Page 9

9

Alessio

I pace the perimeter of my temporary quarters at the Calvino estate, my mind racing with calculations and contingencies. The clock chimes past midnight, which marks six days until Isadora’s wedding to Luca. Six days until my carefully constructed vengeance culminates in Giancarlo’s destruction.

And now she knows too much.

The photograph burns in my pocket—evidence of a past I’ve kept buried for twenty years. A past where I wasn’t Alessio Gravano, feared enforcer for the Calvino family, but Stefano Calvino, the son Giancarlo tried to murder alongside my mother.

She’s clever, my principessa. Too clever for her own safety.

I could silence her. In my world, loose ends are typically cut with ruthless efficiency. One phone call to Vittorio, and the problem would disappear before nightfall.

But the mere thought of harm coming to her makes something primal and protective surge within me. I’ve spent two decades becoming a monster to hunt a monster, but with her, I can not cross that line.

This leaves only one option: bring her into the fold, make her complicit, and ensure her loyalty not through fear but through understanding.

Through truth.

My phone vibrates with a text from Antonio De Angelis: Luca is taking meetings all day tomorrow. Security handoff to Rodriguez at 9 AM.

Perfect. An opening I hadn’t anticipated.

I type a quick response confirming the schedule change. By 4 AM, my plan is set.

The De Angelis estate is silent in these pre-dawn hours as I slip through shadows to Isadora’s wing. Security cameras rotate on predictable patterns I’ve memorized, guards drowsy in the lull before shift change.

I find her awake, as I suspected she would be. She sits in the window seat of her bedroom, moonlight silvering her profile as she stares out at the gardens. She’s wearing silk pajamas, hair loose around her shoulders—a private version of herself few ever see.

She tenses when she notices me at her door, but doesn’t startle. On some level, she’s been expecting me.

“Your security detail changes in a few hours,” I say, keeping my voice low as I scan for listening devices or watching eyes. “Rodriguez takes over at nine.”

“My father mentioned it,” she replies, equally measured. “Luca has meetings.”

“Yes.” I step closer, closing the door silently behind me. “Which gives us a window of opportunity.”

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Opportunity for what?”

“For truth.” I hold her gaze steadily. “You asked who I really am. Today, I’ll show you.”

Interest flashes across her features, though she tries to mask it with indifference. “And why would you do that?”

“Because you’re right.” The admission costs me, but I need her trust. “You’re walking into a family built on lies. You deserve to know what you’re marrying into.”

She shifts in the window seat, the moonlight casting shadows across her face as she studies me with those perceptive green eyes that seem to strip away layers of deception I’ve spent years perfecting.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you marry Luca in six days with only half the story.” I shrug, as if her decision means nothing to me, when in truth it means everything. “Your choice, principessa.”

Her lips press together at the endearment, but I catch the slight acceleration in her pulse at the base of her throat. She wants to know. Curiosity has always been her weakness—the same curiosity that led her to a club alone, that made her look through my jacket.

“Where would we be going?” she asks finally.

“To see Maria. Then to where it all began.”

She rises, bare feet silent on the plush carpet. “I’ll need to change.”

“Quickly,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Casual clothes. Nothing that marks you as wealthy. We need to be gone before the house wakes.”

She nods, moving to her closet. I turn to give her privacy, focusing on the garden below instead of the whisper of silk as she changes. When she clears her throat, I turn to find her in jeans and a simple sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail—so different from the polished society princess, yet somehow more real. More herself.

“Meet me by the east gate in ten minutes,” I tell her. “Bring nothing that can be tracked.”

She nods, and for a moment, we stand there, tension crackling between us like a live wire—desire and danger so intertwined I can no longer separate them. Then she brushes past me, her scent leaving a trail that makes my body remember things my mind is trying to forget.

I watch her walk away, knowing I’m taking a risk that could sabotage everything I’ve worked for. Yet there’s no alternative. Not anymore.

The car moves silently through Queens, far from the manicured estates of Long Island, where both our families hold court. Dawn is just breaking over the city, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Isadora sits beside me in the passenger seat, her profile outlined against the emerging light. She hasn’t spoken since we left the De Angelis property, respecting my need for concentration as I ensure we aren’t followed.

“No one knows about Maria,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “Not even the men I trust with my life.”

“Yet you’re bringing me to her.” She turns to face me, confusion evident in her expression. “Why?”

“Because she’s dying.” The words tear from my throat, raw with an emotion I rarely allow myself to feel. “And because I need you to understand what’s at stake.”

Her hand moves to touch mine on the gearshift, but she stops herself, clearly remembering our agreement to maintain distance. The aborted gesture affects me more than if she’d completed it.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak again as we pull into the parking lot of Meadow Haven Nursing Home—a modest facility where I’ve ensured Maria receives the best care money can buy, under a name that can’t be traced back to me.

Inside, the antiseptic smell hits me first, followed by the underlying current of mortality that permeates these places. Early morning light filters through wide windows as staff begin their day. Isadora stays close as we walk down the hallways, her presence strangely comforting.

“Mr. Romano,” the nurse at the station greets me with a tired smile. She’s nearing the end of her night shift and knows me by one of my many aliases. “She’s been up since five. Already asking when you’d arrive.”

“She always knows,” I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting in a half-smile.

Room 217 is at the end of a quiet corridor, door partially open. I knock softly before entering, Isadora is a silent shadow behind me.

Maria sits by the window, early morning sunlight just beginning to illuminate her fragile frame. At seventy-eight, her once-robust body has been hollowed by cancer, but her eyes—dark, sharp, missing nothing—remain unchanged.

