Chapter 4 Don Marco Riccardo's POV

They think this is a game.

But I don't play with dolls.

I train wolves. I marry blood to blood.

And I never...ever...lose.

My office smells like cigars, old wood, and power. The kind of scent that seeps into the bones of the men who dare sit across from me.

"Someone fired a shot last night."

Antonio stands at attention like he's reporting to a general in wartime.

"They missed."

"Unfortunate," I murmur, sipping espresso. "Or intentional?"

"We don't know."

"Of course you don't. Because the moment a woman walks through those gates, your entire security detail starts thinking with their zippers instead of their triggers."

Antonio's jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

Smart boy.

I lean back in my chair, the leather groaning beneath me.

"How many cameras cover the chapel wing?"

"Only two functional feeds, Don. That section hasn't been fully monitored in years."

"And what time were they disabled?"

He hesitates.

I slam my cup down.

"Don't make me ask twice."

"23:41," he says quickly. "Three minutes before Miss Moretti entered the building."

Ah.

So the girl has teeth.

Eva Moretti.

Not on my original guest list. Not selected. Not screened.

A ghost in the system.

But I let her stay.

Why?

Because I admire ambition.

Even if it comes in stilettos.

Even if it hides a knife behind a smile.

My son is circling her like a hawk that doesn't know if it wants to kill or mate. Either way, she's served her purpose.

Disruption breeds truth.

And truth exposes weakness.

There's a soft knock.

Giada enter, my assistant, my spy, my scalpel.

She carries a folder in her manicured hands.

"Her name's not Eva Moretti," she says, voice smooth as bourbon.

I smirk. "No, I didn't think so."

"Real name: Evelina Conte. Father: Salvatore Conte."

Now that name rings.

"Conte," I say. "The rat who bled half of Sicily to Interpol before he disappeared."

Giada nods. "She's his daughter. Records say she was twelve when he went underground."

"And now she's here," I muse. "In my home. Under my roof."

Giada hesitates. "Sir... should I remove her?"

"No," I say slowly. "Not yet."

"Why?" she asks.

I glance at her. "Because Alessio is watching her."

"Exactly. She's a threat."

"No," I correct. "She's a mirror."

Giada frowns. "I don't follow."

I stand, walking toward the large map of the city on the wall every block marked with ink and blood. My empire. My history. My curse.

"My son doesn't fear the girls who throw themselves at him," I say. "He fears the ones who don't blink when he bares his teeth."

"Sir-"

"He was born into the crown," I continued. "But he doesn't respect it. Because he's never had to fight for it."

"And you think she'll change that?"

"I think she already has."

I tap a building near the waterfront.

"Watch her," I say. "No one touches her unless I say so."

"And if she touches him?"

I look at Giada, dead-eyed.

"Then we watch who bleeds first."

Later that night, I sat in the courtyard alone.

The moonlight hits the marble statue of my late wife, Rosa, the only soul who ever looked at me without fear.

"She'd hate all this," I mutter.

But love makes men weak.

And I refuse to rot in sentiment.

The Riccardo line must survive.

Even if it's forged in fire and steel.

A voice cuts through the dark.

"She doesn't belong here."

It's Luciana. I don't need to look to know. The confidence in her voice is sharp, like crystal edged in poison.

I exhale smoke. "Neither do you, technically. But you're useful."

She steps closer. "She's not one of us. You know it. Alessio knows it."

"And yet, she remains."

Luciana narrows her eyes. "You're testing him."

"Of course."

"And the rest of us are what? Pieces on a board?"

"Willing pieces. Don't pretend to be innocent, Luciana. You came here with blood on your shoes."

She doesn't deny it.

"I can make her disappear," she says calmly. "No mess. No trace. You just say the word."

I turn and look her in the eye.

"No."

Luciana's smile fades.

"She's dangerous."

"So are you," I remind her. "That's why I like you."

"She'll turn him against you."

I pause.

And for the first time tonight, I tell the truth.

"Maybe."

Silence.

Then Luciana says, quieter, "You'll regret this."

I rise from the bench.

"I regret many things," I reply. "But rarely twice."

She leaves without another word.

I crush the cigar into the ashtray beside Rosa's statue.

The wind shifts.

The air smells like rain.

I return to my study. The fire's low. The room is dim.

I pour another drink, ignoring the ache in my leg, old bullet wound, old war.

Then I pick up the phone.

A burner line.

Only one person has this number.

"Speak," I say when the call connects.

A distorted voice answers.

"She made contact with someone outside."

"When?"

"Forty minutes ago. A coded signal. The team traced it to a relay van five clicks from the estate."

"And the van?"

"Gone."

Of course.

"Kill the next one," I say coldly. "No warning shot. No hesitation."

"Yes, Don."

I hung up.

And pour another drink.

The door creaks behind me.

I don't need to turn.

"Alessio," I say.

My son steps into the room like a shadow behind the storm.

"You knew," he says quietly.

I take a sip. "About the girl? Of course."

"And you let her stay."

I smile.

He doesn't.

"You're using her to test me."

"No, figlio mio," I say. "I'm using everyone to test you."

His hands curl into fists.

"I could've been shot tonight."

"But you weren't."

"She could've been killed."

"Then perhaps she shouldn't be lying to you."

His eyes burn. "You're playing god with people's lives."

"I am god in this house."

"You want me to be like you?"

I rise to my full height.

"I want you to survive me."

We lock eyes.

Years of silence and steel between us.

Then he steps forward and drops something on my desk.

The folded slip of paper.

The note he gave Eva.

"You're watching me?" he asks. "Or her?"

I say nothing.

Because he already knows the answer.

He turns to leave.

But pauses in the doorway.

"I don't trust you," he says.

I smile faintly. "Then you're finally ready."

I sit back down.

The fire snaps.

And in the glow of flame and glass, I see a shadow move across the security feed, one of the hallway cams.

But this shadow isn't a guard.

It's Eva.

Moving silently.

Toward the east wing.

Where she doesn't belong.

I tap the speaker.

"Antonio," I say. "Seal every exit except one. Let her think she's slipping past us."

"And when she reaches the gate?"

I stare at the screen, watching her silhouette fade around a corner.

"Make sure she finds what she's looking for," I say coldly.

"And then?"

I down the last of my drink.

"Bring her to me."