Chapter 14
1399 Words
Lavinia’s POV
The sun had barely climbed over the tiled roofs when I stepped into the courtyard.
Men were already at work—voices raised, boots scraping stone, the metallic clatter of crates being loaded. The smell of oil and gunpowder hung in the air. It wasn’t a place anyone expected to see me, but that was exactly why I came.
The moment I walked in, silence rolled across the yard like a slow wave. Some men stopped mid-task, pretending not to stare. Others looked outright confused. They weren’t used to a woman walking their ground—definitely not the new Signora Marciano.
I didn’t care.
“Good morning,” I said, not because I meant it, but because silence begged to be broken. “Who oversees the shipment logs?”
They exchanged uncertain glances until one of them, a heavyset guard with a scar down his cheek, pointed toward a bald officer by the warehouse door.
I approached him. “You keep the records?”
He hesitated, glancing toward the house as though permission lived there. “Y-yes, Signora. Did you need something?”
“The ledger,” I said.
He blinked. “You want to see the logs?”
My patience was already thinning. “Would I have asked if I didn’t?”
He swallowed hard and handed me the book. The handwriting was neat—rows of figures, route codes, supplier names. At first glance, it looked perfect. But patterns don’t lie. One entry caught my eye, small, hidden at the bottom of a page: Palermo. Shell account.
Nestore.
I traced the number with a finger. “Who approved this transfer?”
He shifted uneasily. “Mr. Russo, Signora. Under… orders.”
“Whose orders?”
He looked down. “We don’t ask.”
“That’s your first mistake.”
He looked at me, nervous, trying to gauge whether I was serious. I closed the ledger and handed it back. “Delete that line from your copy and bring me the full document by evening. And this conversation never happened.”
“Yes, Signora.”
He nodded quickly, the book trembling in his hands. I turned and walked away, leaving him with that nervous look that always came right before respect.
By noon, I had walked through every corridor of the business wing. The offices were dim, filled with the smell of ink, old wood, and ambition. Men paused when I entered, greeted me politely, but I saw the same flicker of disbelief in every glance. I wasn’t supposed to belong here.
Let them think that. I’d rather be underestimated than feared too soon.
By the time I finished, the energy of the room had shifted. The laughter had quieted. Eyes followed, not mocking now—calculating. That was enough for the first day.
…
Dinner came late. The table was long, too long. The air smelled of wine and tension. Every seat was filled—capos, cousins, lieutenants—all waiting for Silvestro to speak.
He sat at the head, calm as ever, fingers resting loosely on his glass.
I waited too, until the silence grew uncomfortable. Then I said, “I found something interesting in the logs today.”
Heads turned. Forks paused midair.
“A sequence of transfers that don’t align with the main routes. Palermo, mostly. Through a shell account that doesn’t belong there.”
Elena’s eyes flicked toward me from across the table. She didn’t blink.
Silvestro looked up slowly. “You’ve been reviewing ledgers?”
“Someone has to,” I said lightly. “Your accountant isn’t very good with numbers.”
A few uneasy chuckles moved around the table.
He smiled, the kind of smile that looked polite but wasn’t. “And what conclusion have you come to, wife?”
“That Nestore’s people have their hands in your accounts.”
Silvestro’s smile faded just a little, though his eyes stayed cold. “Nestore again,” he said. “You seem obsessed with ghosts.”
“I prefer to face them before they stop breathing,” I said.
The air shifted. No one dared to move.
He set down his glass slowly. “You should let the men handle the numbers, Lavinia. It’s not your concern.”
The words landed like small stones in a still pond. Elena’s smirk spread. The others lowered their eyes.
I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. I just looked at him, calm but sharp. “Of course,” I said finally, voice flat. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the men by doing their work too well.”
He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might say something. But he didn’t.
The rest of dinner passed in brittle politeness. Laughter that wasn’t real. Smiles that meant nothing. I couldn’t wait to leave.
When the plates were cleared, I stood. “A word,” I said.
Silvestro followed me into the hall. The door closed behind us with a sharp click.
“What was that?” I asked, turning on him.
He raised a brow. “What was what?”
“Undermining me in front of your men.”
“I corrected you,” he said calmly. “You were speculating in public. That doesn’t show strength—it shows carelessness.”
“It shows awareness,” I snapped. “You’d rather I keep quiet and look pretty, is that it?”
His tone stayed even. “You’re new here, Lavinia. You can’t challenge me like that at the table.”
“I can and I will,” I said, stepping closer. “You think I married you to sit in your shadow?”
He met my glare without flinching. “No. You married me because you needed to survive.”
I stared at him, my pulse sharp in my throat. “And you think that makes you my savior?”
He took a small step forward. “No. It makes me your reality.”
The air between us grew hot and tight. The sound of distant laughter from the dining room felt miles away.
“Careful,” I said softly. “You’re starting to believe your own myth.”
“And you’re starting to think you can live outside it,” he said, just as calm.
I moved without thinking. My hand came up—he caught my wrist halfway.
“Don’t,” he said, voice low.
“Let me go.”
He didn’t. His grip was firm, steady, infuriatingly gentle.
“You don’t give me orders,” I hissed.
“I give them to everyone,” he said. “You’re not the exception.”
That was when I hit him.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t elegant. It was just one clean strike that landed hard enough to make him step back.
He touched his lip, looked at the faint blood on his fingers, then laughed once, short and disbelieving.
Before either of us could speak, the door opened.
“What in God’s name—”
Grandma Gim’s voice sliced through the air. Her silver hair was tied tight, her eyes sharp as glass.
“Are you two feral cats?” she snapped. “The servants can hear you down the hall.”
I said nothing. Silvestro stayed silent too, wiping his lip with his sleeve.
Her tone softened, though her eyes didn’t. “Love and power cannot live under the same roof. Remember that before you destroy the walls around you.”
She turned and walked away.
For a moment, the silence between us felt heavier than before.
Silvestro looked at me, that faint smirk tugging at his mouth again. “You’re getting better at surprises,” he said quietly.
“Good,” I answered. “You should expect more.”
I turned to leave, but before I could reach the door, he said, almost casually, “You missed one thing in those ledgers.”
I stopped. “What?”
He looked at me over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “A transfer that didn’t come from Palermo. It came from New York.”
The room seemed to still.
“What are you implying?” I asked slowly.
He just smiled faintly, wiped the last trace of blood from his lip, and said, “You tell me.”
Then he walked away, leaving me alone in the quiet hall, the echo of his words burning louder than any argument.
- Writer
