A/N:this chapter has a lot of new characters in it so to make life easier ill list them off here so you can keep up easier.
Camilla Fontana: Head of the entire Mafia. Don of Dons. Old
Lucia Fontana: Camilla's daughter second in command.
Isabella Moretti: Head of the Moretti Family. Tony's mother. Mid 50's
The limo's tinted windows make the Italian twilight look even darker than it actually is, casting the narrow Monza street in shadows that seem to crawl across the cobblestones. I stare at the restaurant, if you can even call it that. It's a weathered stone building wedged between two larger structures, with a faded sign hanging above a heavy wooden door. No windows, no menu posted outside, nothing to indicate it's even open for business. The kind of place that doesn't show up on any tourist maps.
My collar feels tighter around my neck as I swallow nervously.
Maddy sits across from us, her usually composed face betraying hints of tension. Beside her, Lara is taking deep, controlled breaths, her wild red hair pulled back into a tight bun that looks almost painful.
"In through the nose, out through the mouth," Lara mutters to herself, her eyes closed in concentration. "Don't stab anyone. Don't stab anyone. Don't stab anyone."
This mantra is not exactly reassuring.
Caterina cups my face in her hands, her touch unexpectedly gentle. Her crimson eyes search mine, and I can see genuine concern flickering behind her predatory gaze.
"Remember, no words, okay?" she says softly, her thumbs stroking my cheeks. "Not a single one, no matter what happens in there."
I nod, leaning into her touch. The idea of being completely silent doesn't bother me. In fact, it's almost a relief. I won't have to worry about saying the wrong thing if I don't say anything at all.
Caterina's gaze shifts to Lara, her expression hardening slightly. "You too," she says, her voice taking on that edge of command that makes everyone sit up straighter. "Not a word from you. I don't care if someone insults your mother, your writing, or your murder methods."
Lara rolls her eyes dramatically. "I know, I know," she sighs, sounding like a teenager being reminded of her curfew. "No talking, no stabbing, no 'accidentally' poisoning anyone's wine."
Maddy shoots Lara a warning look that could freeze hell over but says nothing. The tension in the limo is thick enough to cut with a knife, which, given Lara's presence, might actually happen if things go sideways tonight.
The driver pops out of the front seat with military precision, circling around to open our door. She's wearing a crisp black suit that practically screams, "I'm armed and know how to use it." As the door swings open, the cool evening air hits my face, carrying the faint scent of garlic and wine from inside.
Caterina steps out first, her white suit somehow luminous against the gathering darkness. She turns, extending her hand to help me out of the limo. My damaged fingers twitch as I place my hand in hers, grateful for the support as I unfold my body from the vehicle.
"Remember," she whispers, her lips barely moving, "you're mine. Stay close."
I nod, the collar around my neck feeling like a lifeline rather than a restriction. Maddy and Lara file out behind us, flanking us like well-dressed bodyguards as we approach the unmarked door.
Before Caterina can even knock, the heavy wooden door swings open. A woman dressed in head-to-toe black stands in the threshold. She looks like she could be anywhere from fifty to a hundred years old, her eyes dark and unreadable as they scan our group.
"Ms. De Luca," she says, her voice carrying the gravelly texture of decades of cigarettes. "Right this way."
She steps aside, gesturing for us to enter with a hand that bears the tattoos and scars of a life I can't begin to imagine. The interior is nothing like I expected. Despite the nondescript exterior, the restaurant opens into a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings and stone arches that seem almost centuries old.
The woman in black leads us through the main dining area, where a handful of tables sit empty and waiting, their white tablecloths gleaming in the candlelight. We continue toward a heavy velvet curtain at the back. She pulls it aside, revealing a private dining room dominated by a massive table crafted from a single slab of dark wood.
Several women are already seated around the table, their conversations dying down as we enter. My eyes immediately lock onto Luna Cruz, her wild black hair and that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt standing out like a neon sign in a library. Beside her sits Tony, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself even smaller, his eyes fixed firmly on the empty plate in front of him.
Next to Tony is an older woman I don't recognize. She has silver-streaked dark hair perfectly styled, and she's dressed in what has to be designer clothing that somehow manages to be both conservative and intimidating. Everything about her screams old money and older power.
At the head of the table sits a tiny, elegant woman with long white hair. Despite her petite stature, there's something about her that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Her face is lined with age, but her eyes are sharp as razor blades, missing nothing as they scan our group. She must be the boss. Next to her is a younger woman with a practical bob haircut and calm brown eyes, watching us with analytical precision.
There are a few other women scattered around the table, all exuding that particular blend of wealth and danger that seems to be a prerequisite for Caterina's social circle.
I keep my mouth shut tight, remembering Caterina's warning. Not a single word.
Caterina guides me to an empty chair, her hand never leaving the small of my back. I can feel the eyes of everyone at the table on me, assessing, judging, calculating my worth or threat level.
"Caterina," the white-haired woman at the head of the table says, her voice surprisingly warm and grandmotherly despite the cold calculation in her eyes. "It's good to see you again."
"Don Camilla Fontana," Caterina replies, her tone respectful but not subservient. "The pleasure is mine."
She helps me into my seat before taking her own, her movements graceful and controlled. I notice Luna watching us with undisguised interest, her green eyes lingering on my collar with a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
"I see you've brought your... companion," Camilla says, her gaze shifting to me with unsettling intensity.
