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“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?”

“My twin brother is dead, Papá. I think it’s safe to say I am between deep depression and suicide.

” There is no humor in my voice because I am deathly serious.

The only reason I was even able to make it through today is because of chardonnay and Xanax.

“I saw Mr. Davacalli walk out of here before I came in.”

My father and I never speak of mafia business. That was something he always did with Antonio. But now, with my brother gone, maybe I could fill the hole that has been?—

“I’ve been made an offer that I can’t refuse.

” My father kicks off the bar cart and walks to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the grounds.

The sun has just begun to set beyond the horizon, drawing a close to a day I hope to forget.

“An offer that will, hopefully, soften the blow of losing my heir.”

I gulp and wait for him to continue.

“You will marry within the coming days,” my father utters as he sips on his expensive whiskey. “Matteo has proposed a deal that I can’t refuse.”

My heart stops dead in my chest.

“You can’t be serious, Papá.”

“It is done.”

“No. No, you always said—I was free to choose who I marry?—”

“That was before Antonio died.”

“So I’m nothing more than a bargaining chip?”

Every cell in my body screams to fight this, to run, to burn it all down. And I stare at my father, waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for him to tell me this is all some sick, grief-stricken joke.

But he doesn’t. His face is unreadable, cold and final. Like a tombstone sealing my fate. I am being traded like I am nothing. And worst of all… I have no way out.

I blink and watch my father by the window.

His eyes are cast out toward the backyard of the manor.

I have never seen my father so downcast before.

He is always a man of few emotions and even fewer words.

But within the last forty-eight hours, I have watched the big, strong man I grew up with barely hold onto his composure.

Truth be told, I want him to break. I want him to shatter and come undone like the rest of us.

We all lost Antonio. He is allowed to grieve—he doesn’t have to be the big, strong capo.

“I don’t understand, Papá.” I grit the words from my lips. “Marry who?”

My father sips on his dark liquor again, wincing as the liquid travels down his throat. “Daniele. You will marry him within the next two weeks.”

Daniele. I haven’t seen him since I was ten, and he was the shadow in the corner, always two steps behind Antonio. And now he is to be my husband? What kind of man has he become? The thought sends ice trickling down my spine.

“This union will join the Faravelli and the Davacalli names as one. With my heir gone, I need to secure our power somehow and allow our legacy to live on. You will marry Daniele, and in exchange, Matteo will offer his resources and protection to help us rebuild and sustain what decades of our bloodline have built.”

I ball my fists at my sides. I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from speaking.

The last thing I want is to speak out of turn, but the situation begs me to do so.

I am not some meek little woman without a backbone—I am not my mama.

I do not take shit lying down, but I know that, in this moment, my father just needs to be allowed to speak. But only for a few moments.

“Your marriage will protect the legacy that is now left without an heir. You will marry Daniele, and you will produce an heir for me—a son. I will groom him, and he will carry the name Faravelli to continue our bloodline.”

“This all sounds so archaic,” I mutter under my breath—then my voice rises before I can stop it. “You want me to marry a man I don’t even remember, to save a legacy I didn’t ask to carry? What about what I want, Papá?”

When I catch my father’s cool gaze, I clear my throat and look him dead in the eye. “Papá, you have an heir. You have me.”

“You are a woman, cara. You cannot lead this family. We will be the joke of society. Don’t act like you don’t know our customs and our ways.”

“All those people live in New York, Papá. We have our dealings here. We pulled out of the States a long time ago—why must we care what they think of us?”

“Maria, my word is final. You will marry Daniele within a fortnight. The arrangements are already in place.” He downs the rest of his drink and walks to the cart again to pour another. “If you want to truly help me, then you will do this. You will marry this boy, and you will save our family.”

“I didn’t realize our family was under threat, Papá.”

I hear him curse under his breath as he slams the glass down onto the cart. “Do you think these people are here to console a man who just lost his son?”

The silence that forms is deafening. I know the answer already—no. These people are here to deliver their final blows to my papa. A family without an heir is like a castle with no wall.

“They are here to see the easiest way to end me.

Our family has been around for almost a century, Maria.

Your ancestors built our name from the ground up, and I thought that by getting you out of New York—by pulling us out of the depths of that war—we could continue that legacy in peace.

But I was wrong, and here we are. I… I need to protect what is left of my family.

You and your mother are the most important things to me on this earth.

You are what I live for. What I will always be willing to die for.

“We need Matteo. He is powerful and connected, and no one will dare to touch us under his watch. You will marry Daniele and move back to New York, where you will live with your husband and bear your children.”

I gasp. “Papá, I can’t leave you and Mamá. She just lost one child—you cannot ship her last one across the ocean.”

“And if you remain here, you will die.” My father doesn’t mince his words. “And if you die, Marta will kill herself in all her agony, and I will be left alone—with no children, no wife, no legacy.”

He turns back to face me. There is a resolve in his eyes that tells me there’s no winning this. He has made up his mind, and trying to go against him will prove pointless.

And so, I bite down on my tongue to keep from speaking and swallow my fate whole.

“Congratulations, cara mia,” my father lifts his glass in the air in a toast. “You are now engaged.”

And just like that, the last piece of me is buried six feet under, too.

I had been right earlier today—wherever the Warlord is, death is not far behind.

Matteo Davacalli didn’t come for condolences. He came to bury me, too—just slower, and in silk.