Page 17 of Shadows of Steel
The Ricci estate is a vision of power and opulence. A sprawling palazzo sits atop rolling hills, its terracotta façade glowing in the fading light. Wrought-iron balconies overlook vineyards stretching endlessly, their symmetry broken only by rows of olive and lemon trees. The air carries the tang of citrus and salt from the distant Mediterranean, a deceptive calm masking the danger lurking within these walls.
My grandfather and cousin exit the car first. Michael turns, extending a hand to me. I take it, slipping out with practiced grace.
The May evening is mild, the warmth of the season lingering in the air. The black dress clings to my figure, its off-shoulder neckline accentuated by the elegance of long, lacy gloves and diamond accessories. Louboutin heels click sharply against the stone path as I step forward, head high. My hair, pin-straight, cascades over my bare shoulders, catching the soft glow of the fading sunlight.
Bodyguards flank the entrance, a formidable mix of Camorra soldiers, Ricci enforcers, and men loyal to the Chicago Outfit. Their collective presence is a silent display of power, and a constant reminder of the fragile alliances holding everything together. My gaze lingers on one detail, they’re protecting me now, too. The thought grates, a bitter reminder that trust is a luxury I can’t afford. These men, these families, are still strangers to me. Blood ties and shared interests don’t erase twenty-five years of absence, or the doubts that come with them.
The grand doors creak open, revealing a man in his fifties, his suit immaculate and presence polished. “Welcome to the Ricci estate.” He says smoothly, introducing himself as theestate manager, Rocco. His smile is kind and genuine, but I know better than to be deceived by appearances in this world. Kindness is a mask, and everyone is a potential threat.
He leads us into a vast living room, and the moment we step inside, the low murmur of voices dies. Silence falls like a shroud, and every pair of eyes shifts to us—no, to me. The air feels charged, thick with unspoken questions and simmering tension. Their scrutiny is piercing, as if trying to unravel me on the spot. I meet their stares head-on, my chin lifting slightly, refusing to let them see even a hint of uncertainty.
Giovanni Ricci steps forward, his presence commanding. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back, and his dark eyes, uncomfortably similar to mine, seem to drink me in.
“Welcome, Harlow.” he says, his voice roughened with age and weighted with something that might be regret.
I nod, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Giovanni.”
“Thank you for coming.” He continues, his tone softer now. “It’s good that we can finally meet under better circumstances.”
“Yes.” I reply, my tone polite but guarded. “Thank you for inviting us.”
As he holds my gaze for a moment longer, I feel the weight of the silence stretching between us. Despite the formalities, the whole situation feels unnatural, uncomfortable. I remind myself to breathe, to keep my head high.
Giovanni turns his attention to my grandfather and Michael, his tone shifting slightly. “Vincenzo, Michael.” he says with a nod, extending his hand. “I trust your travel was smooth and that you’re finding Palermo agreeable? You are, after all, guests in my territory.”
My grandfather steps forward, accepting the handshake. “Your hospitality is appreciated.” He says, his voice even.
Michael follows suit, his handshake firm, his expression as cold as ever. “It’s been a long journey.” He states simply, thenadds in a deadpan tone. “And it’s too damn hot for May.” He adjusts his cuffs, his gaze flicking around the room with a calculated air, as if assessing more than just the temperature. “Palermo’s got a certain charm, though.” The way he says it, it’s impossible to tell if he means it or if he’s just being polite.
Giovanni acknowledges the response with a faint nod. He straightens, his gaze shifting back to me. “Let me introduce you to my sons.” His tone regaining a formal edge. “Your brothers.” He then adds, like he couldn’t stop himself from pointing that out.
Three men step forward, and my gaze locks on one of them.
Enzo.
I knew this moment was coming, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. His expression is indiscernible, though a flicker of recognition, disbelief and anger, passes through his sharp eyes as they linger on me, studying, assessing.
“Harlow?” he says, stepping closer, his voice carrying a mix of suspicion and something harder to define.
We worked side by side for three long months, unaware of the bond we shared. Strangers connected by blood, yet entirely oblivious. The thought churns within me, strange and unsettling. How can you have a brother, a person bound to you by something so intrinsic, and not even know they exist? The idea feels impossible to grasp.
I don’t like these feelings.
They’re overwhelming.
I’ve spent years training myself not to feel, to bury emotions before they have the chance to take root. Feelings were always linked to something bad, something dangerous. How could they not be when you grow up hearing over and over that you destroyed someone’s life by simply existing?
“Enzo.” I say, nodding, my tone carefully neutral. My pulse races under his intense scrutiny, but I keep my expression calm.
Giovanni’s brow furrows, his gaze darting between us. “You know each other?”
Enzo’s voice is even, but there’s no mistaking the sharpness in his tone. “We’ve been working together at my gym for the past few months.”
The room stiffens instantly, the weight of the revelation crashing over everyone like a thunderclap. Suspicion blooms thick in the air, as palpable as the tension radiating from the men around me.
Michael’s eyes narrow dangerously.
Enzo steps closer as he fixes me with an intense glare. “Did you know?”
