Page 15 of Shadows of Steel
Her glare deepens, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I push off the frame, my gaze flicking to Giovanni as I turn to leave. He follows, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the corridor.
As we reach the door, Ricci’s voice cuts through the air behind me, laced with warning. “If she is my daughter, the truth will reveal itself soon enough. And hear me well, Salvatore, if you so much as lay a hand on her, I will personally ensure your demise.”
I stop, turning just enough to glance at him over my shoulder, my smirk hardening. “Careful how you speak, Ricci.” I say coldly. “It seems I’ve found a weakness. And let me fucking warn you, threaten me again, and you won’t be walking away. You’ll be carried out in a coffin.”
I don’t wait for a response. Turning, I stride off, the weight of my words lingering in the air long after I’m gone.
If that woman is truly Ricci’s daughter, the landscape just shifted in my favour.
She already carries the Moretti name, a blood tie to the Chicago Outfit. But if Ricci is her father, that means she’s also bound to Sicily, to the very heart of the old-world Mafia.
Chicago. Sicily. And, through marriage, the Camorra. A perfect storm. A consolidation of power that few could have anticipated, and even fewer could control.
Ricci will want to secure his claim, Moretti will move to strengthen his position, and I, I will be the one standing at the centre of it all.
Three empires intertwined. And I will dictate the terms.
Chapter 6
Harlow
It turns out that Giovanni Ricci is, without question, my father.
The words feel foreign, hollow as they echo in my mind, their weight unsettling and unfamiliar. I’ve spent twenty-five years without a real parental figure, and now, here he is, materializing into my life like a ghost resurrected from a forgotten past.
A man I never cared to know, one I never intended to search for. When I was a child, I dreamed of him finding, rescuing me from my mother’s neglect and abuse. Those dreams felt vivid then, almost tangible. But they were fragile, fleeting, and ultimately impossible. So I stopped dreaming altogether.
Truthfully, I stopped caring about the concept of family years ago. What is family, really, when it’s built on lies, manipulation, and suffocating expectations? Maybe it’s my mother’s doing—no, I’m certain it’s her fault. The hate she hurled my way, the blame, the abandon. It all added up. And now, I neither believe in family nor want one.
Don Ricci. I’ve heard of him. Born into a mafia family myself, I understand the weight his name carries. He’s a figure whispered about in Sicilian streets, a shadow that stretches far and wide.
What are the odds that when I fled to Italy, I’d land squarely in his territory? If I believed in fate, I’d call it that.
But I don’t.
He has three sons. Which means I now have three brothers.
The thought steals my breath, my chest tightening like a vice. How quickly my world has turned upside down, in a matter of seconds.
These past three months have tested me in unimaginable ways, and somehow, I know this is only the beginning of the nightmare.
The truth emerged through a DNA test I was desperate to avoid. I resisted, but my cousin Michael, Don of the Chicago Outfit, and my grandfather, the former Don, left me no choice. The test was non-negotiable, and so was the arranged marriage that followed.
I agreed, or rather, I was coerced. Michael didn’t simply request it, he threatened to use his own sisters, Sofia and Elena, as bargaining chips. He’s always been calculating, but this? This felt like betrayal. He vowed to marry one of them off in my place if I refused, and I couldn’t let that happen. When he became Don, he promised to shield us from this life, to keep us from being reduced to pawns in the mafia’s endless games. But when the stakes rose, even family wasn’t spared from sacrifice.
So, I conceded, hoping that by carrying this burden, I might give my cousins a sliver of a chance at real happiness, if such a thing even exists in our world. Maybe they’ll find love, marry on their own terms, or pursue their dreams without the weight of our legacy dragging them down. It’s a bitter hope, a fragile thread I cling to in moments of doubt.
But deep down, I know the harsh truth, in a world like ours, dreams don’t come true.
And now, I’m getting married. I force myself not to dwell on it, because when I do, it feels like the walls are closing in, stealing the air from my lungs. My soon-to-be husband is Leonardo, the nephew of Dante Salvatore.
Dante.
I can still feel his gun, cold and unyielding, pressed against my temple. His smirk lingers in my mind, an unsettling mix of arrogance and menace. That was my introduction to him, a man who commands fear like it’s second nature.
And now, here I am seated in the back of a sleek black car, my cousin Michael to my left, and my grandfather to my right. The streets blur beyond the tinted windows, a hazy backdrop to the chaos in my mind. I’m about to meet Giovanni, officially, as my father, and his sons, the brothers I’ve never known existed. My fiancé will be there too, a man I’ve never met but already resent with every fibre of my being.
A big, happy family. The thought is bitter, a cruel joke I can’t ignore.
