Salvatore's POV
Since Luca's funeral, Palermo had gone quiet.
I wasn't answering it with bullets.
I was answering it with arithmetic.
From access logs to fuel records, port entries and so on. I was here dissecting Luca's final weeks down to the minute, checking out every accountant who signed off on his shipments, to those who rotated through his detail, and the very driver who knew his routes.
The espresso machine hissed in the corner. I didn't move to pour. I just stared at the spreadsheet, watching numbers that refused to add up the way honest numbers should.
Luca had been the visible rot. But rot spreads.
Somewhere in this organization, someone else was waiting. Watching, and reporting.
I would find them.
Or I would burn the whole structure down and rebuild it from ash.
.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it for three full rings.
Then picked up.
"Esposito."
Silence. Then breathing. Then a male voice, young, nervous, amateur.
"Mr. Esposito? Salvatore Esposito?"
"Who is this?"
"I..." A swallow. "I don't want to give my name. But I was at the Azure Club last night. At Massimo Domenico's table."
I went very still.
"Continue."
"I need to tell you what he said. About your sister. Someone needs to tell you."
The world narrowed to the phone in my hand and the voice on the other end.
"I'm listening."
The caller took a breath. Steadying himself.
"Massimo was drunk. High. Showing off for his friends. Someone brought up your sister, saying she was pregnant, and he..."
Another pause.
"He said she came to him. That she wanted it. That she 'practically begged for it.'"
My hand tightened on the phone. I said nothing.
"He said the Esposito princess wasn't so high and mighty by the end of the evening. He described her. Her body. What she looked like. What sounds she made. Like she was... like she was something he'd bought."
The caller's voice cracked slightly.
"He called the baby leverage. Said his father could use it to control your family. That the Esposito bloodline was 'tainted now' with Domenico blood."
I stared at the wall. Didn't blink.
"He said she couldn't keep her legs closed. That she was a conquest. That he'd won."
Silence.
"Was there more?" My voice came out flat. Empty.
"He made a toast. His exact words: 'To Massimo, who managed to fuck the Espositos in more ways than one.' Everyone at the table laughed."
The caller paused.
"I'm telling you because... someone should know. What he's saying about her. In public. At clubs. It's not right."
Another pause.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Esposito. Your sister didn't deserve that."
The line went dead.
.
I sat there with the phone in my hand.
Massimo Domenico had just given me clarity.
Not through violence.
Through words.
Through humiliation so public
The fury that settled over me wasn't hot. It was crystalline.
I set the phone down with deliberate care.
Poured the espresso.
Drank it black.
Picked up my phone again.
Scrolled to Alessandro's number.
Stared at it.
My brother didn't know yet. Didn't know what Massimo was saying in clubs across Palermo. Didn't know our sister was being described like a whore to tables full of drunk men.
When he found out, and he would find out, there would be no controlling him.
I set the phone down without calling.
Not yet.
First, I needed to think.
.
"You're chasing ghosts, Sal."
Alessandro's voice cut through the room fifteen minutes later.
I looked up. My brother stood in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled, looking like he'd been pacing somewhere else for the last hour and had finally worked up the courage to come here.
"I don't believe in ghosts," I said, still watching the espresso settle. "I believe in weak links."
He stopped pacing.
"I'm looking for men who are loyal to Domenico on my team," I said. "Until I find them, I assume everyone had a hand on the latch."
His hands gripped the back of the chair across from me.
"So that's it?" he said. "We turn inward? We start eating our own?"
"Yes."
"You'd have us all on a chokehold," he shot back.
I looked at him steadily. Said nothing.
He exhaled through his nose. Adjusted his stance.
"I need to know how we're living now," he continued. "Because Sofia and I have plans to get married. And I won't make them in a house where everyone is a suspect."
"The house is already compromised," I replied evenly. "Pretending otherwise won't reinforce it."
"The wedding isn't a vulnerability," he said.
"It's a congregation that would be full of targets for the Domenicos."
"It's us refusing to hide."
"You didn't ask us to hide," I said softly. "Domenico proved we should."
That landed. I saw the tightening of his jaw, the flare in his nostrils.
"He dictated Luca's last day," I continued. "The time. The place. The outcome. You think wearing a tuxedo in a cathedral reverses that?"
