Part One
Chapter One
MIGUEL CANNIZZARO HADbuilt an empire on reading men’s souls through their eyes, and right now his eldest son’s eyes were dead as winter stone.
“No.”
One word. Flat. Final. The same tone Aivan had used since Paulette’s funeral twenty-three years ago, when a five-year-old boy watched his mother’s casket disappear into Sicilian earth and decided feelings were for people who could afford to break.
Miguel traced the rim of his espresso cup. Selena’s blend was bitter-dark with notes of chocolate she swore came from prayers, not beans. He noticed but was not surprised that his son hadn’t touched his. The boy never accepted anything he hadn’t earned himself. Even coffee.
“You misunderstand.” Business voice. The one that had negotiated peace between warring families and million-euro property deals with equal ease. “This isn’t a request.”
From the doorway, Selena watched. His wife had a gift for stillness that made most people forget she was there. But Miguel always knew. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him to feel her presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
Tell him about the list,her eyes urged.Tell him why.
But Miguel knew his son. Push too hard, too fast, and Aivan would walk out that door and never return. Just like he’d done at eighteen when Miguel tried to bring him into the family business.
“Olivio sends his regards from Toronto.” Miguel shifted tactics, watching for any crack in his son’s facade. “Closed another high-rise deal. Twenty million profit.”
“Good for him.”
Three words this time. Progress.
“Your brother understands loyalty to family.”
Aivan’s jaw tightened, a movement so small most would miss it, but Miguel had been reading his son’s tells since the boy learned to hide them. “Olivio’s loyalty comes with a real estate license and a talent for making money grow like weeds. Mine comes with staying out of the family business. I thought we agreed on that when I turned eighteen.”
“We agreed you could race.” Miguel set down his cup. The clink against saucer rang like a judge’s gavel. “I’ve honored that for ten years. Watched you risk your life every weekend for glory that turns to smoke. Now I’m collecting on my patience.”
“I’m not taking over the—”
“Who said anything about taking over?” Miguel’s accent was thick by the time he finished speaking. Twenty years in Monaco, a lifetime of legitimate business, and still the old language surfaced when frustrated. “Your brother has that well in hand, thank God. What I want is simpler.”
He slid a piece of cream-colored paper across the rosewood desk. Selena’s handwriting, neat as a schoolteacher’s, which she’d been, once upon a time, before she’d saved Miguel’s soul by agreeing to marry him.
