Mrs Mafia and her Boss-baby

Chapter 12

Silvestro’s POV

The chandeliers burned gold above the table, bathing every polished surface in light sharp enough to cut. Around me sat my capos, lieutenants, and cousins — my wolves — all dressed in civility and distrust. And at the far end of the table, beside me, sat my wife.

Lavinia Ricci. Lillie.

Her presence was a weapon in itself.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. She sat straight-backed, her eyes half-lidded but alert, drinking in every motion like she owned the air. Her black silk dress caught the light every time she shifted, reminding every man at that table that she was not mere decoration.

“My brothers,” I began, my voice calm, steady. “You’ve all heard the news. The alliance between the Marciano and Ricci families is sealed. Tonight is a celebration of unity, loyalty, and strength.”

Someone laughed softly. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Elena.

She lounged across from Lavinia, her smile sweet and venomous, “Unity, certainly. But strength? I wonder whose.”

A few chuckles rippled through the table, testing me. I said nothing. I didn’t need to.

Lavinia turned her head slightly, her tone smooth as oil, “Whichever side doesn’t crumble first.”

The laughter died instantly.

I hid the corner of a smirk behind my glass. She knew exactly what she was doing, holding her ground without asking for my protection. I admired that. Most women I’d known would’ve melted under this table’s gaze; Lavinia met it head-on, like it was another war she planned to win.

Throughout the meal, she played their game with precision. Every time one of my men slipped a condescending remark, she answered with wit sharp enough to draw blood but never enough to spill it. She was careful. Tactical. Dangerous.

And it unsettled them.

I could feel the discomfort radiating around the table… Men who’d spent their lives speaking without being challenged, now forced to measure their words. I liked it more than I should have.

Elena, of course, couldn’t let it go, “You’re very composed, Signora Marciano. I suppose you learned diplomacy from your father.”

The silence that followed was heavier than lead.

Lavinia smiled, but her eyes didn’t, “No. I learned it from burying him.”

Every man at the table froze. Even I looked at her. Her voice hadn’t wavered; she’d spoken the words like a toast.

Elena blinked, then looked down, defeated in one move.

The conversation limped on after that, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I was watching my wife… Still feels weird calling her that.

She wasn’t just a queen among men; she was one who knew when to play saint and when to play executioner.

The dinner dragged until the clock struck ten. When I stood, the room obeyed, chairs scraping in unison.

“Good evening,” I said, letting my gaze sweep over them. “We’ve had enough politics for one night. Tomorrow we will talk about business.”

They left one by one, murmuring polite farewells, but I could read the uncertainty in their eyes. They didn’t know whether to fear me or the woman beside me.

Good. Let them fear both.

***

When the hall emptied, I turned to Elena.

She stood by the wall, still pale from Lavinia’s strike. “A word,” I said.

Her chin lifted. “Of course, cugino.”

We walked into the corridor, our footsteps echoing against marble. The scent of her perfume was familiar, sweet. She then turned to me with a practiced smile.

“You’ve changed,” she said lightly. “You’re softer with her.”

I stopped walking. “Careful, Elena.”

“She’ll ruin you,” she pressed, her voice dripping with the same poison she’d been born with. “These people don’t respect outsiders. A woman—”

I cut her off with a glance, “You forget yourself.”

She blinked, feigning innocence, “I’m only saying—”

“I said,” I repeated, lower now, “forget yourself.”

The air between us turned to ice. For the first time, I saw fear flicker behind her eyes.

“Stay in your lane,” I continued quietly. “She is under my protection. You will treat her as such.”

Her lips parted slightly, confusion, then realization, “You’re defending her.”

“I’m defending order,” I said. “And order begins with silence.”

I walked away before she could answer.

***

Hours later, I sat alone in my study. The house was silent now, the kind of silence that only followed a gathering of predators.

A glass of bourbon sweated in my hand. Papers lay open before me, reports from Naples, Palermo, and the southern ports. Numbers, dates, codes, the language of my world.

Then Damiano entered, closing the door behind him.

“Speak,” I said.

He placed a file on my desk, “A shipment was hit in Naples. Two trucks, both ours. They were carrying ammunition and new communications gear.”

I creased my brows, “Who?”

“Unknown. But the pattern matches activity from Sicily. Nestore Ricci’s people.”

Of course it did.

I leaned back, fingers steepled, “He’s testing boundaries.”

Damiano nodded, “Do we retaliate?”

“Not yet.” I closed the file. “Increase surveillance. Quietly. I want to know who his contacts are in Naples and who helped him cross that far.”

“Yes, Don.”

He hesitated before leaving, “Should I inform the Signora?”

I looked up at him, “No.”

“She’ll find out eventually.”

“Let her,” I said, picking up my glass again. “By then, I’ll know what she intends to do with the knowledge.”

He nodded and left.

When the door closed, I exhaled slowly. Keeping things from her wasn’t strategy, it was instinct. She was too intelligent, too unpredictable. The less she knew, the less power she had over me.

Or so I told myself.

I finished the drink, set the glass down, and made my way upstairs. The corridors were dim now, moonlight spilling through the tall windows, painting the floors silver.

Our room door was ajar.

I stepped inside silently.

She was asleep, or pretending to be. Her breathing was steady, shoulders rising and falling in rhythm. The lamp on her side of the bed was still on, casting a soft glow across her face.

For a moment, I just looked at her. Even in sleep, she looked alert—one hand resting near her pillow, the faint outline of a pistol visible beneath it.

Of course.

I couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at my mouth.

“My kind of woman,” I murmured under my breath.

I turned off the lamp and slid into my side of the bed, careful not to disturb her.

For a moment, I just looked at her. Even in sleep, she looked alert—one hand resting near her pillow, the faint outline of a pistol visible beneath it.

Of course.

I couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at my mouth.

“My kind of woman,” I murmured under my breath.

I turned off the lamp and slid into my side of the bed, careful not to disturb her.

For a while, silence. Only the soft hum of the city through the open window, the whisper of her breathing beside me. I shut my eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Something about her stillness wasn’t right—too measured, too even.

Then, barely audible, fabric shifted.

A flicker of light from the window caught steel.

Her voice came, low and lethal, right beside my ear.

“I could end you right now and go home.”

I opened my eyes. The knife was pressed against my throat, her hand steady as marble.

‘Is this woman crazy?’ I froze.