Caterina's hand finds mine under the table, her fingers intertwining around my damaged ones in a gesture that feels both possessive and reassuring.
"Yes," she says simply. "This is Adam."
I give a small nod of acknowledgment, careful not to open my mouth. The weight of a dozen predatory gazes makes my skin prickle with unease.
"We were just discussing the new marriage," Camilla says, gesturing toward Tony and Luna with a delicate wave of her hand. "Isabella's son has made quite the match with Mrs. Cruz."
Luna's smile stretches across her face, predatory yet somehow radiating false warmth. "Happy to join the family," she purrs, one hand possessively squeezing Tony's shoulder. He flinches almost imperceptibly at her touch, his eyes still fixed on his empty plate.
The silver-haired woman, Isabella, I realize, nods with regal composure. "Yes, Luna is a much better fit than..." she pauses deliberately, her cool gaze sliding toward Caterina, "Tony's previous relationships."
The barb hangs in the air, its target obvious. I tense, expecting Caterina to react with that calculated violence I've come to know so well. But her face remains perfectly neutral, her crimson eyes betraying nothing as she takes a sip of her wine. She doesn't seem to care at all about the reference to her failed marriage.
Camilla's sharp eyes flick between Caterina and Isabella, clearly gauging the tension. Finding none, she smoothly changes course, turning to the woman beside her with the practical bob haircut.
"Lucia, show me the book again," she says, extending her hand expectantly.
The woman next to Camilla reaches into a sleek portfolio beside her chair and produces a leather-bound notebook. She passes it to Camilla with efficient movements, her expression remaining professionally blank.
Camilla retrieves a pair of reading glasses from her breast pocket, perching them delicately on her nose as she flips through the notebook's pages. Her aged fingers trace over columns of numbers with practiced precision.
"Very good growth this year, Caterina," she says, looking up from the notebook with something like approval in her ancient eyes.
Caterina inclines her head slightly, accepting the praise with practiced humility. "Thank you, Don Fontana. The casino has been particularly profitable since we expanded the high-limit rooms."
I sit perfectly still, trying to make myself as invisible as possible while still maintaining good posture.
Isabella sets down her wine glass with a delicate clink, her nails tapping thoughtfully against the stem. "While we're discussing growth," she interjects. "I must say that Caterina has shown remarkable... maturation in her business approaches."
The slight pause before "maturation" hangs in the air like a backhanded compliment.
"In fact," Isabella continues, her green eyes gleaming with something that isn't quite sincerity, "the Moretti family believes that with our resources and Luna's extensive distribution networks throughout South America, we could help Caterina access markets she's previously been unable to penetrate."
Luna's lips curve into that unnervingly cheerful smile as she leans forward, the gaudy Hawaiian shirt somehow making her look more dangerous, not less. "Si, si," she agrees, her fingers still digging into Tony's shoulder. "My contacts extend all the way from Mexico to Colombia. Very useful for moving all sorts of products."
Caterina's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around mine under the table. Her face remains a perfect mask of polite interest, but I can feel the tension radiating from her body.
"How generous," Caterina replies, her voice dripping with honey-coated venom. "But I'm quite satisfied with my current market reach."
Isabella's smile doesn't falter, but something cold flashes in her eyes. "Of course you are, dear. I merely thought with your... limited resources, you might appreciate some assistance."
Camilla lets out a small huff, her ancient fingers continuing to turn pages in the leather-bound ledger. Her reading glasses slip slightly down her nose as she reviews the numbers with methodical precision.
"Isabella," she says finally, her grandmotherly voice carrying surprising authority, "this has been your most impressive fiscal year... well, ever." She looks up, her razor-sharp eyes fixing on Isabella over the rim of her glasses. "However, let's not forget you spent half a decade hemorrhaging money while Caterina managed to reverse her mother's catastrophic failures in less than half that time."
Isabella's perfectly composed face tightens almost imperceptibly. Beside her, Luna shifts in her seat, that perpetual smile faltering for a split second.
"The ongoing friction between your families is tiresome," Camilla continues, closing the ledger with finality. "I see absolutely no reason to disrupt our current arrangements."
Isabella's expression hardens, her knuckles whitening around her wine glass. "Don Fontana, please, if you'd just reconsider. She's squandering potential that could benefit us all."
"The matter is closed, Isabella," Camilla interrupts, her voice soft but carrying the unmistakable finality of someone unaccustomed to being challenged. She removes her reading glasses, folding them with deliberate care. "This discussion is over."
Isabella's jade-green eyes narrow to venomous slits as she stares across the table at Caterina. The hatred radiating off her is so palpable I swear I can feel it like heat waves across the table.
Caterina doesn't even glance in Isabella's direction. She simply takes another sip of her wine, crimson eyes focused on Camilla with practiced deference, as if Isabella's silent rage is too insignificant to acknowledge. Her hand remains steady around mine under the table, neither tightening nor relaxing.
What really throws me off is Luna. She's leaned back in her chair, that eerie smile fixed on her face like it's been painted there. There's no disappointment in her posture, no tension in her shoulders, just that same unsettling cheerfulness that somehow feels more dangerous than Isabella's open hostility. She catches me watching her and winks, her green eyes gleaming with what looks almost like satisfaction.
'What the fuck does that even mean?'