(Alessio's POV)
The villa is never truly silent. Even when the halls lie empty and the chandeliers dim, there's always a sound—the cicadas beyond the open windows, the distant thrum of engines climbing the hill, the memory of footsteps on marble. Giovanni keeps his house like he keeps his empire: lit, watched, awake.
I sit at the smaller dining table before anyone else, jacket still buttoned despite the heat. The lasagna on my plate is cooling. I don't touch it.
"You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive," Lara says as she sweeps in. Our housekeeper is the only person in this villa who talks to me like I'm human. She sets a fresh plate down with a decisive clink. "At this rate, a breeze will snap you."
"I thrive on charm," I tell her. "Very nourishing."
"Charm won't stop bones from breaking, ragazzo."
"My bones don't break easily."
She clicks her tongue. "You sound just like Giovanni."
I allow the smallest break in my expression. "That's not the compliment you think it is."
Her face softens, then shutters. "Men in this family are only as strong as the secrets they keep." She leaves me with the food and the echo of her warning. I loosen my tie and finally take a bite. It's cold. Appearances, always.
—
In the courtyard, gravel crunches under my shoes. Luca leans against the hood of a black Maserati with a glass of whiskey, sleeves rolled. Marco flicks a coin from knuckle to knuckle, eyes on a horizon he hasn't earned.
"Finally," Luca says without turning. "The golden son."
"Golden implies warm," I say. "I'm more… efficient."
Marco snorts. "Giovanni's favorite doesn't mean you're better."
"Not better," I say. "More disciplined. That's enough."
The coin slips from his fingers and pings against stone. He tenses. I pick it up and hand it back. "Catch better next time." Then I walk inside. There's no satisfaction in winning games I didn't choose to play.
—
The dining room gleams too brightly under the chandelier. Giovanni takes his seat at the head, my mother beside him, poised and watchful. Luca and Marco occupy noise more than space. I sit opposite them. A family portrait, if you squint and lie to yourself.
"Phones down," Giovanni says, and two phones disappear like magic tricks. He doesn't look at me. He never has to.
"The Romanos," Giovanni says, turning to the only subject that matters. "Antonio becomes careless. Expansion without permission. Noise without protection." He cuts his veal with the kind of precision men hire other men to fear. "He forgets who runs this country."
"Let him bark," Luca says. "We shoot. It stops."
"Noise pays interest," I say. "Bullets are expensive when they multiply."
Giovanni's gaze flicks to me. Approval, sharp and brief. "Exactly. Fear is cheaper than funerals."
Marco rolls his coin. "So what's the move? Send flowers laced with threats?"
Giovanni doesn't raise his voice. He never needs to. "You think a man like Antonio understands flowers?"
Silence spreads. The knives keep working. The wine keeps breathing. Everything looks civilized when you polish it enough.
"We send a message," Giovanni says at last. "Something he cannot ignore." His eyes settle on me. "Alessio will deliver it."
I rest my glass. "Define 'message.'"
"A reminder," he says. "That Naples is not his to play with. That Victor's debts were real. That patience is a gift I don't give twice." A beat. "If he refuses… show him why no one crosses a Bianchi."
My mother's hand hovers near his wrist—not stopping, only reminding him she's there. "Giovanni," she says gently, "there are other ways."
"There are not," he answers, and somehow makes it sound like math.
I keep my voice even. "Antonio will respond to leverage. He has pressure points."
"Find them," Giovanni says. "Use them."
Luca leans back, the chair creaking. "Finally, my little brother gets to play."
"I don't play," I say. "I finish."
Marco opens his mouth, sees Giovanni's eyes, closes it again. My mother exhales so softly no one notices but me.
Giovanni lifts his glass. "To family. To power. To loyalty above everything.
—
After dinner, Luca heads to the cellar for a bottle we can't taste, Marco to his phone for people who don't matter. Giovanni disappears into his study—oak door, amber lamplight, the scent of cigars that never quite leaves his suits.
I remain at the table, studying the dregs of Barolo like they might rearrange into answers. My mother lingers. She touches my shoulder, a small claim the world hasn't stolen yet.
"Walk with me," she says.
We step into the back garden. Night hangs clean and silver over the hedges. The fountain whispers. Crickets argue with the stars.
"You don't have to become Giovanni," she says without preface, because we don't waste time pretending.
I let a smile pull at my mouth. "His shadow covers everything."
Her eyes are warm and relentless. "You are not a shadow. You are my son. You still carry a choice, even when he tries to strip it away."
"He's sending me to Antonio Romano." I don't dress it up.
"Then remember who you are when the dark tempts you," she says. "Strength isn't cruelty. Strength is knowing when to be human."
I cover her hand where it rests on my arm. For a breath, the air is gentler. I am not a weapon. I am a son.
"Tomorrow," I say, and the word sounds like a verdict.
"Come back to me," she says simply.
"Sempre," I answer. Always.
—
In my room, I unbutton the jacket I never needed to wear and sit on the edge of the bed. On the dresser: a photo I keep facedown. A garage. A man with oil on his hands who taught me how engines sing. Victor. Mentor first, mystery second. My memory of his death is a broken reel—soundless frames burned at the edges. I see the argument. I hear nothing. I smell smoke. I taste metal.
Somewhere in Naples, Antonio is clinging to an inheritance that was promised and then swallowed. Somewhere in New York, his family pretends the past is a sealed door.
Tomorrow, I knock.