Chapter 12 The Cost of Disrespect
Nikolai's POV:
Some of the capos were returning to the mainland that night, probably some urgent businesses to attend to. Their helicopters cut through the sky one by one, rotors chopping through the night as they lifted from the eastern pad.
Others were staying.
The island had been built for that. Private villas scattered along the coastline, each one guarded, soundproofed, and staffed. No one who stayed here did so accidentally. It meant extended negotiations, side conversations, stuff like that.
I watched the departures through the glass wall of the upper lounge.
Enzo Ricci was not among the ones leaving. He had chosen to stay.
That was convenient.
Matthew stepped beside me, hands clasped behind his back. “Ricci is in Villa Three. Requested more brandy.”
“Of course he did.”
I loosened my cuffs slowly. Tonight had gone well indeed, but there had been a miscalculation.
Ricci.
His comment had been careless. It was not because it insulted her. But because it challenged me.
“She handled him,” Matthew said quietly.
“Yes.”
“She didn’t look at you for help.”
I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. “And that concerns you?”
“People talked. It concerns everyone,” he replied carefully. “She’s not ornamental. Almost like… Francesca.”
I already knew that. That was the problem.
“Bring him,” I said.
Matthew didn’t hesitate.
Villa Three sat at the far end of the property, overlooking a private stretch of beach. It was designed for comfort, two floors, open balconies, imported stone flooring. Soft lighting and expensive art. It was also isolated.
Ricci was laughing when we entered.
He stopped when he saw me.
Two of my men positioned themselves near the door. Matthew remained slightly behind me, silent as ever.
“Don Moretti,” Ricci said, standing too quickly. “To what do I owe—”
“Sit.”
He sat.
I poured brandy into two glasses.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Exceptional as always.”
I handed him a glass.
He took it with slightly unsteady fingers.
“You questioned my judgment,” I said calmly.
His smile faltered. “If this is about earlier—”
“You questioned my judgment,” I repeated.
Ricci cleared his throat. “With respect, Don, I questioned her. Not you.”
“There is no separation.”
He fell silent.
“She is inexperienced,” he pressed carefully. “And we are discussing serious matters. It reflects poorly if—”
“If what?” I asked.
He exhaled sharply. “With respect, she’s just a woman.”
The room went still.
I placed my glass down.
“And you,” I said quietly, “are just a man.”
Ricci swallowed.
“You mistake visibility for vulnerability,” I continued. “When I seat someone at my right, I declare position. Protection. Authority.”
He opened his mouth again. And that was his final mistake.
I nodded once.
One of my men stepped forward and forced Ricci’s right hand flat onto a low table between us.
“What are you—” he began.
I drew the blade from inside my jacket. I didn’t shout nor performed any theatrics. I simply corrected the man.
“You forgot the rules,” I told him.
The blade came down cleanly. Bone gave way with resistance, then release.
His scream tore through the villa, echoing against the stone walls. Blood spilled all over the table.
I wrapped the severed ring finger in a white linen napkin from the table.
“You will return to your territory tomorrow,” I said over his ragged breathing. “And you will explain why you are missing a finger.”
He sobbed, clutching his hand.
“You will say you forgot the rules. You will say I reminded you.”
I leaned closer.
“If you ever speak her name again, I will take the hand.”
He nodded frantically.
Matthew then signalled for medical attention. It wasn’t a form of mercy , but stability.
Ricci would live, but he would also remember.
By the time I left Villa Three, the island was quiet again. The helicopters were gone. The remaining guests were settled in their respective villas, guarded but comfortable.
Order restored.
I did not go to my own suite immediately. Instead, I walked toward the main house where she had been assigned the east-wing suite overlooking the cliffside gardens.
The hallway lights were dimmed to evening setting. The staff moved discreetly. No one met my eyes.
I knocked once, and there was no answer. But I entered anyway.
Jasmine was standing near the open balcony doors, the ocean wind moving through her hair. The chains of her altered outfit caught the light faintly.
She turned at the sound of the door closing.
“Is there a problem?” she asked quietly.
I placed a small black velvet box on the glass table between us.
She frowned. “What is that?”
“Open it.”
She hesitated.
Then she did.
Her expression shifted the moment she saw what lay inside.
Wrapped neatly with white linen.
She stepped back slightly. “What the hell—”
“No one speaks about you that way,” I said.
Her eyes lifted to mine slowly. “That man at dinner.”
“Yes.”
“You cut off his finger?”
“I corrected him.”
She stared at me, confused.
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
She looked back at the box.
Her jaw tightened. “You turned me into a warning.”
“I turned you into a boundary.”
She held my gaze. There was no fear in her eyes now.
“I could handle myself, Nikolai. I didn’t need you. He tested me.”
“No! Tonight they tested me,” I yelled. “You stood alone.”
She didn’t deny it.
I took in a deep breath. “But understand this,” I continued. “You may fight your battles.”
I stepped closer.
“But I end them.”
Then I closed the box. “As long as you’re La Prescelta, no one touches you, no one insults you, and absolutely no one, questions your seat.”
Jasmine swallowed a lump in her throat as I advanced closer, merely inches apart.
“And now, every man who had sat at that table understands something clearly. La Prescelta is not a decoration. You are protected. And anyone who forgets would pay in blood.”