Page 5 of The Don's Eternal Vows

And then, we fall asleep, our hands intertwined, one soul, two bodies.

Chapter 2

Gianni

I sit behind my desk, fingers tracing the edges of the stack of papers in front of me. The smallest of disturbances makes my way - footsteps - and my eyes snap to the door. My men file in, faces grim, shoulders tense.

I already know something is wrong.

"Boss," Marco steps forward, his usual swagger replaced by a hesitant shuffle. "We've got a problem."

I raise an eyebrow. "Speak."

He swallows hard. "The guns we just delivered to Esposito. They're fakes."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My mind races, possibilities unfolding like a twisted chessboard. "How many?"

"All of them. The entire shipment."

Fuck. That shipment is worth millions. I keep my face impassive, but inside, I'm seething. Someone's trying to play me. Big mistake.

"Details," I demand, my voice low and controlled. "Every last one."

As Marco speaks, I'm already plotting. This isn't just about the guns. It's a challenge. To my authority. My family. Everything I've built.

Someone thinks they can steal right from under our noses. Or could it be that the counterfeits were sent by error?

I listen, cataloging each word, each nervous glance between my men. They're scared. Good. Fear keeps them loyal. But it's not enough. Not for this.

"And the supplier?" I ask, cutting through Marco's rambling.

He shakes his head. "Vanished. Like smoke."

I clench my jaw, feeling the familiar burn of anger ignite in my chest. Someone's daring to undermine me. Big mistake. Huge.

"Get me everything on the supplier," I growl, my voice barely above a whisper. "Every contact he might have, every whisper, every goddamn sneeze related to this shipment. Now."

Some of the men scramble, fear etched on their faces. Marco stays behind.

I need more. A thread to pull, a loose end to unravel this whole mess. "The trucks," I snap. "Who drove them? When? Where'd they stop?"

As Marco answers, I'm already three steps ahead. This isn't some random hiccup. It's calculated. Personal.

"Genoveva," I bark, not bothering to look up. "Get her. Now."

Marco freezes. He knows. When I call for her, shit's about to get real.

Moments later, she glides in like a rose—dressed in a beautiful burgundy skirt and blazer, small golden hoops in her ears, and a Cartier bracelet on her wrist. Her hair is loose, in soft waves down her shoulder, and her face is pristine. She looks soft, yet is anything but.

The air shifts like a storm front rolling in. Genoveva. Just having her by my side makes the problem more manageable.

Her eyes meet mine, and we have a silent conversation. She takes in the room, the tension, the fear. With a slight nod, she understands.

"Gentlemen," she purrs, her voice soft as silk, sharp as a blade. "It seems we have a situation."

I watch Genoveva intently as she listens, her hazel eyes narrowing to slits. She's processing and dissecting every word. I can almost see the gears turning behind her eyes. Eyes that have seen more than most could handle. That is why she is my consigliere - even though we’ve never put a title to it.

"I inspected that shipment myself," she says, her voice low but firm. A hint of a stutter catches in her throat, so slight only I would notice. She's rattled but hiding it well. "Those guns were genuine. I'd stake my life on it."

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