Page 37 of Until You Break
DAMIANO
"Welcome." The hush of glasses stilled, a cough caught in someone’s throat, the night air tightening as if it bent to her will.
Marcella stood at the center, black dress severe, white hair gleaming like steel under firelight.
Perfume clung to her sleeve, grappa burned in her glass.
She lifted it, and silence spread until even the night held its breath.
“I have carried this family as far as my hands will allow,” she declared, voice sharp as steel against the night.
“But after tonight, I retire. The weight passes from me to the one who was born to bear it. From now on, this house belongs to my heir.” Her eyes cut to Damiano, weight and warmth bound together.
“From this moment, our blood answers to him. Damiano leads us, together with his Emilio.”
He stepped forward, shoes whispering against stone.
Sweat gleamed at his temple in the fire’s glow.
He raised his glass toward Marcella. “You built it, Mama. I’ll guard it, brick by brick.
And I’ll carry your name so the city never forgets who made it strong.
” The alcohol’s scent laced the air between them, sharp and heavy, binding past to future.
Marcella inclined her head once, then stepped in close.
She hugged Damiano, stiff at first, then fierce, before turning and drawing me into her arms as well.
A single tear caught in the firelight at the corner of her eye, quickly brushed away but seen by all.
The family’s approval closed like a lock around him.
My chest swelled at his side, pride searing hotter than the night, my palms damp against the cool glass of my drink.
Luca grinned, though his eyes shone damp at the edges, and he cleared his throat quickly as if to swallow it down, tossing his glass in one hand like he was weighing its worth.
“So it’s true. Our Damiano finally gets the crown.
” Laughter rolled through the terrace as he gestured for Lina to crack open the bottles of whiskey and keep every glass full, the sharp scent of peat and smoke drifting in the warm air.
Nonna muttered with a crooked smile, loud enough for all to hear, “About time the girl sat down.” Another ripple of laughter followed, quick and irreverent, before the hush returned and the moment settled with the seal of finality.
I pulled my brothers into quick, rough hugs, smiling as their guards lingered a step behind, watchful shadows on the terrace. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this for the world, Mimmo.” Enzo accepted the whiskey offered on a tray, raising his glass with a deadpan smirk toward Luciana, who stood beside Alessandro in a black dress. She raised hers too, smiling back.
“Congratulations,” Salvatore leaned in, clinking his glass against mine. “Who would’ve thought? Our artistic baby brother-turned- mafia king.”
We laughed, the appreciation real, warmth cutting through the smoke.
“Gentlemen.” Damiano approached, Luca and Alessandro at his back. “Walk with me.”
We followed them to the edge of the roof terrace, where the night and stars pressed close overhead.
“Emilio’s glad you came. I am too.” His smile curved sharp, almost mocking. “But I’ve got a soft spot for people sniffing in our business. So…what do you have?”
“A rumor.”
Next to me, Enzo quirked his lips, smothering a laugh.
Damiano tilted his head at Salvatore. “Rumors.”
“Si.” Salvatore’s grin was quick, but his eyes gave nothing. “A cop sniffing into our laundry. He shows up, asks questions. Disappears before anyone gets his badge number.”
“And the name of this cop?” Alessandro asked.
Enzo shrugged, voice dry. “We don’t know yet. Wouldn’t that have been neat?”
“You don’t know?” Damiano’s chuckle carried an edge. “You come onto my roof, challenge my husband non a fight, buy your way our through leverage, and all you’ve got is smoke? Fake news in a nice suit?”
“Yes,” Salvatore admitted, his voice rough as gravel. “That’s all. You expected a miracle in my pocket?”
I couldn’t help a sharp breath of disbelief. Enzo caught my eye, his smirk sharp, daring.
Luca shook his head with a crooked grin. “The guy’s got balls, I’ll give him that. Coming all this way with nothing but hot air.”
“I should kick you out right now. Emilio—”
The word stung, my name sharp in his mouth. My pulse jumped, palms damp against the glass I still held. Smoke from the terrace heaters curled in my throat.
“No.” I cut him off before he could finish, voice rougher than I meant.
