Page 19 of Depths of Hunger

My hands shake as we drive. Angelo sits beside me in the back of the limo, tense and silent. Renzo is on the side seat, deep in conversation, his voice low and authoritative. Paulie Hams is driving, his massive hands gripping the wheel. It’s easy to see where he got the nickname. His hands are the biggest I’ve ever seen—pudgy, but strong, like two slabs of meat. He’s Renzo’s man, loyal to his boss, indifferent to me, just like the rest of them. I’m slowly learning their names and loyalties, but none of those allegiances are to me.

Renzo speaks in a language I don’t understand, his tone clipped and urgent. There’s a lot I don’t understand. Like why my husband started to have sex with me, and then left me half-naked and dripping with need in the wine cellar without so much as a backward glance. Or why he left suddenly for Venice. Just vanished for a whole fucking week without a word. Or why I have two small punctures that are now healing on my neck. Did Renzo bite me? I remember the pain, but if he did, why aren’t there more teeth marks? It’s not like he has fangs. I rub my face with both hands, trying to push the confusion away. I want my husband, and yet he doesn’t seem to want me. And why the hell am I even going to this meeting now that he’s out of prison? I want to be involved in running things but that’s not whyRenzo has me here. He’s not going to hand over any kind of control to me. Pity. I’m fucking brilliant and he should let me be a part of things. His loss.

I squeeze my hands together in my lap.

Angelo notices. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

His fake concern makes me want to gag. “Fine,” I lie. He’s still not my biggest fan, but he’s doing his job because it’s what Renzo wants, and what Renzo wants, Angelo does without question.

“We’re almost there. You know what you’ve gotta say if anyone asks you anything?” His dismissive tone suggests no one will ask a mere wife jackshit. The truth is, that is most likely what will happen, and it grates.

“Yes.” We’ve gone over it at least twenty times. “I remind them that I’m mafia royalty because I’m a Giordano. That Renzo will be back as soon as he can be, and I’m just here to maintain the status quo in his absence. He’ll run things through me, but it’s still Renzo in charge, even if he’s in prison.”

“Exactly.”

I keep my voice low as I ask, “Do you really think Renzo will go to prison?”

Angelo rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking nervously. He shrugs. “I hope not, but things… they aren’t looking good. Just let Renzo run things, and if it becomes necessary, you say everything we’ve gone over, and then we’ll get outta there. We don’t want to hang around and give them a chance to cause us trouble. It’s status quo. They’ll be okay with that for a bit.”

Not very comforting. None of this is. This situation, my life, a nightmare I can’t seem to wake from, can’t find a way out.

The car stops in front of our destination. I spy an ancient villa through the tinted windows; imposing, old, and foreboding. The weathered stone walls seem to lean with the weight of centuries. Ivy crawls over its surface like twisted veins, and most of the windows are dark, cracked, and boarded up, giving the impression of an abandoned fortress rather than a residence. The grounds are overgrown, weeds choking the once-manicured paths, and the faint glow of distantstreetlights barely penetrates the thick mist that wraps around the structure like a shroud.

Paulie Hams gets out and opens the door on my side. Renzo slides out first, followed by Angelo. I struggle to move across the seat, but Renzo is already striding away, and Paulie doesn’t offer a hand. His message is clear: You’re Renzo’s wife, not my boss. Angelo’s glare is just as dismissive. I’m just the wife—meant to be seen and not heard unless absolutely necessary.

Albert, the butler, stands as a stark contrast to the rest of Renzo’s crew. He’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like an inconvenience, and for that, I’m grateful. Living in Renzo’s house is disorienting enough without having to fend for myself, but Albert makes sure I don’t have to cook or clean. The main bedroom is mine because it’s where the head of the household sleeps, as Albert had pointed out. I don’t get to choose where I lay my head; I either belong to the head of the house, or I am the head. There’s no middle ground.

