Page 123 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
But because power is power, and Calvetti was never built to protect tradition.
He is loyal only to relevance.
And he will watch this family fall without blinking, unless I give him a reason not to.
Calvetti wants something.
Or he thinks I’ve already lost something and he’s circling for the kill.
I break the seal.
The card stock is thick—the kind reserved for weddings, executions, or both.
Five words, in that ridiculous script he thinks passes for elegance:
Dinner. Trattoria Il Velluto. Eight sharp.
No threat, salutation, or context.
Which makes it worse.
Because in our world, when someone invites you to a restaurant in so few words, it’s not about the meal.
It’s about the message.
The timing couldn’t be more telling.
It’s been less than a day since Gianna handed the contingency papers to Valentina, who told me about what was inside them.
An old Rossi plan—one we were never supposed to see, and one the Salvatores were never part of.
Six days since someone cut through the estate’s west fence without triggering a single sensor.
Two weeks since our Biancavilla stockpile turned to ash.
Calvetti doesn’t need proof. Just rhythm.
He’s watched long enough to sense where the fractures run.
He’s betting this one’s in my blood.
With a low curse, I burn the letter and watch the flame take its time curling the edges.
Marco enters just as the last of it turns to ash.
"Dead man or warning shot?" he asks, already scanning the room for a problem.
"Calvetti. Il Velluto. Tonight."
He whistles low.
"Dinner, huh?"
"That’s what he’s calling it."
"He thinks we’ll show up bleeding?"
"He wants to see if we’re already dead."
