Chapter 2

Viola returned to the estate the following afternoon.

She had just finished a family negotiation on the south shore, and sea mist still clung to her coat.

When she saw me, she tossed a black velvet box onto the table.

“For you.”

Inside was a silver lighter engraved with the Moretti iris.

“Why is it exactly like the one Matteo gave Leon?” Mrs. Moretti asked with a smile.

“Matteo stopped by this morning. He said he chose it himself.”

Viola froze for the briefest moment.

Then she said quickly, “They’re souvenirs from the same shop. Of course they look alike.”

The old me would have asked why she and Matteo had gone to the same shop, and why they had chosen the same gift for me.

Now I simply closed the lid.

“Good. If one breaks, I’ll have a spare.”

Viola looked at me, a faint crease forming between her brows.

At dinner, Mr. Moretti brought up the succession ceremony.

“Leon will take the consigliere’s seat. Matteo will continue to manage the south docks. Once the wedding is over, the family will truly be in your hands.”

Viola set down her wineglass.

“Father, I want to change the appointments.”

The dining room fell silent.

“I want Matteo as my underboss,” she said. “Leon can continue keeping the books, or he can take the north warehouses. We can decide on the consigliere later.”

Mr. Moretti’s face darkened.

“Is this your decision, or the Bellini family’s?”

“Mine.”

Viola’s gaze settled on me as though she were waiting for a familiar argument.

The older Viola had said that every time I heard Matteo’s name, my expression would turn cold and I would use my parents’ blood debt to force her to give in.

“Then we’ll do it your way,” I said.

“You’re the one who will sit at the head of the table. You have the right to choose the person you trust most.”

Mrs. Moretti looked as if she wanted to object.

Viola, however, showed no trace of relief.

She followed me into the corridor and blocked my path.

“What did you mean by that?”

“I agreed to the change.”

“Leon, are you trying to mock me with this attitude?”

“No.” I met her eyes calmly. “I’ve simply understood at last that neither a consigliere nor a husband can be purchased with an old debt.”

Her expression hardened at once.

“There it is again.”

“Every time you’re angry, you put on that face as if nothing matters to you. Why can’t you be like Matteo and say what you actually mean?”

Before I could answer, Viola’s phone rang.

Matteo had cut his finger on a shell casing at the training grounds and wanted to know where the first-aid kit was.

The wound in the photograph was barely half an inch long.

Viola turned immediately.

“Don’t cause trouble before the ceremony. I’ll come take a look.”

She left so quickly that she never noticed my left arm hanging stiffly at my side.

Three days earlier, I had been ambushed while inspecting the chapel for her ceremony. A stray bullet grazed my arm, leaving a wound that required twelve stitches.

Over the phone, she had only said, “You’re already a candidate for consigliere. Don’t tell me you need me to look after a scratch.”

Later, it was my elderly grandmother who changed my blood-soaked bandage.

Half an hour later, a new photograph appeared in the family’s encrypted social circle.

Matteo sat at a table while Viola bent over his hand, wrapping his finger in gauze.

The caption read: “The person you can rely on will always appear before you even have to ask.”

Someone asked whether the two of them had already been together for some time.

Matteo replied, “Don’t start rumors. Her family has already chosen a fiancé for her.”

Not a word of it suggested he felt the slightest need for distance.

I had once waited for her at that same table.

Two winters ago, I endured an interrogation for the family. My right hand was fractured so badly that I could not hold a glass of water.

Viola promised she would come as soon as her meeting ended.

I waited from nightfall until dawn and received only one message: “Something came up.”

Later, I learned that Matteo had lost a card game and persuaded her to drive to the coast with him.

Back then, I found a thousand excuses for her.

Now every one of them had lost its meaning.

I closed the photograph and entered the Confessional of the Dead again.

“If Leon chose to withdraw before the succession ceremony, would you be happy?” I asked the older Viola.

This time, she waited a long while before replying.

“Perhaps not happy.”

“But at least he wouldn’t die in the Moretti family’s White Cellar.”