“Stefano,” she says, her voice stronger than her body suggests. Then her gaze shifts to Isadora, surprise and curiosity flickering across her features. “And who is this beauty you’ve brought to an old woman at such an early hour?”

“Maria, this is Isadora De Angelis.” I make the introduction, watching carefully for her reaction.

Maria’s eyes widen slightly, recognition dawning. “De Angelis? Antonio’s daughter?” When I nod, she chuckles softly. “Oh, Stefano. Always making things more complicated than they need to be.”

I feel Isadora’s questioning gaze but keep my attention on Maria. “She knows part of the truth. I’m showing her the rest today.”

Maria studies Isadora with the penetrating focus of someone who’s spent decades reading people’s secrets. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she extends a thin hand. “Come closer, child. Let me look at you properly.”

Isadora moves forward without hesitation, taking the offered hand with gentle respect. “It’s an honor to meet you, Maria.”

“Ah, polite too. And sincere, which is rarer.” Maria smiles, patting the chair beside her. “Sit. You have questions.”

As Isadora takes the seat, I lean against the windowsill, watching these two women—one who saved my life, and one who’s unwittingly become entangled in it.

“Stefano was just two when I took him,” Maria begins without preamble. “I was his nanny, hired by his mother who suspected what kind of monster she was arranged to marry. She was right to fear, but not quick enough to escape.”

Isadora’s eyes find mine, questioning. I give a small nod, confirming Maria’s words.

“Giancarlo Calvino ordered the hit on his own wife so he’d be free to marry his mistress,” Maria continues, her voice hardening despite her frailty. “I overheard his men that day. They’d already killed her, were looking for the child. I ran with Stefano, changed his name, disappeared into neighborhoods where they would never look.”

“Why?” Isadora asks. “Why would a father want his own son dead?”

“Power,” I answer, the word bitter on my tongue. “My mother was the daughter of a dying capo . Giancarlo married her for her family connections, had a son to solidify his claim. Once her father died and the organization was secure under Giancarlo’s control, we became liabilities. Especially since he already had his mistress pregnant with Luca.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Luca is your half-brother.”

“Yes.” The admission hangs between us. “Born to Giancarlo’s mistress Suzette, who became his wife after my mother’s ‘tragic death’ in a house fire. A fire that supposedly claimed my life as well.”

Maria’s grip tightens on Isadora’s hand. “For thirty-three years, I raised him in secret. Taught him to survive. To wait. To plan.” Pride and sorrow mingle in her voice. “Perhaps I should have taught him to forgive instead.”

“No,” I say sharply. “He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

The room falls silent save for the soft beeping of the monitors beside Maria’s bed. I watch Isadora process everything, her quick mind connecting dots, filling gaps.

“The flash drive,” she says finally. “It’s evidence against Giancarlo.”

I nod. “Financial records, murder orders, every crime I’ve documented over the last decade while working my way into his inner circle. Enough to destroy him legally if that was my goal.”

“But it’s not.”

“No.” I meet her gaze unflinchingly. “I want him to know who’s taking everything from him before he dies. I want him to recognize me as his son in his final moments.”

Maria sighs heavily. “Revenge has consumed him for so long. I fear what happens when it’s over.”

“One thing at a time, nonna ,” I say gently, using the endearment she never lets me forget she’s earned.

Isadora watches our exchange, something softening in her expression. For the first time since I’ve known her, I see neither the polished mafia princess nor the wild woman from the club, but someone in between—thoughtful, compassionate, weighing moral complexities.

“And where do I fit into this plan?” she asks finally.

“You weren’t part of it,” I admit. “Meeting you was... unexpected. A complication.”

Maria laughs softly. “Fate has a sense of humor, pairing the son Giancarlo rejected with the bride of the son he chose.”

Isadora flushes, confirming Maria’s perception of what exists between us. “The wedding is in six days.”

“Yes,” I acknowledge, watching her carefully. “Which is why you needed to know the truth now. Whatever you decide to do with this information affects everything.”

Maria squeezes her hand. “He’s giving you a terrible choice, my dear. But then, women in our world rarely get easy ones.”

Isadora looks between us, her expression unreadable. Then she stands, smoothing her dress with hands that tremble slightly. “I need to see the rest. Where it all began. Then I’ll decide.”

I push away from the windowsill, nodding. “We’ll go there next.”

Maria calls my name—my real name—as we turn to leave. “Stefano. Whatever happens, remember there is life after vengeance. Don’t lose yourself so completely that you can’t find your way back.”

The warning strikes deeper than she knows. Because already, I feel myself changing course, the orbit of my existence shifting to accommodate the gravity of the woman beside me.

I bend to kiss Maria’s papery cheek. “Rest, nonna. I’ll visit again soon.”

Outside, in the strengthening morning light, Isadora remains silent until we reach the car. As I open her door, her hand catches my wrist, her touch searing through my sleeve.

“She loves you,” she says simply. “Not as a weapon or an asset. As a son.”

The observation cuts to the heart of what I’ve been missing for thirty years—uncomplicated love, without agendas or expectations. I swallow hard, unwilling to examine how her insight affects me.

“Get in the car, principessa,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “We’re not finished yet.”

Her fingers linger a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment of everything I’m not saying, before she slides into the passenger seat. As I round the hood to the driver’s side, I feel the weight of Maria’s photograph in my pocket—a reminder of who I was before revenge consumed me.

And for the first time in decades, I wonder if there might be a future beyond the vengeance I’ve dedicated my life to achieving.

A future that inexplicably includes the woman whose emerald eyes now watch me with a mixture of wariness and something dangerously close to understanding as I start the engine and drive us toward the final piece of my past.