CHAPTER TWO

GABRIELE’S POV

Three months, two weeks, and five days since Elena died.

I'd stopped counting the hours. Time flew without me noticing.

My study had become a tomb. Empty whiskey bottles lined the shelf, files on the Russians covered every surface, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept in our—my—bedroom. The sheets still smelled like her perfume. I couldn't face that yet.

The Russians had been making moves, testing boundaries. If they had any hand in Elena's death, they wouldn't get the chance to take anyone else from me.

A knock interrupted my thoughts—sharp, authoritative. Giovanni.

Giovanni walked in, his calm yet menacing presence trailing behind him. He was the best man for the consigliere role.

“Buongiorno, Don Gabriele.”

I waved a hand lazily, gesturing for him to sit. I went to the small dark table close to the wall and poured some whiskey. The sharp burn came immediately, followed by a warm spread that settled in my chest. And then, the bitter taste slapped hard like a bitch reminding me to get my shit together.

I turned to face Giovanni. “What brings you by?”

“The family thinks you should remarry.”

“No.” 

No hesitation. I turned to look out the window. The day was clear, but my mind was foggy.

“You need to show strength. Stability. The Russians are gaining on us. A wife provides stability, alliances, and more importantly, an heir.”

I spun around to face him. “I had a wife, Giovanni. And where is she? Six fucking feet below the earth. So no, I will not put another woman in that position again. I won't let her suffer the same fate Elena did.”

“My daughter knows the risks in our world. She was born into this world.”

“Which daughter, Giovanni?”

“My youngest daughter. She suggested this herself.”

Elena's younger sister. The one who'd stared at me at the funeral like she was memorizing exactly where to put the knife. She suggested this?

She orchestrated this. Convinced her father it was strategy, politics, stability. Giovanni might even believe that's her only motive.

But I'd seen her eyes that day. I know rage when I see it. I wear it every morning in the mirror.

She blames me for Elena's death. She should. I blame myself too.

Marrying me gives her access—to my home, my business, my vulnerabilities. Close enough to destroy everything I've built. Close enough to kill me.

And the brilliant, terrifying thing? It's a solid strategy. If she weren't planning my murder, I'd be impressed.

But there's another truth beneath the obvious one: she's Elena's sister.

I failed Elena. Let her die on my watch, in my world, because I wasn't fast enough, smart enough, careful enough to see the threat coming.

Her little sister—Carmela, I should use her fucking name—is walking into the same trap. She thinks she's hunting me, but she doesn't see the real danger. The Russians. The traitors inside my own organization. Whoever killed Elena is still out there, and if they targeted one Ferrara daughter...

Marrying her brings her under my protection. Into my home, where I have eyes on every entrance. Where I can keep her alive even as she plots my death.

It's the least I can do. The only thing I can do.

If Elena's sister wants to kill me, fine. I'll let her try.

But I'll keep her breathing while she does it.

“Does she know what she's agreeing to?”

“She says she does.” 

Even Giovanni was uncomfortable with it.

“And you believe her?”

His pause proves his disagreement. “I believe she has thought this through more than what she's telling me.”

“When's the wedding?”

Giovanni stares up at me in surprise. “You're agreeing? Are you sure—”

“Fix a date for the wedding. Tell your daughter to dress pretty for me.”

Giovanni left the room, too stunned to continue speaking. Slumping down on my seat, my head cradled in her hands, a laugh crept up my stomach and left my mouth.

I can't remember the last time I laughed, and this is what made me laugh?

Minutes passed before I calmed myself down. What am I even doing?

I'm marrying my dead wife's sister who—obviously—wants to kill me, and I willingly agreed?

Such a fucking irony. 

I wonder how long I'll live when we eventually get married. Will she kill me on our wedding night? Two weeks later? One month? How would she kill me? Stab me? Poison me?

If she kills me too soon, I won't have enough time to repay my debt. Will she give me time? At least let me avenge my late wife before she kills me.

As long as I can avenge her, then I don't mind dying by her knife.

Hell, maybe I'll even hand her the knife myself.

I walked over to the window. Across the grounds, I could see the cemetery where Elena was buried.

I poured another whiskey and raised it toward the cemetery.

"Perdonami, amore mio," I whispered. Forgive me. "I'm about to marry your sister. And I'm going to let her hate me for what I couldn't save you from."

The whiskey burned going down.

It always did.