The Martinelli dining hall was a cathedral of old money and older grudges. Rain lashed against the lead-paned windows, distorting the candlelight into wavering specters on the walls. Gia sat stiffly at the far end of the mahogany table, her emerald gown replaced by a high-necked black top and wide leg pants. The gala's subtle violence and tension still hummed in her bones, sharpened by the way Sophia's eyes gleamed like honed steel across the table.
"Is tomorrow a good time to go horse riding?" Javan whispered beside Gia to try to distract her from the tension.
Gia gave him a weak smile and Alvan spoke before she could say anything.
"The ground is going to be wet and slippery, it's not safe for horse riding. You'll go another time," he said without turning to look at either of them.
Gia's hairs stood on end, if Diego could infiltrate such a secure place as the mafia house, she couldn't imagine how easy it would be for him to harm her once she was outside the walls of the mansion. She was strong but Diego was something bigger, something she couldn't brush over and ignore.
Alvan occupied his usual seat at Omri's right hand, his posture rigid, his untouched wineglass reflecting the chandelier's fractured light. He had barely spoken since they'd returned—not about Diego's threat, not about the way he'd pulled her behind him, not about the orchid left on her pillow with its note written in blood-red ink:
"Trustnoone."
The servants brought the second course—roasted quail drenched in a sauce the color of dried blood. Gia's stomach turned.
"So," Sophia drawled, her vermilion nails tapping her fork, "we're all just pretending last night didn't happen?"
Francesca paused mid-bite, her gaze darting between Sophia and Omri. Luciano, Sophia's husband, snorted into his wine.
Omri didn't look up from his plate. "Eat your food, Sophia."
"Oh, I will." She leaned forward, her diamond choker catching the light like a predator's teeth. "But first, I'd like to know why Alvan thought it appropriate to brawl with Diego Ramirez at a public event. Over her."
Gia's knife screeched against her plate.
Alvan's voice was ice. "Watch your tone."
"Or what?" Sophia smirked. "You'll defend her honor again? How touching. Tell me, nephew—does this newfound chivalry extend to the rest of us, or is it reserved for your… wife?"
The word dripped venom.
Gia set down her fork. "If you have something to say, say it plainly."
Sophia's smile widened. "Gladly. You're a liability. Last night proved it. And Alvan's little performance?" She flicked her wrist toward him. "Pathetic. Since when do Martinelli men play knights for Salvatore strays?"
The room stilled. Even the servants froze in the doorway, their trays trembling.
Omri set down his knife. "Sophia."
"No, brother." She stood, her chair scraping like a gunshot. "We've all seen it. He's growing soft for her. Lets her prance around with knives, challenges Diego in front of half the city—"
"Diego humiliated himself," Alvan cut in, his voice lethally calm. "He touched what's mine."
Gia's pulse roared in her ears. Mine. The word felt like a collar.
Sophia laughed—a brittle, shattered sound. "Yours? She's a bargaining chip, Alvan. A pawn. And you're behaving like a lovesick fool."
Alvan rose slowly, his shadow swallowing the candlelight. "Sit. Down."
She didn't flinch. "Make me."
Gia's allergy chose that moment to strike.
A servant slipped in with a tray of custard tarts, trailed by the sleek gray cat that always haunted the kitchens. Gia's nose twitched. Once. Twice.
Ah-choo!
The sneeze shattered the tension. The cat hissed, leaping onto the table and streaking toward Sophia's untouched quail.
"Talia!" Sophia shrieked as the maid lunged for the cat. "Control that beast!"
Gia sneezed again, tears streaming down her face. Alvan tossed her his napkin without looking, his glare still locked on Sophia. He felt a type a protectiveness that he was all too familiar with.
"Get it out!" Francesca snapped, shielding her gown.
The cat—now perched on the chandelier—yelped as Talia waved a broom. A candle tipped, igniting the table runner.
Chaos erupted.
Gia stumbled back, sneezing uncontrollably. Alvan caught her elbow, his grip firm as he hauled her toward the door.
"Leaving so soon?" Sophia called after them, her voice shrill over the commotion. "Or are you two off to play house again?"
Alvan froze.
Gia felt the moment his control snapped.
He turned, his voice a whip. "You want to talk about playing, Sophia? Let's talk about your little arrangement with the Rossettis. The one you think Father doesn't know about."
Sophia paled. "You're lying."
Omri stood, his chair crashing to the floor. "Enough."
Alvan didn't blink. "Five percent of our arms shipments diverted to the Rossetti docks. Monthly. For how long? A year? Two?"
Luciano shot to his feet. "That's bullshit!"
"Check the ledgers," Alvan said coldly. "Page forty-three. Your wife's signature is quite distinctive."
Sophia's hand flew to her throat. "Omri, I—"
Omri backhanded her.
The crack echoed like a gunshot. Sophia crumpled against the table, her cheek blooming red. Her eyes blazed with hot angry tears and her cheek stung like hell.
Gia's sneezing stopped.
"My study," Omri said, his voice trembling with rage. "Now."
Sophia scrambled after him, Luciano at her heels. The cat, forgotten, leapt down and began licking spilled wine from the rug.
Francesca glared at Gia. "Happy?"
Alvan steered Gia out before she could answer.
The hallway was dim, the storm's fury muted by thick tapestries. Gia wrenched free of Alvan's grip.
"What the hell was that?"
He paced like a caged wolf. "A warning."
"To her? Or to me?"
He stopped, his eyes glinting in the shadows. "You think I enjoy this? Cleaning up your messes?"
"My messes?" She laughed bitterly. "Diego came for you, Alvan. I was just collateral. I'm sure of it."
He crowded her against the wall, his hands braced on either side of her head. "You're never just anything."
She shoved him. "Stop. Touching. Me."
He didn't move. "Why? Because it reminds you I'm not the monster you want me to be?"
Her palm connected with his cheek.
The slap rang out.
Alvan's head snapped to the side. When he looked back, his smile was feral. "Feel better?"
She did. And hated herself for it. She turned around and left. She couldn't go back to their room so she just kept walking until she was outside the mafia house.
---
Gia found Mira in the rose garden at midnight, the storm reduced to a drizzle.
"Dramatic exit earlier," Mira said, her crimson cloak blending with the blooms. "But predictable."
Gia crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
"To offer a trade. Information for loyalty."
"I don't trust you."
Mira plucked a rose, its thorns drawing blood. "You shouldn't. But you'll want what I have." She held out a photo—Alvan, younger, standing beside a woman she didn't recognize.
"Sicily," Mira whispered. "Ask him about Sicily."
---
Alvan was in the library, a bottle of bourbon and a loaded revolver on the desk.
Gia stormed into his office like she owned the place and tossed the photo in front of him. "Who is she?"
He stilled. "Where did you get this?"
"It doesn't matter where I got it. Now answer my question. Who is she?."
His knuckles whitened around the glass. "Leave it alone."
"Was she your lover?"
He laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "She was my responsibility. And I got her killed."
Gia's chest tightened. "How?"
He drained the bourbon. "I trusted the wrong person."
The admission hung between them, raw as an open wound.
She didn't expect him to talk so easily without a fight. And from the raw emotion in his voice, she could tell that the woman in the picture had to be someone very important to him.
Gia sat. "Tell me."
And he did.