Chapter 1

LORENZO

G hosting out of my SUV in front of the tiny chapel perched on the apex of a range of purple-misted mountains, I slid off my sunglasses.

My eyes flicked around the view of a small church at the summit, surrounded by a sea of violet-hued foliage. Its pointed steeple reached towards the heavens. The walls were of weathered stone adorned with colourful stained glass windows that reflected the sunlight in a dazzling display.

It appeared like a tiny jewel perched atop a regal and majestic elevation, the warm hues of purple lending it an ethereal glow.

Taking a deep inhale of the crisp air with hints of pine and wildflowers, I tucked away my eye wear, raised my chin to my driver and bodyguard, Mauri, and stalked off.

He moved in sync with my stride towards the sanctuary doors where groups of grievers clustered.

Their reaction to me was typical - shock, awe, respect and silence, for the most part.

I fuckin' wanted it kept that way.

In line with what I had uttered an oath to always uphold: Omertà.

A single word with such immense power, its true supremacy was only understood by the truest of Mafiosi and Cadaveri gangs.

For decades, it had been a rule of absolutes that transcended borders with an underlying, scorching menace. It promised violence on anyone who used the law for their gain or sought to testify against their family or associates.

Omertà's code of secrecy was so deeply ingrained that it bound together all ‘men of honour', even if it meant we faced imprisonment or death rather than betraying our comrades and revealing the secrets of the criminal underworld to the law.

My kin had taken it further with a two-fingered salute to the lips, a visual symbol of the Omertà practice and our outward sign that we were the ultimate at remaining taciturn to the last.

Neither torture nor agonising pain would separate us from our heartfelt promise.

It was also the only way of life I'd become accustomed to.

I had spent almost four decades living and breathing nothing else.

Together with my brothers, we were the so-called Kings of Omertà, the Sons of Honour, who enforced the sacrosanct code for several powerful Mafia clans across Italy.

Our renown was extensive, sweeping across from Europe to North America and even the southern hemisphere.

My reputation preceded me wherever I went.

Yet I expected those who recognised me to keep my name off their lips; they were never allowed to utter it in public unless they were intimate with me.

So when a bald-faced junior capo on the crowded steps of the church called out, ‘Hey Lorenzo!', I lifted a double-fingered salute to my lips.

He paled, realising his sin. He exchanged a frantic glance with his companion and attempted to melt back into the crowd.

I had no clue of his identity, but I sliced eyes to my bodyguard, who nodded.

He grasped what to do.

Mauri, a force unto himself, was a bulwark of flesh and muscle.

Face hard, gaze harder, and his cold, dark, honeyed features inherited from his Moorish ancestors.

He had the stride of a wolf and the menace of a warrior, one who'd never hesitate to protect me at any cost.

This time, it wouldn't involve bloodshed but perhaps a ruffled collar and a promise of absolute quietude.

My visit to Australia had to stay low-key; focused only on saying farewell to my aunt, comforting my brother and leading a quick series of exploratory meetings to ascertain the options for relocating our business.

With another chin jerk to Mauri, I indicated that he remain at the vestibule to monitor traffic in and out of the sanctuary.

The knot of silent watchers parted like a moving tide as I stepped into the cool church.

It was half full, with the mid-morning light from its stained glass windows filtered over the assembled congregants and mourners, fitting and solemn as required.

The atmosphere in the church was heavy with sorrow and unspoken grief. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with muffled prayers.

Yet sobs stilled, potent whispers rose, and bodies rustled as all eyes turned to me.

Pulling close my deep navy jacket, I ignored the murmuration and strode to the front of the sanctuary, where I hoped to find Vitto.

I spotted him, head bowed, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched, with suppressed grief and anger.

Even as a child, he'd always found it hard to hide his passionate, sometimes eruptive nature.

My youngest brother had come to live with Bianca at seventeen.

She'd filled the empty void that my mother's death had left. Vitto, in particular, had suffered the most after our parents' passing, as he'd been my mother's bambini, spoilt rotten and loved by all.

Our aunt had done her best to shield him from the harsh realities of life since coming under her wing. However, Vitto's wounds had cut too deep to be healed by a change in scenery.

In recent years, he'd flown the coop and relocated to Melbourne, but he'd often visited with Bianca and considered her an angel.

This loss would only add to his agony.

I discerned the tension in Vitto's shoulders as I approached.

His profile was steely, jaw tight with hardened resolve, yet underneath lingered an anguish evident in his eyes, aimed dead ahead, with burning intent.

The face of courage in the face of insurmountable grief.

I tagged it, for I, too, had had to find the same gritty strength of will. I'd made it my mask, one I'd worn since my parents had been blown up in a car bomb a few years ago.

Yet he also radiated potency in his face, and I was hit with a nudge of pride at the man he'd become.

‘Vitto, ciao,' I murmured, placing a hand on his arm.

He flinched and whipped his head around, only relaxing when he caught on to me.

