Chapter 10 Chapter Ten
LILA
The black dress was more than just silk and thread. It was a statement of intent. As I pulled it over my head, the fabric clung to every curve, revealing just enough to be dangerous but keeping the rest under lock and key. I didn't wear the veil this time. I left my hair down, the dark waves falling over my shoulders like a shroud. I looked in the mirror and didn't see the dancer from Club Nero anymore. I saw the woman who had survived a sniper’s bullet and a mafia don’t bed in the same twenty-four hours.
I reached behind my back, feeling the hard edge of the satellite phone tucked into the waistband of my lace underwear. It was uncomfortable, but the weight reminded me that I had a life outside this villa, even if that life was currently a series of encrypted messages and unanswered questions.
The door opened without a knock. Matteo walked in, fully dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than my father’s apartment. He looked at me, his gaze traveling from my bare feet to the locket hidden beneath my neckline. He didn't ask about the locket. He didn't have to. We both knew the safe had been breached.
"The car is waiting," he said. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a restlessness that hadn't been there before the hit.
"Palermo," I said, testing the word. It felt like a lifetime since I had walked those streets as a free woman. "What happens if I try to jump out of the car?"
Matteo stepped closer, his hand coming up to tilt my chin toward him. "Then the men following us in the SUV will have orders to run you over. I’d rather not get blood on the upholstery, Lila. It’s custom leather."
He wasn't joking. I could see the cold calculation in his eyes. He didn't love me. He didn't even like me yet. He was obsessed with the idea of me, the Moreno girl, the debt, the flame.
"Let’s go," I said, pulling away from his touch.
We walked down the grand staircase together. Agata was standing in the foyer, holding a small black clutch bag. She handed it to me without a word. I opened it and found a lipstick, a compact, and a small, silver-handled stiletto knife.
I looked at Matteo.
"Every Russo woman carries one," he said, his expression unreadable. "Consider it a wedding gift. If anyone but me touches you today, use it."
I slid the knife into the bag and tucked the bag under my arm. We stepped out into the bright Sicilian sun. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and sea salt. A fleet of black armored SUVs sat idling on the gravel driveway. Men in suits and sunglasses stood at attention, their hands near their holsters.
Matteo led me to the middle vehicle. A guard opened the door, and we slid into the cool, air-conditioned interior. The windows were tinted so dark the world outside looked like a faded photograph.
As the car pulled away, the villa shrinking in the rearview mirror, Matteo opened a compartment in the armrest and pulled out a tablet. He began scrolling through files, photos of men, maps of shipping docks, and bank ledgers.
"The council meeting is at the Palazzo dei Normanni," he said, not looking at me. "The heads of the five families will be there. They want to know if the Russo-Moreno union is a sign of peace or a declaration of war."
"And which is it?" I asked, watching his thumb swipe across the screen.
"It’s a takeover," he said. "The Moreno name still carries weight with the older generation. They remember your grandfather. They remember the way he handled the unions in the seventies. By taking you, I’m claiming a legacy they thought was dead."
"My grandfather was a union leader," I said. "Not a criminal."
Matteo finally looked at me, a sharp, cynical glint in his eyes. "In Palermo, Lila, there is no difference. One man calls it a union, another calls it a cartel. It’s all about who owns the hands that do the work."
I leaned back against the leather seat, watching the Sicilian countryside blur past. Vineyards, olive groves, and ancient stone walls. It was beautiful and brutal, much like the man sitting next to me.
I thought about the "Tokyo" message. I needed to know if the other families knew about the global reach of the Russos.
"Who are the Valentis?" I asked.
Matteo’s jaw tightened. "Vittorio Valenti is a relic. He thinks the old ways, the handshakes, the omertà, the slow poison, are still enough. He hates me because I brought in technology. I brought in logistics. I made the Russos a corporation while he was still counting cash in a basement."
"And the hit? Was that him?"
"Most likely. But Vittorio doesn't move alone. He’s a scavenger. He waits for a lion to roar before he tries to steal the kill. Someone gave him the green light."
The car entered the outskirts of Palermo. The narrow, winding streets were crowded with Vespas and fruit stalls. People looked at the black SUVs with a mixture of fear and practiced indifference. They knew who was inside. They knew to keep their heads down.
We pulled up to a massive, sun-bleached stone palace. The Palazzo dei Normanni was a fortress of history, its walls holding centuries of secrets. Guards in formal uniforms stood at the gates, but they stepped aside the moment they saw the Russo crest on the lead car.
Matteo got out first and reached for my hand. I took it, stepping out onto the cobblestones. The heat hit me like a physical weight, but I kept my back straight.
We were led through a series of high-ceilinged corridors, past mosaics of saints and kings, into a private chamber at the heart of the palace. The room was circular, with a massive oak table in the center. Five men were already seated. They were all older, their faces etched with the lines of a lifetime of hard choices.
Don Vittorio sat at the far end. He was thin, with skin like parchment and eyes that looked like cold marbles. He watched us enter with a predatory stillness.
Matteo didn't wait for an invitation. He pulled out a chair for me, then sat down at the head of the table.
"Gentlemen," Matteo said, his voice echoing in the stone room. "I believe you’ve all heard the news. Lila Moreno is now a Russo."
A murmur went around the table. One man, a heavy-set Don with a thick mustache, leaned forward. "A bold move, Matteo. But the Moreno debt remains. Three million is a lot of blood to wash away with a wedding ring."