"It tells him we're not afraid."
"It tells him where we'll all be at once."
Silence.
"I don't like this, Salvi."
"Neither do I, Al."
I studied him. My brother, who was still hopeful enough to think normalcy could be reclaimed by declaration.
I thought about the phone call I'd just received.
The things Massimo had said.
The laughter.
The toast.
I could tell him. Right now. Watch the rage ignite in his eyes. Watch him grab his keys and head straight to wherever Massimo was drinking tonight.
Or I could wait. Plan. Use the information strategically instead of reactively.
"Fine," I said at last.
His head lifted slightly.
"We move forward."
His relief was almost immediate.
"But not the cathedral. Not the gardens. Not a public guest list that leaks before the invitations dry. We do it at the estate. Controlled access. Armed perimeter. Tactical teams in the tree line. Every vehicle scanned. Every vendor vetted."
His expression dimmed.
"It will look like a fortress," he said.
"It is a fortress."
"It was supposed to be a wedding."
"It will be," I said. "Just not for strangers."
He inhaled slowly through his nose.
"You'll turn Sofia's dream into a security exercise."
"I'll turn it into something she survives."
He looked like he wanted to argue again.
Instead, he nodded once.
"Fortress," he said. "But don't let her feel like she's locked inside it."
He straightened his jacket with a sharp, decisive tug.
Then he left.
.
I sat there a long moment after he was gone.
Keeping someone alive is simple.
Making them feel alive while you do it, that's the art.
Alessandro wanted his wedding. Wanted normalcy. Wanted to prove we could still have lives beyond the war.
And I would give it to him.
Because that's what brothers do.
But I would give it to him inside a fortress. With snipers and scanners and men who knew how to kill before the threat materialized.
Because that's what survival looks like in our world.
I picked up my phone again.
Alessandro's name on the screen.
I needed to tell him about Massimo's bragging. About what was being said in clubs across the city. About the humiliation.
But not yet.
Not until I decided what to do with the information.
Not until I knew whether we'd respond with strategy or with rage.
I set the phone down.
.
Inside my study, I poured scotch.
The glass was halfway to my mouth when my personal line rang again.
Unknown number.
I set the scotch down without drinking.
Two unknown calls in one day.
Not a coincidence.
I let it ring once more before answering.
"Esposito."
A smooth male voice responded.
"Mr. Esposito. My name is Vittorio Bellini. I represent Mr. Domenico."
Of course you do.
I leaned back in my chair, the scotch untouched in my hand.
"You're brave," I said mildly. "Calling this line."
"I prefer efficient."
"I prefer honest. Let's not pretend this is a courtesy call."
A faint pause.
"No pretense, then," Bellini replied. "My client has instructed me to notify you formally of his intent to pursue shared custodial rights upon the birth of his grandchild."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Custodial rights.
Legal language for what Enzo really wanted: access. Proximity. Control.
"He believes," Bellini continued, "that maintaining access to the child would ensure familial stability."
"Stability," I repeated softly. "Is that what he calls it now?"
"My client is concerned that tensions between your families may deprive the child of meaningful connection."
"And your client believes litigation will soothe that tension."
"My client believes it will clarify rights."
I smiled. No one was in the room to see it.
"Let me clarify something for you, Avvocato."
Silence on the line.
"If your client steps within fifty meters of my sister or her child, I will consider it an act of war. Legal or otherwise."
A controlled breath on the other end.
"I'm afraid that kind of language would not serve you well in a courtroom."
"We won't be in a courtroom long enough for it to matter."
Another pause. This one heavier.
"My client anticipated resistance," Bellini said carefully. "He asked me to emphasize that this is not a threat."
"No," I said quietly. "It's a declaration."
I ended the call without waiting for his rebuttal.
---
The scotch went down in one swallow. It burned the way truth burns.
Enzo had shifted arenas.
Streets to courts.
Bullets to custody.
Two calls in one day.
Two attacks on my family.
One from below, Massimo destroying Francesca's reputation in clubs, turning her pregnancy into entertainment for drunk men.
One from above, Enzo using the law as a weapon, positioning himself as the reasonable grandfather seeking rights.
Father and son.
Working in tandem.
One crude, one calculated.
Both targeting the same woman.
I set the glass down.
They'd made a mistake.