The study had gone quiet after Alessandro left.
The leather arm Alessandro had split hung at an odd angle, the wood beneath splintered like bone.
He should call someone to fix it.
The phone rang.
Unknown number.
Salvatore looked at it for a long moment. He could ignore it. Let it ring out. Pretend he wasn't sitting here waiting for the next move in a game he hadn't chosen but couldn't quit.
He let it ring twice.
Then answered.
"Esposito."
"Salvatore."
The voice was warm.
Enzo Domenico.
"I hope my attorney's correspondence was clear," Enzo continued, as if they were discussing a dinner reservation rather than a legal threat against Salvatore's pregnant sister.
"Crystal," Salvatore said.
"Good. I don't want any misunderstanding between our families."
Salvatore said nothing. He'd learned long ago that silence was a weapon Enzo couldn't resist filling.
"In fact," Enzo said, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more genial, more expansive, "I think what we need is dialogue. Face to face. Man to man."
Here it comes, Salvatore thought.
"I'm hosting my annual gathering this Saturday," Enzo continued. "You know the tradition."
Salvatore did know.
Once a year, Enzo Domenico opened his estate to all the old families. It was theater, mostly. A display of power dressed up as hospitality. One night where grudges were set aside, grievances swallowed, and everyone pretended the blood on their hands was just expensive wine.
Neutral ground by custom. Ancient protocol that predated half the men who honored it.
Refusing would be a public insult. A declaration that the Espositos considered themselves above tradition, above courtesy, above the unspoken rules that kept Palermo from tearing itself apart every other Tuesday.
It would also make them look afraid.
"I'd be honored if you attended," Enzo said. "You, Alessandro, and your family."
A pause.
"Your mother especially. I haven't seen Giovanna in far too long."
Salvatore's hand tightened on the phone.
The room hadn't changed temperature, but he felt it anyway. A coldness creeping up his spine, settling in his chest like frost forming on glass.
"Tell her I asked after her personally," Enzo continued, his voice taking on a warmth that felt obscene in its familiarity. "Tell her I've thought of her often over the years."
Salvatore's jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
"Eight o'clock," Enzo said. "Formal dress. Let's show Palermo that even in difficult times, the old families can remain civil."
Another pause.
"Bring everyone, Salvatore. It's important we all remember what family means."
The line went dead.
He stared at it.
Two attacks.
Massimo's bragging at the Azure Club, turning Francesca into a punchline for drunk men at tables. Public humiliation designed to destroy her reputation, her dignity, her sense of safety in her own city.
Then Bellini's custody filing. Legal pressure wrapped in polite language, threatening to take her child before it was even born. Positioning Enzo as the reasonable grandfather, the concerned patriarch, the man who just wanted what was best for the baby.
And now this.
The invitation.
Massimo humiliates.
Enzo legitimizes through law.
And now Enzo positions himself publicly near Giovanna, using the party as an excuse to stand beside her, to speak to her, to remind everyone in Palermo that once upon a time, she could have been his.
Three-pronged assault.
Crude, calculated, and devastatingly coordinated.
And the real target?
Not Francesca.
Not the baby.
His mother.
It had always been about his mother.
Salvatore picked up his phone again.
Scrolled to Alessandro's number.
Hit call.
It rang once.
"What now?" Alessandro's voice was clipped, still carrying the edge of barely controlled fury.
"He just invited us to a party," Salvatore said. "Saturday. All of us."
A beat of silence.
"Enzo?"
"Yes."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Including Mama?"
"Especially Mama."
The silence that followed was so complete Salvatore could hear Alessandro breathing on the other end. Slow, measured breaths. The kind you took when you were counting to ten and hoping you'd make it to five.
"We're going?" Alessandro finally asked.
"We have to."
"Then I'll need a different suit," Alessandro said, his tone flat. "The one I wear to funerals."
"Al..."
"I'm joking, Salvi. Mostly."
The line went dead.
Five days.
Five days until the gathering.
Five days to prepare for walking into Enzo Domenico's house with his mother on his arm and his brother at his back, all of them pretending this was about tradition and civility and family.
Five days to make sure they walked back out.
He set the phone down.
Picked it up again.
Started making calls.
First call: Marco.
It rang twice before Marco answered.
"Boss."
"I need surveillance on Massimo Domenico," Salvatore said without preamble. "Starting now. Every club, every meeting, everyone he talks to. I want to know where he is, who he's with, and what he's saying every hour of every day."
"How deep?"
"Deep enough to know what he had for breakfast and who watched him eat it."
A pause.
"I don't care about the cost. And I want him to know we're watching. Make it obvious enough that he feels it but subtle enough that he can't prove it."
"Understood. Anything specific you're looking for?"
Salvatore thought about the anonymous call. The Azure Club. The table full of drunk men laughing at his sister.
"Everything," he said. "But especially who he's talking about. And how."
"I'll have a team on him by tonight."
The line clicked off.
Second call: His lawyer.
Roberto Conti answered on the first ring. He always did. That was why Salvatore paid him what he paid him.
"Salvatore."
"Alessandro will be filing a counter-motion to a custody notice we received. Attorney named Bellini. I want you to support him with whatever he needs. Resources, research, anything."
"Bellini," Roberto repeated, and Salvatore could hear the slight shift in his tone. Respect, maybe. Or wariness. "He's good."
"Alessandro's better."
"Yes, he is. What's the filing about?"
"Domenico's trying to establish custodial rights over Francesca's baby."
Silence on the line.
Then: "The baby that hasn't been born yet?"
"Yes."
"That's... ambitious."
"That's Domenico."
Roberto exhaled slowly. "Alright. I'll coordinate with Alessandro. We'll bury this thing before it sees daylight."
"Good."
"Salvatore," Roberto said, his voice careful. "This is going to escalate. You know that, right? Once we file a counter-motion, once we start dismantling his case in court, Enzo's going to take it personally."
"He already took it personally. We're just responding."
"Fair enough. I'll have my paralegal pull everything we have on the Domenicos. Character evidence, business dealings, associates. If Alessandro wants to build a file, we'll give him a library."
"Thank you, Roberto."
The line went quiet.
Third call: Andrew.
Andrew picked up immediately. He always did when Salvatore called.
"Boss."
"Francesca stays home Saturday," Salvatore said. "You stay with her. No arguments."
"Saturday," Andrew repeated slowly. "That's Domenico's gathering."
"Yes."
"You don't want her there."
"I don't want her anywhere near there."
A pause.
"She's not going to like it."
"She doesn't have to like it. She just has to stay safe."
Another pause, longer this time.
"What do I tell her?" Andrew asked.
"Tell her the truth. Enzo wants access to her. We're not giving it. Tell her this party is business, not family. Tell her we'll be back by midnight and she's safer here than anywhere else in the city."
"And if she argues?"
"Then you remind her that the last time she went somewhere she thought was safe, Massimo Domenico was there."
The silence on the line felt heavy.
"Understood," Andrew said quietly. "She'll be safe. I promise."
"I know."
Salvatore ended the call.
One more.
He scrolled to his mother's number.
Stared at it.
This was the conversation he'd been avoiding since Enzo's voice came through the phone an hour ago.
He hit call.
It rang three times.
"Salvatore?"
Her voice was calm. It always was. Even when the world was on fire, Giovanna Esposito sounded like she was sitting in a garden somewhere, deciding which flowers to cut.
"Mama," he said. "I need to see you. Now. It's important."
A pause. Not hesitation. Just assessment.
"I'll put on coffee," she said.
The line went quiet.