Page 138 of The Killer Cupcake
The limo's engine ticked as it cooled. Marco nodded to one of his men, who immediately opened the rear door. Consigliere Ernesto Rossi emerged slowly, his movements betraying the exhaustion of the back-and-forth flights between Quebec and New York. Where Marco was all sharp angles and lethal elegance, Ernesto was soft around the edges—a man who wielded words and strategy rather than bullets.
Their eyes met. Marco's full lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—more an acknowledgment between men who understood the weight of secrets.
"Bentornato, Consigliere," Marco said, his voice a low rumble. His accent turned the simple greeting into something almost friendly, though his tone remained professionally distant.
Ernesto's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "How is he?"
"Unpredictable." Marco's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "But things have... stabilized with him and the Queen. He's with her now." He tilted his head toward the villa, where somewhere behind those ancient walls, their Don played out his elaborate seduction of the woman he worshipped and would destroy his empire for.
Ernesto followed his gaze, taking in the three-story fortress. The consigliere's fingers twitched, a nervous habit Marco had noticed intensifying over recent months.
"And Matteo?" Marco asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his jacket pull tight across hisshoulders, revealing the outline of muscle earned through violence rather than any gym. "Is he surviving without his brother?"
"Caesar and Slim guard him well." Ernesto tugged at his collar. "But he refuses my counsel. He's obsessed with finding that medallion, convinced Carmelo lives." A bead of sweat traced down his temple despite the mild weather. "It's time to move forward with the plan."
Marco studied him with those unnerving eyes, reading the fear that radiated from the older man like heat from pavement. He'd seen Ernesto face down rival families without flinching, but their Don—even in his supposed death—inspired a different kind of terror. It was because of the hammer.
He respected The Wolf’s methods of discipline or execution. The hammer was an instrument of justice. But lesser men in their world feared Don Carmelo Ricci’s temper. Marco didn’t abide by fear.
"Then you'd better go in and face him," Marco said softly. The words were gentle, but something in his tone made them sound like a judge pronouncing a sentence. "He doesn't appreciate delays."
Ernesto's laugh was hollow. "Madonna, help me." He straightened his tie with trembling fingers, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle. Which, Marco reflected, wasn't far from the truth.
As the consigliere trudged toward the villa's entrance—each step heavy with dread—Marco called after him. "Ernesto."
The older man turned.
"Breathe," Marco advised, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. "He can smell fear. Makes him... creative."
Ernesto's face paled further before he disappeared into the shadows of the doorway.
Marco shook his head, a genuine smile finally breaking across his features—transforming his face from merely handsome to devastatingly attractive. But the smile never reached his eyes. Those remained cold, watchful, already calculating the moves required to keep their volatile Don's empire intact.
He turned and strode toward the guard posts, his long legs eating up the distance. There was work to be done, and Marco DelSilva never failed in his duty to the Ricci family.
Never.
CHAPTER 51
WAR AND PEACE
Present.“Morning!"
Sandy rolled over to see a grinning Aunt Debbie standing at her bedside. She wore a white satin robe, her blonde hair disheveled and frizzy.
"Hi! Morning!" Sandy forced cheer into her voice. Her stomach churned with yesterday's revelations, and she'd cried herself to sleep thinking of her mother and father, remembering fragments of the past with them both.
Aunt Debbie must have sensed her distress because she sat on the bed and touched her knee gently. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Sandy lied.
"Matteo told me that Nicolas took you to the basement of this house." Debbie's expression grew serious. "Do you know who this house used to belong to?"
"Carmelo Ricci?"
Debbie nodded. "Yes. This was his kingdom. And Nicolas was his prince until now. Nicolas has an agenda; he’s not to be trusted, Sandy. He had no right to take you down there and show you what he did."
"You've seen those sketches? The drawings of me?" Sandy's voice came out smaller than she intended.
