The Mafia Don Who Lost His Bride

"You're right, it doesn't. But I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to do what was best for the Family. You know I care about you. You know that, don't you?"

"Do I?" The question came out quieter than I intended, almost fragile, and I hated myself for it. "Because it doesn't feel that way. You keep saying you care, but your actions tell a different story, Dominic. Every single time."

He drew breath to speak again. I could feel it coming, the same lecture, the same sermon about duty and honor and the weight of the Valente name. He couldn't stop himself. It was as though I were a junior associate who needed to be educated on the realities of the life, a child who couldn't grasp what it meant to sit at the head of La Tavola d'Oro.

I ended the call without asking permission. Without a goodbye. Without giving him the courtesy of a final word.

The phone rang again almost instantly. Dominic's name glowed on the screen, insistent, commanding, the way everything about him was commanding. I watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I reached over, held the power button, and watched the screen go black.

The apartment was silent. The city hummed faintly beyond the window, indifferent to the woman sitting alone on a bare mattress in a cold room, holding a dead phone in hands that would not stop shaking.

Laughter rolled through the grand salon of the Valente compound like smoke from a hundred cigarettes, thick and warm and impossible to escape. Ivo's birthday had drawn the entire Family together, every soldier, every associate, every wife and cousin and distant relation who owed their livelihood to the Valente name. Crystal clinked against crystal. Someone had put on old Sinatra records, and the brass notes drifted beneath the noise of conversation like a current beneath a river.

I scanned the room from my place near the head of the long dining table. Neve stood at the bar across the salon, a glass of untouched Barolo in her hand, half-turned toward one of the Family's private physicians. She was engaged in conversation but not entirely present. Her eyes had that faraway quality, the look of a woman whose mind was somewhere else entirely. It didn't matter. I was glad she came.

She had been busy. The work at La Voce Nera had consumed her for weeks, and Ivo had mentioned she wasn't in the mood for a party. But here she was, dressed in black silk, her dark hair pinned back, looking like she belonged in every room she entered. That was Neve. Always doing the right thing. Always putting others before herself.

"Dominic!" Chiara's voice cut through my thoughts, bright and deliberate. She appeared at my elbow, those wide, hopeful eyes turned up at me like a child asking for permission. Her left arm rested in a sling, the bandage visible beneath the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse.

"Could you help me with the prawns and the crab? I can't peel them with my arm like this."

I hesitated. My gaze drifted back toward Neve, still standing at the bar, still talking to the physician. I had meant to go to her. I had meant to pull her aside, ask her how she was, tell her something. Anything.

But Chiara was standing right in front of me, injured, waiting. I couldn't leave her hanging. The debt of honor my father had sworn to her dead mother hung over every interaction like a rosary around a sinner's neck.

"Sure," I said, and moved to sit beside her at the table.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver." Chiara's smile was radiant, the kind of smile that made everyone in the room believe she was exactly what she appeared to be: fragile, grateful, harmless.

I picked up a prawn and began working the shell free with my fingers. Then a crab leg. The work was tedious, beneath the dignity of a Don in most circumstances, but this was different. This was Chiara. The obligation was clear. Other members of the household could be demanding in their own ways, but this particular duty carried the weight of blood.

"You're always so kind to me, Dominic. I don't know what I'd do without you." She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine.

"It's nothing. Just doing what I should."

The shell cracked between my fingers. I set the clean meat on her plate.

Ivo appeared then, two tumblers of aged scotch in his hands. He set one in front of me and dropped into the chair across the table, loosening his tie with his free hand. His dark eyes flicked to Chiara, then to me, and a knowing look crossed his face.

"You really know how to make a man feel useful, huh?" He raised his glass in a mock toast. "What a gentleman."

I chuckled and slid another peeled prawn onto Chiara's plate.

"Just helping a member of this Family who needs it."

Ivo leaned back, swirling the scotch in his glass, and let his gaze drift across the room to where Neve stood. She was alone now. The physician had moved on. She held the same glass of Barolo she'd been holding since she arrived, the wine untouched, the stem turning slowly between her fingers as if she were counting the minutes until she could leave.

"Hey, Dominic." Ivo's voice dropped a register, casual but pointed. "Why don't you peel some of those for Neve? I'm sure she'd appreciate it too."

I frowned. The suggestion landed wrong, like a stone dropped into still water. I hadn't come here to spend the evening shelling plates of seafood for every person in the room. Neve was perfectly capable of doing it herself.

"Neve's fine. She's just taking a break," I said, and the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Ivo raised an eyebrow. He took a slow sip of his scotch and set the glass down with a deliberate clink.