I pull up the collar of my black coat against the chill. The night is dark, and the mist clings to everything and soaks into my bones. Renzo finishes his call and moves toward an ancient metal door set into the side of the villa. The door is rusted, heavy, and looks like it hasn’t been opened in decades. Angelo lets out what sounds like an uneasy breath as Renzo opens it and steps inside.

We proceed down a long hallway lined with crumbling stone, the air thick with the scent of damp and decay. The lighting is dim, with only a few flickering sconces mounted on the walls, casting eerie shadows that dance with each step we take. The stone floor is uneven and cold beneath my feet, and I feel it through the thin soles of my shoes as our footsteps echo in the silence. At the end of the hall, we pass through another door into a cavernous room that might once have been a ballroom. The ceiling arches high above us, lost in darkness, and the walls are lined with faded murals that hint at a long-forgotten grandeur.

A large table dominates the center of the room, illuminated by a handful of overhead lights that barely pierce the gloom. The windows are draped in heavy red velvet that pools on the stone floor,suffocating any noise in the space, and adding to the overall gloom. I spot security men lurking in the shadows, their figures little more than silhouettes in the dim light.

Renzo strides to the table with a predatory grace, and there’s something in the way he moves that sends a chill racing down my spine—smooth, deliberate, dangerous. A devil or a monster. My breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet. For a fleeting moment, I think I see sharp, pointed canines, but when I blink, they’re gone. I must be losing my mind.

Six men are seated around the table, each of them head of their own faction within what is now the Valdici family. Renzo’s chair is at the head, with another empty seat near the far end—Riccardo Garibaldi’s old place. I’d heard rumors that Renzo killed him at our wedding, confirmed by the tearful exit of Rico’s wife and son. I’m glad I didn’t find out until much later; I’m not sure I would’ve gone home with Renzo had I known.

There’s no chair for me, no greeting other than cold indifference. Renzo moves his chair out of the way, and stands near the table, bold, commanding, and absolutely magnificent.

My heart pounds for a variety of reasons, my blood rushing in my ears, but I keep my expression blank as I take my place behind Renzo on his left, praying my legs don’t give out. Angelo stands to Renzo’s right, symbolic of his position.

I take in the men around the table: Giuseppe, Big Tony, Carmine Colucci, Bobby Sticks, Luigi Catelli, and Paolo Lombardi. Each man commands his own territory, with alliances that shift like sand. Luigi didn’t attend our wedding because his wife is dying of cancer; he spends all his time with her, and there are no children to take over when he’s gone which is why he’s so close to Pippa. Despite his personal tragedy, Luigi runs his territory with an iron fist.

Giuseppe eyes me, his fingers fidgeting with nervous energy, his leg bouncing under the table. Tall and thin, he looks more like a frazzled accountant than a mob boss, but his sharp mind keeps him one step ahead.

Beside him, Big Tony is a massive figure, his scowl a permanentfixture, and together they rule Milan. They own it, and no one challenges them—not even the Albanians.

Renzo clears his throat. “Gentlemen.” His voice cuts through the tense silence. “Thank you for coming.” His tone is polite, but the message is clear: miss a meeting, and it could be your last. The empty chair appears to serve as a reminder of what happens when you cross Renzo.

“Not like we really had a choice,” Bobby Sticks mutters, his voice carrying a defiant edge. He’s a hard man with thinning gray hair and cold eyes that miss nothing. His challenge sends a ripple of unease through the room.

Even I know that if anyone tries to test Renzo here, it will end in blood.

Renzo props his fingertips on the table to lean forward and glare at Bobby. “I know you’re all concerned about my recent…troubles. I want to reassure you that everything is under control. There will be no disruptions.”

“What the hell is going on, Renzo?” Colucci demands. Heavyset and tough, with a fringe of white hair and a constant cigarette dangling from his lips, he’s as blunt as they come.

Renzo straightens and appears to weigh his words. “Someone thinks they can pin the Russo murder on me. Take me out of the game. That is unlikely to happen.”

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