Page 24 of Until You Break

EMILIO

The next morning I woke to the smell of strong coffee and warm bread from the kitchen.

The place smelled alive. Steam fogging above the moka pot, butter sweetening the air.

Nonna’s herbs stood in a glass like a bouquet that had decided to work for a living, green scent threading through sugar.

A basket of warm cornetti sat in the middle of the table, glaze catching the light like thin ice.

Alessandro sat at one end with the paper folded in thirds, clicking his tongue at the headlines. “Everyone’s an expert on last night’s numbers,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Half of them couldn’t add without their fingers.”

He flicked the sheet straighter, irritation tucked neat in the motion. “Shipments go missing, and suddenly everyone’s a mathematician.”

Luca snorted, stacking another coin. “That’s poetic. You practicing for Nonna’s eulogy already?”

Alessandro didn’t look up. “If I was, you wouldn’t recognize it.”

“That’s generous,” Luca said from across the table. He had a neat stack of coins in front of him, sliding them into taller stacks, the faint clink marking his rhythm. “Some lose track after five.” He smirked. “Valenti guards too. Can’t even count what they’ve lost.”

“Five’s optimistic,” Alessandro murmured without looking up.

I hovered at the edge, unsure if I should sit.

Damiano hadn’t been in the bed when I woke, and part of me expected him to already be here in the kitchen, but he wasn’t.

Alessandro finally glanced up, catching sight of me.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face, the paper lowering a fraction.

“Ah. Sorry. Good morning,” he said, the words too neat, like they cost him.

He went back to the paper a second later, but the edge of it had softened.

Nonna solved the rest by sliding a plate in front of the nearest chair. Her hand lingered a second, a light pat against my wrist before she let go, the smallest gesture of claiming space for me. “Eat,” she said in the tone that made the decision for me.

I sat. The chair was warm, probably from the radiator pipe running along the wall.

“Did you sleep?” Luca asked, tipping his chin at me, eyes glittering.

“Enough,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm that didn’t quite hide how little rest I’d really had.

Luca flicked a coin into a new stack, smirk curling. “Try not to scuff your paws out there, gattino.”

I sniffed, letting sarcasm edge my voice. “I’ll keep the claws in.”

Luca leaned forward, elbow braced on the table. “Do you even know how to use them?”

“Claws?” I asked.

“Anything sharp,” he said, grin quick and crooked. “I don’t see you holding a blade.”

Alessandro finally lifted his eyes, dry amusement cutting across the rim of his cup. “He doesn’t need one. That’s what Damiano’s for.”

The line hit harder than I wanted. I busied myself with the cornetto, pretending not to hear the way Luca’s grin widened.

The kitchen quieted for half a breath, as if everyone expected me to fill the silence. They sparred with words so easily, fluent in a language I hadn’t been raised to speak. I was always a beat late, listening for the rhythm before I could try to step in.

“Do you always do this?” I asked finally.

Alessandro arched a brow. “What?”

“Circle around me like you’re waiting for me to slip.”

“Not waiting,” Luca said, flicking another coin. “Just watching.”

“Same thing,” I muttered.

“Not really. You belong to us now,” Alessandro said mildly, turning another page.

Damiano came in then, breath still rough from exertion, damp hair plastered to his temples, shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders from sweat.

His veins stood sharp along his forearms, chest rising and falling as he crossed the room.

I thought he looked unfairly hot, heat radiating off him like he had carried the gym inside with him.

He paused only long enough to glance at me. “Get ready,” he said, voice still edged with exertion. Then he poured water from the jug and drank half in one go, Adam’s apple working, eyes cutting briefly to me.

“You’re taking him somewhere?” Alessandro asked, lowering his paper.

Damiano didn’t sit. He stayed in the doorway, voice clipped. “Out.”

The door banged shut behind him as he left. Nonna shook her head, muttering something under her breath as if to bless or dismiss his impatience. Time blurred in his absence, the room settling back to the clink of Luca’s coins and the rustle of paper until the shower stopped.

When Damiano came back, he was crisp again.Suit pressed, cologne layered over soap, phone sliding into his pocket.

The air shifted with him, command reasserted.

He moved easily through the kitchen, pouring two coffees into travel cups, tucking napkins and a couple of cornetti into a small bag.

Every motion was precise, like he’d already decided the shape of the day before anyone else had stirred.

