Salvatore's POV
I didn't answer him right away.
Silence is power. He knew that. So did I.
"My grandchild," he repeated softly. "That's what we call it, yes?"
"You're misinformed," I said evenly. "You don't have grandchildren."
Then I switched off the phone, before he could say another word.
The sun was barely cresting over the hills when I walked into the kitchen.
Giovanna was already at the stove, the wooden spoon in her hand moving in a slow, rhythmic circle as she whisked eggs in a ceramic bowl.
She wasn't wearing her robe, but a simple housedress, her hair pinned back severely.
She looked like a general preparing for a siege, not a new grandmother making breakfast.
"Buongiorno, Salvatore," she said without turning around. "Coffee is on the counter. Black, just the way you like it."
I poured the coffee, the dark liquid steaming in the cool morning air. "Buongiorno, Mama."
I took a sip, leaning back against the counter. "Francesca?"
"Still sleeping," Giovanna said, cracking eggs into the pan with a sharp *thwack*. "I checked on her an hour ago. She didn't even stir."
I watched the eggs hit the hot pan, the sizzle filling the oppressive silence of the kitchen.
"She's safer asleep," I muttered, staring into the black depths of my cup. "In the real world, Domenico is waiting."
"Then let her rest in this one," Giovanna said firmly, sliding the eggs onto two plates and adding slices of toast.
She carried them to the small breakfast nook by the window, bathed in pale, morning light. "Sit. Eat. You cannot fight a war on an empty stomach."
"Domenico called." I told her.
"What did he say?"
"He knows."
"How?"
"I don't know."
She made the sign of the cross, then indicated that I should carry on eating.
"He called the caterers this morning," she said, her tone deliberately conversational.
"Alessandro. He wanted to confirm the menu for the reception. He was worried about the seafood station."
I let out a short, humorless breath. "He's planning a wedding feast while we're standing on a landmine."
I pushed the eggs around my plate, my appetite non-existent. "It feels like we're arranging deck chairs on the Titanic, Mama. He wants a seafood station? We need to be planning a funeral."
Giovanna stopped eating. She set her fork down with a sharp *clink* that echoed in the silent kitchen.
She turned her gaze on me, her eyes hard and unyielding.
"Do not say that," she said, her voice low. "Do not invite death into this house by speaking its name.
Alessandro is holding onto his future with both hands because he is terrified it is slipping away. Let him have the wedding. Let him have the menu. It is the only thing keeping him from going across town and putting a bullet in Massimo's head himself."
I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the deep lines of exhaustion etched around her mouth. She was scared too. She just hid it better than the rest of us.
"Patience," she said softly, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. Her skin was papery dry, but her grip was surprisingly strong. "This is a long game, Salvatore. A long game. We cannot react like wounded animals. We have to think like the Espositos."
I looked at her, the fear for my sister twisting like a knife in my gut.
"Thinking doesn't stop a bullet, Mama. Patience is a luxury we don't have. He knows about the baby."
I pulled my hand away from hers, agitated, and stood up, pacing the small length of the kitchen.
"Patience?" I repeated, my voice rising. "You heard him. He called it 'his' grandchild. That isn't a business negotiation, that's a declaration of war."
"He is baiting you, Salvatore," she said, her voice maddeningly calm.
She picked up her coffee cup, blowing on the steam. "And you are taking the bait like a starving fish."
I turned to face her, the frustration boiling over, spilling out of me in a harsh, ragged whisper. "I keep running scenarios in my head. Every single one ends in blood."
Giovanna took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine.
She didn't flinch at my outburst.
She just watched me, weighing the man standing before her against the boy she had raised.
She set the cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer. "Tell me about the blood, Salvatore. Paint the picture for me. What happens in these scenarios?"
I stopped pacing and gripped the edge of the counter, staring at the granite as if the answers were etched in the stone. "Scenario one," I said, my voice tight. "We hide her. We move her to a safehouse in the mountains, no phone, no signal. Domenico finds her anyway. He always finds people. He sends men to... retrieve her. My men die defending her. I arrive too late, or just in time to find..." I swallowed hard, unable to finish the image of my sister broken on the floor.
"And scenario two?" she asked quietly.
"Scenario two," I said, my voice dropping lower, colder. "I don't hide. I go to him. I walk into his territory, and I put a bullet between his eyes before he can breathe another word about my nephew/niece."
I looked up at Giovanna. "Simple, and clean."
She didn't blink. "And then?"
I stared at her, the silence stretching between us, thick and suffocating. "And then what? The problem is solved. The wolf is dead. The sheep are safe."
Giovanna let out a long, weary sigh, the sound rattling deep in her chest. She picked up her napkin, dabbed the corners of her mouth with excruciating slowness, and then folded it neatly beside her plate. When she finally looked at me, her eyes weren't filled with fear, they were filled with a devastating pity.
"You are not a stupid man, Salvatore. Do not pretend to be one, I did not raise you as one." she said, as she left the kitchen.