Page 27

SALVATORE

T he villa already feels hollow without her presence.

The rational part of my mind understands her choice—the opera represents everything she was before I claimed her, the last piece of identity that remains untouched by my influence.

But rationality has never governed my relationship with Rosaria Costa.

Bruno appears in the doorway, his military bearing more rigid than usual.

"She's gone, Boss," he reports, though we both know I've already drawn that conclusion.

"Walked past me without a word." His tone suggests disapproval, though whether directed at her departure or my failure to prevent it remains unclear.

"Did you follow the car?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Bruno's competence has limits, and those limits were tested by a woman who spent her life learning to disappear when circumstances demanded it. "Do we know where she went?"

"Lost them in traffic about ten minutes out," Bruno admits, his jaw tight with frustration. He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "She planned this, Salvatore. She knew exactly how to slip our net."

Rosaria's departure wasn't emotional rebellion but calculated desertion. The thought that she studied my security measures while sharing my bed adds another layer of betrayal to her absence.

I turn away from the window and stride toward the stairs, and the hallways suddenly feel too wide and too lonely. "Get Gianni on the phone," I order, my voice carrying the kind of authority that brooks no argument. "Tell him to meet me in Naples. We're going home."

The drive to my estate passes in silence, Bruno handling the car with professional efficiency while I stare at landscapes that blur past the bulletproof windows.

My phone buzzes with messages from lieutenants reporting on business that continues regardless of my personal crisis, but I ignore them all.

Nothing feels important except the growing certainty that Rosaria has walked back into danger I can't control.

Gianni waits for me in the estate's main courtyard, his weathered face creased with concern that goes beyond professional loyalty.

He's watched me build this empire from the ground up, seen me navigate threats that would have destroyed lesser men.

But he's never seen me obsessed with a woman who refuses to stay where I can protect her.

"She's back in Rome," he says, falling into step beside me as we enter the main house.

"My sources confirm she returned to her apartment this morning.

The opera board is meeting as we speak." His tone carries the weight of intelligence gathered through networks that span both legitimate and criminal enterprises.

"Emilio knows she's back. His people are already moving. "

"Then we move faster," I reply, leading him toward the basement levels where my real business takes place. "Open the weapons vault. If Emilio wants to play games with what belongs to me, he'll learn why that's a mistake."

Gianni stops walking, his expression shifting from concern to alarm.

"Salvatore, think about what you're saying.

We're talking about war with the Costas, about blood in the streets that will draw attention we can't afford.

" His voice carries the authority of decades spent counseling men in power, tempering impulse with strategy.

"This isn't business—this is emotion. And emotion gets people killed. "

I continue toward the vault, my hands already reaching for the biometric scanner that guards my most dangerous assets. "Sometimes, people need to die," I tell him. Sometimes, the only language these men understand is violence applied with surgical precision.

The vault door opens with a soft hiss, revealing rows of weapons that represent years of careful acquisition.

Military-grade assault rifles, explosives that could level city blocks, handguns that have never been registered with any government agency.

Each piece serves a specific purpose in the ecosystem of violence that maintains my power, but today they represent something more personal—insurance against losing the only thing that's ever mattered more than territory.

"Look at this rationally," Gianni pleads with me.

He is supposed to be my stabilizing factor, the one who speaks logic in the midst of chaos to ground me.

"Rosaria chose to leave. She walked away from protection to return to a world that will use her as a pawn.

Going to war won't change that. It'll just make her a target. "

"She's already a target," I reply, selecting a pistol that fits my hand with familiar comfort.

"The moment she stepped into that opera house, the moment she took her place on Emilio's stage, she became collateral damage in a war she never chose to fight.

" I check the weapon's action with muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.

"At least this way, she'll know someone is willing to burn the world down to keep her safe. "

Gianni shakes his head, but he doesn't leave.

Loyalty runs deeper than disagreement in our world, and he understands that my obsession with Rosaria has become inextricable from the survival of everything we've built together.

"What's the plan?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already regrets the question.

Before I can answer, my phone rings. The caller ID shows a number I recognize but haven't seen in years—Emilio Costa's personal line, the one he reserves for conversations that can't be recorded or traced. I answer on the second ring, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest.

"Salvatore." Emilio's voice carries across the connection with a violent calmness. "I think we need to talk." He is enraged, and maybe he doesn’t even know that Rosaria is back in Rome at her own apartment.

"I'm listening," I reply, though my free hand continues selecting weapons from the vault's inventory. "But make it quick. I have business to attend to."

"My business, actually," Emilio says, his tone shifting to something harder, more dangerous.

"You have something that belongs to me. Something I've invested considerable time and resources in developing.

" The possessive language makes my jaw clench, but I remain silent, letting him reveal the depth of his arrogance.

"And?" I ask, my voice betraying nothing of the calculation running through my mind. "What's your point, old man?"

"My point is that you've overstepped," Emilio replies, his voice dropping to the register he reserves for threats.

"You've taken something that doesn't belong to you, used it for purposes I didn't authorize.

That kind of disrespect requires correction.

" He pauses for emphasis, as if the silence on the line will intimidate me.

"Return what you've taken by nightfall, or there will be blood. "

His threat is weak, and I'm not afraid or even intimidated by him.

I can hear the satisfaction in Emilio's voice, the confidence of a man who believes his reputation provides sufficient deterrent against retaliation.

He's miscalculated badly, but he won't realize it until the consequences arrive at his door.

"Let me be clear about something," I say, my voice dropping to match his tone.

"Rosaria doesn't belong to you. She never did.

What you had was an illusion of control, maintained through manipulation and fear.

" I select another weapon from the vault, its weight familiar in my hands.

"But since you want to discuss ownership, let me explain how this works now. "

"I'm listening," Emilio says, though his voice has gone cold.

"If you touch her, if she loses so much as a hair from her head, I will personally slit the throat of every Costa male aged ten and up," I tell him, each word delivered with the precision of a contract negotiation.

"I will burn your territory to the ground, salt the earth where your businesses stood, and ensure that your family name becomes a cautionary tale told in whispers.

" The words are not a threat, but a promise. And I keep my promises.

The silence on the other end of the line lingers long enough that I wonder if the connection has been severed. When Emilio finally speaks, his voice carries a different quality—the first hint of uncertainty I've ever heard from him.

"You're threatening children," he says, as if the observation itself constitutes a defense. "You're talking about war over a woman you had to take in order to have her."

"I'm talking about protecting what's mine," I correct, ending the call before he can respond. The finality of the gesture sends its own message—negotiations are over, lines have been drawn, and the consequences of crossing them have been clearly defined.

Gianni stares at me with undisguised horror, his face pale with the recognition of what I've just set in motion. "You've declared war on the Costas," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not territorial disputes, not business conflicts—actual war. Do you understand what that means?"

I continue selecting weapons. "It means we stop pretending this is about territory or respect or any of the other convenient lies we tell ourselves," I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"It means we acknowledge what this has always been about—love, obsession, and the lengths a man will go to protect what he can't bear to lose. "

"This is reckless," Gianni warns, but he's already moving to help me, his loyalty overriding his better judgment. "This is personal vengeance."

"Yes," I agree, holstering the pistol and reaching for something with more firepower. "It is. And it's going to work."