First message
Three days had passed since we buried the Don, and already his daughter sat upon the throne he had spent a lifetime preparing for her.
I had served her father for eleven years. I came to him at eighteen with blood on my knuckles, no family, and an appetite for survival. By twenty-five, I stood at his right hand. I negotiated his disputes, silenced his enemies, and carried out orders other men lacked the stomach to hear. Sicily knew my name because his power stood behind it.
Now that power belonged to her.
She had been raised for this. While other daughters were hidden from ugly business, the Don taught his heir to command it. Capos twice her age now lowered their heads when she entered. Hundreds of men waited upon her word. Ports, businesses, politicians, soldiers—an empire rested beneath her hand.
And I stood at her right.
She had hardly stopped working since the funeral. Grief had to wait until the family was secure. Typical of her. I told myself that was why I climbed the stairs to her chambers overlooking the Ionian Sea.
To check on my Donna.
Certainly nothing more than that.
I stopped before the doors and adjusted my cuffs. I could face a room of armed men without my pulse changing, yet standing outside her chambers made restraint feel like a physical thing.
I knocked twice, low.
Donna? My voice even. Always even for her. It’s Santino.
A long pause.
I rested one hand behind my back and stared at the door.
I wanted to see if you needed anything.