Page 1 of Until You Break
PROLOGUE
“Tonight we honor the past and open the future,” Riccardo Valenti declared from the mezzanine. His voice carried, smooth and practiced. “This house was built for my wife, Isadora. It’s a kingdom of glass and gold, her monument and my triumph. Tonight I’m blessed with her memory and the return of my youngest son, proof the Valenti name endures. Family is fortune, and fortune conquers all.”
The doors slammed open. Dice froze. Chairs scraped. Every head turned.
We stepped inside.
Luca twirled a knife, smiling beneath the chandeliers. Alessandro kept to the edges, eyes scanning the crowd. Luciana lifted her chin, her dress daring them to stare. Mama followed, gold gown precise, her smile calm and dangerous.
A hiss moved through the room. Valenti guards stiffened. No one left.
Mama’s eyes swept the hall. “So this is what he’s done to Isa,” she said. “He turned her kindness into profit.”
Riccardo’s sons stood behind him—suits sharp, faces colder. And there he was, Emilio Valenti, sketchbook in hand, softer than the rest, looking down at his pages.
He didn’t see me. I saw him.
One of his brothers did. Our gazes met, old war, new spark.
Later, Riccardo crossed the floor with his sons. “Marcella,” he greeted.
“Riccardo.”
“You still hold grudges.”
“Only the ones that deserve holding.”
Luca leaned against a column. Alessandro said nothing. Luciana spoke to Enzo. Emilio drew.
When the night ended, Riccardo raised his glass. “To new beginnings.”
Outside, the sea wind bit.
Mama looked up at the dome. “Your kindness should have been here, not this,” she murmured. Her gaze shifted toward Emilio. “And he carries a fate already sealed.”
A car screeched by. A man was dragged out, begging.
Luca pressed his knife to his throat. “Valenti’s informer?”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Either way, his silence cost him more than his words.”
Blood hit the stone and washed toward the tide.
By the time we reached the cars, it was done.
Mama would never forgive. Riccardo would never relent. And Emilio Valenti would never be safe.
ONE
EMILIO
I didn’t want to be afraid. Not tonight. Not when I’d memorized the route, the lines, the weight of the box in my hand. Not after standing in the mirror, cuffs straight, telling myself I could do this. That Papà would see I belonged. That art didn’t mean weakness.
This was just an errand. Nothing more. But my hands still shook. My breath snagged. And deep down, I knew I wasn’t ready, not for this world, not for the way it stripped people bare and called it loyalty.
It was supposed to be a simple drop. Quiet, routine, forgettable. Papà had looked at me for exactly three seconds before nodding toward the box and saying, “Deliver this. No mistakes.” He didn’t say please. Didn’t ask if I was ready. Just dismissed me like a servant.
I told him I could handle it. That I wanted the responsibility. For one heartbeat, he’d lookedatme, notthroughme. I carried that moment heavier than the box itself.
