Page 54 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Not where highways give way to winding roads flanked by ancient stone walls, or where wild cypress and manicured hedges blur together beneath the press of history.
They press their faces to the glass as we pass vineyard rows, weathered villas, sleek security gates.
One of them points at a faded chapel half-swallowed by ivy.
The other gasps at a glossy black car emerging from a narrow lane.
Their noses leave faint marks on the window as they try to see more, their voices hushed with curiosity.
And despite the knot coiled tight in my stomach, a part of me finds comfort in their wonder.
"They should’ve grown up here," Rafa mutters, not looking at me. His jaw has been tight since my arrival, and though his tone is soft enough that the girls don’t hear, there is no mistaking the edge. "Not in whatever backwater Valentina tucked you into."
"Don’t start," I reply, staring ahead.
The road before us cuts through the city like a blade, and I feel the pressure of it in my ribs. "Not now."
"You lied to all of us," he says, still not raising his voice. "You kept them hidden. You think that was your right?"
I glance back at the girls.
One is unwrapping some crackers with exaggerated care.
The other is still peering out at the skyline, her hair falling loose from the ribbons I tied this morning.
"I did what I had to," I say, keeping my voice level. "You think they’d be better off knowing what they are? What this family would make of them? Of me?"
"They’re Salvatores," he snaps, finally turning his head. "They could have had the world. Instead, they got secrets and exile.And we—" he swallows hard and looks back at the road. "We could’ve had leverage. Christ, Gianna. We lost years."
I fold my hands in my lap.
My fingers tremble slightly and I press them together harder to still them. "You want to talk leverage in front of them? You think they need to hear this? You think they should know their lives were currency?"
Silence settles in again.
He doesn’t apologize, but he doesn’t speak either.
I can feel his frustration radiating off him, and I don’t blame him for it.
I just can’t do anything about it.
The car slows as the estate gates come into view.
The iron is freshly painted.
There’s no rust or wear, and when they part for us, it’s with a mechanical precision that speaks of control and money and power.
The Salvatore estate remains untouched by time.
Its stone façade, pale and stern, rises in the middle of a manicured spread of land with trimmed hedges and driveways so smooth they feel unnatural.
The girls fall quiet as we approach the house.
Their chatter gives way to silent awe, and I wonder if they sense something in the bones of this place.
Maybe they do.
We’re met by staff at the doors.