Luca leaned back in his chair, grin sharp. “So you’re taking the kitten out?”

Alessandro finally looked up from his paper, then at me. The edge of his voice softened. “Be careful. Valenti dogs have been circling.” His eyes lingered on me a second longer, as if to add another sorry without the word.

“Where?” I asked, the question sharp before I could stop it.

Damiano’s gaze cut to him, quick, sharp, before coming back to me. He straightened my lapel, knuckles brushing my throat like punctuation.

“Somewhere you’ll like,” he said, cryptic enough to be a threat, or a promise.

“Like where?” I pressed, unable to stop myself. “To see my father? Or is this another of your shows, something you want me to stand beside you for while everyone else watches?”

He slid a glance at Alessandro, the kind that carried instructions I wasn’t supposed to hear. Alessandro only hummed and went back to his paper, but something passed between them like a door shutting.

“Yes,” I repeated, a little stronger. “I’ll stay close.”

“Good.” His knuckle nudged the tie knot like he could fasten it tighter with a thought.

“Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder.

Adrian waited in the foyer with two men in dark coats, leather-glove scent faint in the air. “One ahead, one behind, SUV across,” he reported.

Damiano’s palm settled at the small of my back as we stepped forward.

He handed me one of the travel cups he’d already filled, the heat seeping through glazed ceramic too dark to sweeten. He picked up the small bag with cornetti and napkins, ready for the day.

“Drink it on the way.”

“Where—” I began.

“Your father’s streets,” he said over his shoulder, already moving.

“My father’s streets?” I echoed, but he didn’t answer.

“Yes. Your father’s streets,” Damiano confirmed, voice low enough for only me.

“Why?” I asked, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

The SUV slid from the gates, Adrian in the passenger seat, another man at the wheel.

His left hand rested easy on his thigh, the other a steady weight on my knee.

My pulse ticked sharp under it. Through the tinted glass I caught quick flashes of the city, the gates sliding closed behind us.

It was the first time I’d left with him, and the streets outside felt heavier, louder, like they already knew I didn’t belong anymore.

“Because I want them to see you like this,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “With me. Guarded by my men. Not at your father’s table, not under his roof, but here, where he should have the power to take you back and doesn’t.”

“That’s—”

“Disgrace,” he cut in. “They’ll look at you and see what he’s lost. They’ll look at me and know they can’t take it back.” His hand shifted on my knee, pressure precise. “And one of them will be waiting. I told him where to stand.”

The words lodged sharper than I wanted. One of who? The question stayed in my throat, heavy with names I had missed.

We turned off the boulevard, streets narrowed. Balconies leaned into each other like old men whispering. Clotheslines stitched the sky. Damiano’s thumb pressed once into my knee, thoughtful.

“I’ll give Riccardo this. He chose streets with bones. The kind that don’t crack when the weather turns.”

“You appreciating Valenti architecture now?” I asked, dry.

“I appreciate leverage,” he said. “These blocks could sing under Bellandi control.” He smiled without warmth, eyes still on the windows as we slid past. “Would you like that, marito mio?”

Only if you ask them, I wanted to say. Only if you don’t paint your name over mine like fresh gold leaf.

“You think everything looks better with your name stamped on it.”

He laughed under his breath and hauled me in by the nape, mouth hard and hot against mine. The kiss shut me up on purpose, teeth and heat and a flash of tongue that stole what I meant to say and made it irrelevant. When he let me go, I bristled on reflex. He grinned like I’d given him a prize.

“Good,” he murmured, thumb still at my neck. “Keep that fire. Just keep it pointed the right way.”

The forward guard’s voice crackled softly in Adrian’s earpiece. The SUV idled at the curb.

Adrian’s man led when we stepped out. The second fell back, measured pace. Across the street, the SUV coasted slow, tinted glass reflecting fractured sky.

Their boots kept time with ours, half a step behind, never loud but heavy enough that every choice felt shadowed. When Damiano’s hand closed on my neck, I felt the guards watching too, like another lock sliding shut.

Extra cars idled along the curb, dark sedans with men inside who didn’t look away fast enough.

A pair of guards leaned against a wall, smoking, their eyes following us with flat interest. The silence wasn’t peace.

It was staged. Forced. Like everyone had been told to keep their mouths shut and watch instead.

The first shopkeeper we passed paused mid-sweep. His eyes went from me to Damiano to the men shadowing us. He dipped his head and swept slower.