He turned, eyes narrowing. “No?”
“I’ll dig. Half the corps is on the payroll, it won’t take long.”
Damiano went on, voice hard, carrying over the terrace. “Good. Keep it quiet, keep it clean. I don’t want a whisper until you have something solid. If you’re—”
The sky tore, cutting his words in half.
Across the waterline of neon, a building swelled and broke.
The blast rolled toward us like thunder made flesh, slamming the roof with a shockwave that rattled glass, shook the iron rail, and made every chest vibrate.
Heat seared our faces, a sudden furnace wind curling hair against damp skin.
The air stank of scorched wiring and molten glass.
Smoke clawed down our throats, sparks bursting like stars torn loose from the sky.
Flame poured from shattered windows in furious sheets of gold.
Glass detonated with sharp cracks like gunfire.
The blaze reared and bit at the stars, painting the sky black red.
The terrace froze as one. A chorus of gasps cut through the smoke, Enzo swore under his breath, Luciana clapped a hand over her mouth.
For me, the world tilted: heat roared in my ears, vision swimming, the fire lunging straight for my chest. My breath snagged, body trembling, as if the blaze itself had its hands on me.
Nearby, glass slipped and shattered, a sob cracked the silence, the rail groaned beneath white-knuckled grips.
All eyes locked on the inferno, every breath stolen by flame.
I knew it before the words left me, the shape of the blaze, the bones of the building I had walked a hundred times. “It’s the casino,” I whispered, the taste of smoke bitter on my tongue. “Papà, he…”
Salvatore grabbed his phone, already speaking into it.
“Maledizione,” Damiano breathed, his arm locking around me, pulling me tight to his chest as if I were the only anchor he trusted. His heartbeat thundered against my spine, his breath hot and rough at my ear.
My knees buckled, the world tilting. I stumbled against him, chest heaving, certain I might faint under the weight of fire and loss. He held me fast, keeping me upright. “Look at me, amore. Whatever burns out there, I will not let it touch you.”
My vision blurred, my father’s casino, the place he had built with sweat and threat, chandeliers now collapsing in fire.
Rumors had always said Mama’s bones were buried beneath its foundations, and for a breath I believed the flames were devouring her too.
I couldn’t believe it. That piece of them, of me, turned to ash before my eyes.
A sound escaped me, half sob, half disbelief.
Who would dare rip away what little I had left of them?
Marcella’s gaze stayed on the fire. “Riccardo thought vengeance could be contained,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But vengeance always finds its way. This time, it wasn’t ours. Perhaps the city has other enemies.”
Salvatore lowered his phone first, voice clipped. “Papà wasn’t inside. The casino was closed. Maintenance, locked doors.”
“Maintenance? That’s…” The words cut through the smoke like a blade. Relief hit, jagged, but it smelled wrong. Too neat, too clean. My stomach knotted. “Then why the fire?”
Salvatore’s mouth was a hard line. “A message. Someone wanted us watching.”
Damiano’s arm cinched tighter around me, chin pressed to my hair. Sirens echoed through the city.
Damiano’s gaze was faraway, taking in the flickering shapes of the burning building. “I guess we just received confirmation that your rumour is true. Whoever did this was either looking for vengeance, or for the truth.”
“My father didn’t kill our mother,” Salvatore said flatly.
“Do you think she’s still alive?” The question hung sharp between them. Enzo gave a short laugh, more like a cough, and looked away. The air tightened, discomfort slicing through the smoke.
Finally Salvatore looked down at his phone and sighed.
“Lina.” Glasses were filled. Whiskey passed from hand to hand. We drank. One hard swallow, smoke in the throat, glasses clinking hard. It felt like a pact that wasn’t a plan.
Salvatore stayed on the phone, half-listening, while the rest of us stared into the dark river where the casino had been.
Words were sparse. The bond that formed then was strange and quiet: not peace, not truce, but a shared decision to hold close what mattered and to step back until the shape of the attack was clearer.
We left the roof together, men in black. Not ready to hunt. Ready, for now, to watch.