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Around the room, hands drift toward holsters and Capos tense, their bodies coiling like springs ready to snap. Guards at the door straighten, their fingers twitching for their weapons. Vito and Rocco exchange glances, clearly hoping this escalates into bloodshed.
Gabi sits forward, calculating every angle like a chess master. No one breathes. One wrong move, and everything explodes.
The Russians know they’re outnumbered about five-to-one in here. Starting a fight means they risk not getting home.
Viktor rocks back on his heels. “This isn’t over.”
He doesn’t smile. Russians never bluff with grins. Just with scars.
After they leave, the room relaxes, but I don’t. That war’s not over. It’s just changing battlegrounds.
Whispers bloom around me like fungus on rot. Capos murmur, discussing my risky, reckless play. Exactly what the Bratva didn’t expect, which proves it’s the right choice.
Footsteps click, soft yet certain. Nonna Rosa, who witnessed the whole confrontation, appears beside me, her cane tapping like a metronome for judgment.
“You just bought yourself a future…or a funeral,” she says. Her sharp eyes scan my face, scouring for Dante in the lines and scars. I know Dante was like a son to her, and she sees glimpses of him in me. “He would have done the same.”
Praise from her carries weight. Like being knighted. Or being handed your own noose.
“I’m not Dante” is the only answer I give.
She smiles. “No. But you bear his rage well.”
Then she vanishes, as if she never arrived.
Izzy slinks up next. She’s sporting a rare furrowing brow, and I almost joke about how she hates doing that because it ruins her face, but she talks first.
She glides closer, her voice dropping low. “You’re playing a dangerous game. Pretending it’s all strategy when it’s clearly about her.”
The silence between us is long enough to shake her confidence.
Enzo
For the first time since Dante’s funeral, I approach an illuminated house.
Inside, the air smells like garlic, onions, and something sweet and warm. The kitchen feels alive with bubbling pots and an overall cheerfulness. Sophia’s storming around in a simple, loose, cream-colored dress, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Hair knotted high. She’s muttering under her breath like a witch at war with pasta.
She doesn’t see me at first, but when the floor creaks, her green eyes flash like lit fuses. “There you are.” My chest pangs at the mix of fury and beauty on her face. “Twenty-four hours, Enzo.” She points a wooden spoon at me. “And not a word.”
I enter the kitchen. “You’re not dead.”
She scoffs and plants her hands on her hips, her hair curling around her face. “So that’s the bar now? Not-dead wives?”
“You’re alive because of me. A thank-you would suffice.”
“Thank you?” Her laugh is brittle and loud. “For marrying me like a mafia auction prize? For vanishing the next second?”
The edge in her voice slices deep. It hurts me that she doesn’t know how much I’m giving up just to keep her safe and alive.
My pride rears up. “You think this is a joke?”
“I think you believe I’m your property.”
“No.” I snap before I think. “You’re my woman.”
She stares. “How romantic.” Then she moves closer, pushing until her chest brushes mine. “What now, Enzo? Am I supposed to play the doting wife? Wait around while you play murder games?”
The burn behind her words isn’t fear. It’s a fury that heats my blood in all the wrong places.
