face like pressed linen.

"Signora Salvatore," she says, with the same respectful formality she always uses now. "You have a visitor. He’s waiting for you in the east salon."

My stomach tightens.

No one visits unannounced here.

And certainly not without clearing it through one of the brothers.

"Who is it?"

"He said he’s your brother, signora. Signor Rafa Rossi."

I nod stiffly and thank her, murmuring for the girls to stay inside and keep the balcony doors shut.

Arietta pouts but obeys, curling beside her sister with a picture book and a mass of colored pencils.