The Weight of Knowing

The next day, Don Giovanni sat behind his massive desk, candlelight flickering across the dark wood panels of his study. The air was thick with the scent of wax, old leather, and aged paper. A servant appeared silently, carrying a thick envelope sealed with crimson wax. Giovanni’s eyes narrowed before the man even spoke.

The Santoro crest.

He broke the seal slowly, deliberately, the movement precise, almost ritualistic. Inside, the handwriting was unmistakably Vittorio’s—controlled, disciplined, deliberate.

Letter from Don Vittorio Santoro to Don Giovanni Valenti

To Don Giovanni Valenti,

A matter concerning the balance between our families requires a direct conversation.

The meeting will take place at the eastern docks warehouse, at midnight.

Attendance will be limited for security reasons.

Each family will be represented by:

- the head of the family,
- up to two accompanying members for counsel and continuity,
- and one additional asset not formally registered within the family hierarchy.

No names will be exchanged prior to the meeting.

This condition ensures discretion. If the meeting is compromised, official lines of succession remain untouched.

Weapons will be limited to personal sidearms only.

This meeting is not a provocation. It is an opportunity to prevent one.

— Don Vittorio Santoro

Giovanni’s lips tightened.

A Santoro meeting. Framed as business. Structured like negotiation. Designed like a trap.

He didn’t need to read between the lines to understand the “additional asset.” Someone expendable. Someone deniable. Someone who could disappear if things went wrong.

Giovanni stood and rang for Marco, Bella, and Luca.

When they arrived, he placed the letter flat on the desk, the red wax catching the candlelight like a warning. He looked at them carefully.

“This,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is not an ordinary request. Everything must be controlled. Nothing goes wrong.”

Bella’s fingers twitched at the edge of the desk, already calculating angles, exits, contingencies. Marco’s gaze lingered on the Santoro seal as if sheer focus could reveal the trap.

“Eastern docks. Midnight,” Marco muttered. “They’re either testing us… or setting the stage. Either way, we need to be ready for anything.”

Giovanni leaned back, steepling his fingers. The letter sat on the desk like a loaded gun.

“I will attend myself,” he said, voice measured, heavy with authority. “This is my responsibility. And Bella, Marco… you will go with me. Carefully. Represent this family.”

Bella straightened, jaw tight, eyes glinting. “Understood.”

Marco nodded silently, expression unreadable. “I’ll be there. To watch, to act if necessary.”

Giovanni’s gaze moved finally to Luca, seated quietly in the corner, alert, still as a shadow.

“And he,” Giovanni said, gesturing toward Luca, “comes with you.”

Bella flicked a glance at Luca. Just a flicker. “Understood.”

Giovanni nodded once. “All four of us. Discretion. No mistakes. Remember, this meeting happens under Santoro terms. One false move—”

He didn’t finish. The unspoken threat hung thick in the room.

Luca met Giovanni’s eyes without flinching. He didn’t speak.

Inside, something clicked into place.

They know.
They know where I am.

Relief and caution surged simultaneously. Relief, because they were coming for him. Caution, because this wasn’t a rescue. This was extraction. One misstep could turn it into carnage.

Vittorio and Alessia knew he was alive. They wanted him back. But one wrong breath, one slip of control, and this wouldn’t be a reunion—it would be a bloodbath.

Later, alone in his room, Luca exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey the rules he had learned to survive by.

Wait. Watch. Act only when necessary.

The door opened without knocking. Bella stepped inside, a gun held palm-up, offered like a token and a challenge.

“Why do I have to go with you?” Luca asked quietly, voice steady.

She didn’t blink. “Because you have no choice. We need you there.”

Softer, almost to herself, “I hate these meetings. They almost always go wrong.”

Luca’s gaze shifted to the city beyond the window. He didn’t need to speak. He knew it too well.

It will go wrong.
Because when she sees who I really am…

He took the gun from her hand. His fingers brushed hers. The contact lingered—a silent spark in the air.

“Stay close,” Bella said, voice firm. “Watch. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He nodded faintly.

She stepped closer, close enough to make him aware of every heartbeat between them.

“I know I shouldn’t,” she whispered, voice threaded with fear and desire, “but maybe after this… one of us won’t be alive.”

“Don’t say that,” Luca murmured, steady, though his chest tightened.

Her hands pressed against his chest, heat rolling off her. Too close. Too intimate.

“Bella,” he said quietly, lifting a hand between them, open palm. Not harsh. Just a line. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know,” she replied softly. “That’s not what I asked.”

She moved again. Slow. Calculated. Daring him to pull back.

“This isn’t smart,” he said, firmer now.

Her lips curved faintly. Dangerous. “Since when do you care about smart?”

That broke him. Not because she was right, but because she wasn’t afraid. Because she chose him anyway.

He dropped his hand.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said.

She stepped fully into his space, palm settling over his heartbeat.

“Then stop thinking,” she murmured. “Just for a moment.”

He should have moved. Santoro blood demanded it. War demanded it. Strategy demanded it.

Instead, he stayed.

When she leaned in, he turned his head slightly at the last second, guiding the kiss to his cheek—weak restraint, nearly symbolic.

“Bella,” he warned.

Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth.

That was enough.

His control fractured. His hand came up, not to push her away, but to steady her, fingers curling against her jaw. The kiss deepened—reckless, heated, undeniable.

He broke it first. Breath uneven, forehead resting against hers.

“This is a mistake,” he whispered.

“Then make sure we survive it,” she replied.

Of course she would.

“Stay alive,” he said, low, dangerous. “No matter what happens tonight.”

Bella gave a faint nod. Her gaze softened, and she whispered, “You too… stay alive.”

Then she stepped back.

At the door, she paused. “We move in ten.”

Luca watched her go, jaw tight.

Santoro or not. Enemy or not.

This wasn’t just dangerous anymore.

It was personal.