All Chapters of The mafia king’s substitute husband: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

WHAT HE LOSES SALVATORE’S POVThe gathering I call together is smaller than the one that witnessed Elian’s first wedding, but every man in the room understands what’s going on in the badly disguised ceremony months ago. Heads of allied families. A few Rossi cousins who’ve spent years quietly distancing themselves from Corrado’s mounting debts. Nico, standing near the door the way he always does, watching the room rather than me.Corrado stands alone in the middle of it, stripped of the performance he usually wears like armor.“You know why you’re here,” I say, and don’t raise my voice, because I’ve never once needed to. “I could have handled this quietly. A private word, a transfer of assets, no audience required. I decided against it.”“Because of Elian.” Corrado’s voice out. “Because of what you did to him.” My voice doesn’t change, doesn’t need the heat Corrado seems to be braced for. “You sacrificed one son to protect another, and you did it so quietly, so completely, that even

SMALL THINGS MATTERS.ELIAN’S POVRosa finds me in the kitchen a few days after Matteo’s visit, elbow deep in flour. I have no business what he is making, attempting something my mother used to make when I was young.“That’s not how the dough is supposed to look, sir.” She says it, trying not to laugh, and failing almost immediately.“I’m aware,” I say, eyeing the sad, lumpy mess in front of me. “I remember it being simpler than this when I watched it done.”“Watching and doing are different things.” She rolls up her sleeves without being asked, crossing to stand beside me at the counter. “Here. Let me show you properly, if you’ll let me.”I let her, grateful, and we spend the better part of an hour with her patiently correcting the shape of my hands against the dough, the two of us falling into an easy, comfortable quiet that I don’t think I’ve felt with anyone in this house besides Salvatore, not really, not until now.“Can I ask you something?” she says, suddenly, not looking up fr

WHAT I CAN’T UNSEEELIAN’S POVThe nightmare has been happening for some period of time.I wake up gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. I can still hear the gunshot in my head. I press a hand against my chest, breathing hard, even though I know there’s no blood. The warehouse is gone. The stitches are gone. The bruises have faded.But my body still remembers.Salvatore is awake instantly, the way he always is now, some old instinct in him attuned to the exact moment I stop sleeping peacefully beside him.“I’m here.” His hand finds my back, slowly. “You’re safe. It’s over.”“I know.” I said, unconvincing even to my own ears. “I know it’s over. My body doesn’t seem to have gotten over it.”He doesn’t say anything to that, only holds me until my breathing evens out properly. “I want you to teach me,” I say quietly, “Teach you what?”“Everything.” I turn to look at him properly. “How to handle a gun. How to see danger coming before it’

THE DOOR LEFT OPENELIAN’S POVThe way the old man looked at me felt so strange like he’s already decided what category to put me under and is only waiting for confirmation. His face reminds me of Salvatore, the same strong look, “Elian.” Salvatore’s hand finds the small of my back. “Elian, this is my uncle, Dante.”“Mr. Moretti.” I offer my hand, and he takes it, his grip firm.“So you’re the one who’s undone twenty years of careful work in the space of a season.” Dante says jokingly, almost curious. “I confess, I expected someone more impressive.”“Uncle.” Salvatore’s voice carries anger.“I’m not being cruel.” Dante’s eyes stay on me, unbothered by Salvatore’s tone. “I’m being honest, which I understand has become something of a rarity in this house lately. I expected a man capable of taming Salvatore Moretti to look like considerably more than this.”I could shrink from it. Months ago, I think I would have the old instinct to fold myself smaller in the face of someone clearly tes

THE WEIGHT MATTEO CARRIESELIAN’S POVMatteo calls asking for help before he’s been in charge of the Rossi name even a full month, which surprises me less than it probably should. I find him waiting in the small sitting room when I came down, a stack of papers spread across his knees, an expression on his face that reminds me, uncomfortably, of every night I used to watch our father hunched over the same kind of ledgers, drowning quietly in numbers he refused to admit he didn’t understand.“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, before I’ve even fully sat down across from him. “Father kept everything so tangled I can’t tell which debts are real and which he simply invented to justify keeping certain people close. I’ve been staring at these for three days and I understand less now than when I started.”“Let me see.” I hold my hand out, and he passes the stack over, then I feel relief crossing his face at simply having someone else look at it.It takes me the better part of an hour, t