Page 13 of Shattered Engagement

Dawn filters through the curtains, painting the room in shades of gold and rose. I haven’t slept, not really. Just drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams blurring with memories until I’m no longer sure what really happened and what my mind invented.

I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. My temple throbs with the beginning of a headache, a combination of too little sleep and too much emotion.

The day stretches before me—spa treatments with the bridesmaids, lunch with my mother to discuss final floral arrangements, and a fitting for my wedding dress. A precise choreography designed to transform me into the perfect Mafia bride.

I’ve played this role my entire life. I know every line, every movement, every expected response. It should be easy to slip back into it.

But as I rise and move to the window, pulling back the curtains to reveal the Manhattan skyline bathed in early morning light, I know something fundamental has changed. Last night, I glimpsed a different version of myself—one capable of desire, of free will, of rebellion not just in small, contained ways but in ways that could burn down everything my family has built.

And I’m not sure I can pretend that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up to see my mother’s name, a text confirming our lunch reservation.

I respond appropriately, fingers moving automatically. Then I find myself opening a search page, typing “Alessio” and stopping. I have nothing else to go on. No last name. No occupation. Just a first name and the memory of his touch.

He could be anyone. A businessman. A criminal. A nobody. A somebody. The anonymity was the point, wasn’t it? To be strangers passing in the night, taking comfort in the knowledge that our paths would never cross again.

With deliberate movements, I begin preparing for the day ahead. I arrange my features into the appropriate expression of bridal excitement. I choose an outfit that reveals nothing of last night’s transgressions. I cover the mark on my neck with concealer, erasing the evidence of Alessio’s passion.

By the time Valentina knocks on my door to escort me to breakfast, I’ve reconstructed my façade completely. Isadora De Angelis, dutiful daughter, blushing bride-to-be.

But underneath, where no one can see, something has awakened. Something that whispers that perhaps the cage isn’t as unbreakable as I’ve always believed.

And for the first time in my life, I allow myself to listen.

5

Alessio

The gun feels like a natural extension of my arm as I aim at the target. Six shots in rapid succession, each one finding its mark with deadly precision. The echo of gunfire dies in the private shooting range, leaving only the acrid scent of cordite in its wake.

“Impressive as always,capo,” says Franco, my weapons supplier, watching from a safe distance.

I don’t acknowledge the compliment. Excellence isn’t praiseworthy; it’s necessary. In my world, anything less than perfection gets you killed.

After cleaning my favorite Beretta, I slide it into my shoulder holster and check my phone. Three missed calls from Vittorio. My right-hand man knows better than to call repeatedly unless it’s urgent.

“What is it?” I ask when he answers my call.

“Calviño wants to see you. Now.” Vittorio’s voice is tight with tension.

My pulse quickens, but my voice remains steady. “Did he say why?”

“No, but he’s at the main estate. His personal driver is waiting for you outside.”

I end the call, my mind racing through possibilities. In the twenty years I’ve spent infiltrating the Calviño organization, I’ve never been summoned directly to Giancarlo’s private residence. I’ve seen him at family functions and business meetings, but always with a buffer of lieutenants andcaposbetween us. Direct access to the man who murdered my mother—the man who thinks his son died in that same hit—is exactly what I’ve been working toward.

Yet something feels off. The timing is too convenient. Just days after I’ve finalized plans to bring down his empire, he calls me in?

I check my weapons—the Beretta, a blade strapped to my ankle—and head out to meet whatever fate awaits.

Giancarlo Calviño’s estate sits on a dozen acres of prime Long Island real estate, a monument to old money and older sins. The mansion is Italian Renaissance style, of course—my father has always been theatrical about his heritage when it suits him.

The driver doesn’t speak as we pass through layers of security. Men I recognize as top-tier soldiers nod respectfully as I pass. They know me as Alessio Gravano, the ghost, the problem solver. The man who became indispensable to the Calviño family through brutal efficiency and unwavering loyalty.

If only they fucking knew.

I’m led through the marble foyer to Giancarlo’s study. The house is quiet, oppressively so, as if the walls themselves know better than to witness what happens within them.

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