Page 126 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
A blade still sheathed but polished.
When the check comes, Calvetti pushes it toward me.
Not as a gesture of insult.
As a reminder.
That power, in this room, is still up for display.
I pay.
As we leave, Calvetti doesn’t rise.
He just lifts his glass again and says, softly, "I have no intention of moving against the Salvatores. But if the foundation begins to shift, I will not be buried under it. I will not be the last man to step aside."
The wind has picks up as we drive home.
Marco walks beside me, eyes still hot, but hands still.
"You think he’s made up his mind?" he asks.
"No," I say. "But he’s watching for the first body to fall."
The estate is silent when I return, the kind of silence that coats the halls like velvet, soft but not forgiving.
It rained while we were on the way here.
The air is cooler now, the warmth of the day pressed low into the flagstones, clinging like memory.
I don't head toward the west wing, where Marco heads to brief Luca.
I go instead to the south hall, where the sconces burn lower and the air smells faintly of salt and candle wax.
The door to our quarters is already ajar.
Gianna stands barefoot near the armoire, her hair twisted into a loose knot, strands falling like shadows against her throat.
She is wearing one of my shirts, sleeves rolled, collar slipping low over her collarbone.
There is no accusation in her eyes, only that steady, disarming quiet she wears like a second skin.
She does not ask where I’ve been.
She doesn’t need to.
She can smell it on me.
Blood.
Smoke.
The crisp edge of resolve.
I close the door behind me.
She tilts her head slightly and walks toward me.
Nothing in her steps is rushed.
