Chapter 61: LXI. CESARE ROMANO (POV)

“Gianni De Angelis,” Ottavio says at last, without hesitation, not wasting my time. The name makes me frown slightly, faintly familiar, but not enough to matter.

“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?” I ask, my voice rough, as if I haven’t used it in longer than it’s actually been.

“He’s one of our men in Milan.”

My fingers stop moving again. The sharp sting creeping up the side of my head isn’t just physical anymore—it’s like the tension right before the scent of gunpowder.

“Was, actually,” Ottavio corrects, his jaw tight, eyes locked on mine, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. “De Angelis has been missing for two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” I repeat the words quietly, more to myself than to him, testing the weight of them on my tongue. The silence that follows is hard, cold, dense, heavy enough to press down on someone’s lungs. But not mine.

“And why am I only hearing about this now?”

“They didn’t report it.” Ottavio’s jaw clenches for a second, but he doesn’t flinch or waver, and those two things say more about how deep in shit we are than any report ever could.

He takes a deep breath, his neck muscles stretching as he tilts his head slightly, weighing the next words: “I had to dig real deep to even find out.”

The pressure in my forehead throbs, pulsing in time with the suspicion spreading like poison beneath my skin.

“And why are you bringing him up now?”

“Because,” Ottavio leans in slightly, his voice lower and tighter, “Gianni De Angelis is on Matteo’s list.”

My breath stumbles for a second. Just one. Like when the air is punched out of your lungs by something sudden, something violent. Then my chest sinks beneath a rising pressure that squeezes my ribs.

“You’re telling me,” I pause, my voice growing colder, heavier, “that an Onorato from Milan was mentioned by the pig who tried to kill our brother?”

Ottavio doesn’t flinch, even though he knows he’s facing someone more dangerous than the devil himself. But he knows better than to offer excuses or show weakness. At this point, we’re all walking a thin line, and my own blood is no exception.

“Yes.” That’s all he says.

I straighten up in the chair, the soft creak of leather and wood following the motion, filling the brief silence. My fingers stopped tapping a while ago, and my whole body’s on alert now, muscles tight with an instinct rooted deep in my bones.

“Are you sure?” It’s a dumb question. Of course, Ottavio’s sure. He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t. But I need to ask. I need to know there isn’t even a one percent chance of doubt.

Because what he’s implying—if it’s true—means we haven’t cleaned out all the rats.

It means there’s still filth hiding, and the worst kind.

“Yes.” He nods again.

I take a deep breath to help me settle. I may not feel anger the way most people do, but I know it’s there. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t rage. It settles. Dense. Dry. Precise. And it starts making decisions for me.

There’s no yelling, no loss of control, just the certainty that if Gianni De Angelis betrayed the family, he won’t just die. He’ll disappear. Every trace, every bone, every damned connection he had to this world—everything he ever was—will be erased, and it will be as if he never existed.

“Did you tell anyone else about this, Ottavio?” I twist the family ring, but this time, not in thought. It’s violence held back.

“Not a word.”

I nod, shortly, stiffly.

“So, one of ours shows up on a list with a Fratellanza’s name on it.” I rest my elbow on the armrest, rubbing my thumb along my jawline—a habit I can’t stop when I need to think. “I don’t like how that smells.”

“I took a quick look into it, but I couldn’t trace him,” Ottavio continues, his voice quiet and unhurried. “No contact, no sign of him. No bank activity, no digital footprint. It’s as if he vanished.”

“Who’s your source? Bernardi?”

“No. A friend.”

“A friend,” I repeat, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice. “Since when do you trust friends whose skin doesn’t bear our honor inked into it?”

Ottavio stays calm, but I notice the slight tension in his shoulders.

“He owed me a favor. An old one. Longstanding. He’s not part of the Società, not directly from our bloodline, but he’s saved our asses before. He’s a ghost tracker.”

“And you thought it wise to bring him near this?”

“I didn’t bring him near it. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. I asked for scattered pieces at different times and cross-referenced names across other targets. Only I knew the thread.” Ottavio exhales, sharp, almost exasperated, the closest he ever gets to irritation. “I couldn’t bring someone from the inside in on this, not under these conditions.”

I nod slowly, keeping my eyes on him. I still don’t like it, but I recognize my brother’s skill at navigating gray areas and the need to be cautious. Besides, Ottavio is careful to the point of obsession. Almost paranoid.

“Did this friend of yours find anything?”

“Just as I’ve told you. The disappearance is too clean. Too professional.” He pauses, and his eyes darken. “You know what that means.”

“Someone’s been covering their tracks since Ventresca died,” I say quietly, my voice starting to rasp. “I figured the Fratellanza was just cleaning up their own mess when nothing turned up at the docks that could compromise us. But even that theory had some holes I planned to fill soon…”

With Marina.

I was counting on her to fill those holes. To get close to Enzo, find out exactly what he was after by using Ventresca.

What were they aiming for with that? What were they trying to find?

Why risk a decades-long peace deal?

And why leave a trail of bodies just because one pawn failed?

“Now… I’m not so sure,” I murmur, more to myself than to Ottavio. Arturo’s words come back like bells, loud and insistent, forcing me to notice what’s right in front of me yet somehow still unseen.

Was I really wrong?

Do we still have more rats in the house?

The impatience grows hotter, more bitter, and choking. It knots in my throat, and the more I try to swallow it down, the tighter it pulls.

I slowly cross my arms, leaning back in the chair as I stare at a random spot on the wall. I’m not really seeing it. But I can hear every heartbeat pounding in my ears, too precisely, too loud, like my body’s bracing for something I haven’t quite figured out yet.

“You think the Bianchis are behind this, too?” Ottavio asks carefully, not out of fear, but because he knows exactly what it would mean if the answer is positive.

“Seems unlikely that a suspicious, unscheduled inspection would hit our docks… and three months later, someone would try to kill one of ours.” I let out a short, cruel smile. Dangerous. “People usually aren’t insane enough to do any of that.”

“The one behind this isn’t afraid of us,” Ottavio says flatly, and his words make my jaw clench even tighter. I feel the muscle twitch, and that small, instinctive reaction makes Ottavio shift into alertness.

“Whoever’s behind this… he’s playing with us, Cesare.”

I rise from the chair with a calm motion, though every part of me is laced with suppressed tension.

The soft creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet sounds too loud in the room’s silence as I walk to the bar in the corner of the office and pour a glass of whiskey. I don’t say a word, and I don’t offer him any.

“There’s more,” Ottavio says, hesitating for the first time, more nervous now. And I don’t need to look at him to know he’s still staring at the Don’s chair, now empty, probably wishing Salvatore were here.

Honestly, I wish he were, too. He’d know what to do. He always knows just how far to go without ever looking like he’s crossed a line. For him, boundaries bend. He doesn’t have to push. Doesn’t need to be aggressive or impose anything. He is everything I’m not. What I bring is cold, is hard, is obedience carved in blood. Not admiration. Not reverence.

“More?” I raise the glass to my lips, the liquid burning pleasantly down my throat, dragging clarity along with it.