‘Renzo?' he uttered, eyes astonished, brow cocked. ‘You're supposed to be in Naples. I thought you wouldn't make it.'

He surged to his feet, tears misting his eyes.

‘I booked a private non-stop flight because I'm meant to be beside you. Brother, I couldn't let you carry this on your own,' I growled, wrapping him in my arms.

‘I'm here now,' I added.

‘Grazie mille.'

His eyes, often bright with deviltry, were now clouded with heartache and anger.

I followed his gaze to the altar, where Bianca's casket lay adorned with white lilies.

‘She didn't deserve this,' Vitto muttered through clenched teeth.

I nodded in silent agreement, knowing that my brother would not let go without suffering.

Neither would I, but I showed less emotion than he had always done.

Vitto scooted over, and I slid into the pew next to him.

The wooden bench, cold against my legs, provided a brutal reality check that this was happening.

We sat side by side, shoulders touching, not speaking nor looking at each other, yet in alignment, drawing what little comfort we derived from our shared grief.

More people joined the service, and the priest soon kicked off the memorial.

Bianca's coffin loomed at the front of the church, wreathed in flowers and flickering candlelight.

The organ warbled, and the priest's voice droned on, his words a jumble of sound as I struggled to keep my composure. Weary with grief, tired and cranky as shit with jet lag from my long flight, I slumped over my clasped hands, staring at the floor.

Memories of Bianca flooded my mind - her warm smile and fierce love for her brother, our father, and us.

Fuck, I missed her.

Cancer had taken her too soon, in her early sixties, a fact she'd kept from my brothers and me for months to reduce our worry.

It had devastated all four of us, brothers, when she'd finally shared her poor health status on a video call just a few weeks ago.

We'd chided her for keeping her suffering from us.

She scolded us back for thinking she'd put herself before us and our work.

We choked back tears as she reassured us not to worry and that a dear friend was taking care of her in Australia. She also assured me she was having a rally and that the chemo was working.

Her sudden passing sent tectonic waves through us. Before we could organise flights and tickets from our hubs all over the globe, she was gone, leaving us bereft and distraught.

By grace, she hadn't endured her pain for long, just three months from diagnosis to fare welling this earth in her sleep.

It didn't make the grief any more unbearable.

A movement to my left caught my attention: a woman slipping into the front row on the other side of the aisle to my right.

The first pews were designated for family, but she was no relation I was aware of.

Her hat, a glorious, lilac-veiled creation, eclipsed her brow and obscured most of her profile.

My experienced eye told me under a brim, I'd find beauty, sensing her allure beneath its shadow.

When she lifted the face, I caught a glimpse of her delicate features and locked gazes with her.

A gut punch hit hard; my soul snatched away.

Her eyes were a sparkling shade of violet framed by hints of long, dark lashes. They swirled with mystery, untold sorrow, and hidden depths.

My heart lurched, transfixed.

My eyes travelled lower. I slow-blinked at the sheer exquisiteness of her face, so rare, so sculpted, so distinctive.

Skin honey gold, smooth and flawless, a pointed chin, soft, rosy cheeks and full lips.

A faint hint of floral perfume wafted from her direction, adding to her aura and riling me up to the core.

Clad, from head to toe, in lilac, her shoes were the same colour, and I lingered on the arch of her feet in the pointed-toe décolleté pump.

In this sombre setting, she stood out like a splash of vibrancy amongst the sea of navy and black.

Unable to tear away, I stole glances at her from the corner of my eye, trying to figure out who she might be.

Vitto must have spotted my distraction because he shot me a quizzical glance, following my gaze to the mysterious woman.

I leaned closer to him, my voice just discernible. ‘Who the hell is she?'

He shrugged. ‘Fuck, if I know.'

I arched a brow before he turned his attention to the priest at the pulpit.

The service continued, but my focus kept drifting back to the woman in the front row, surrounded by an air of mystery.

Was this the woman who had coordinated the funeral for us?

We'd never Bianca's so-called dear friend who'd nursed our aunt and stood by her side in her final days. All we'd caught wind of had been a last name.

I'd envisioned a middle-aged lady with white hair, but the woman in the pew didn't match that image.

Still, she had sat in the family section and had no right to be there.

Bianca deserved respect, and taking a family seat when the family had no clue who you were was sacrilege.

Besides, her beauty was distracting me from focusing on the sanctified nature of the service.

I turned my head until I met Mauri's gaze at the back of the chapel and raised my head with a slight jerk. He powered to me.

Bending, he inclined his ear as I murmured into it in Italian.

He understood the ask and eased off to do as I demanded.

MIA

I recognised Lorenzo the second my eyes fell on him.

His arrival had caused a stir amongst the small-time malefactors hanging about the church steps, waiting for a glimpse of the legendary Omertà enforcer.

He didn't disappoint.

In his mid-to-late thirties, he carried significant gravitas. Sinewy and commanding, each step he took demanded respect.

He towered above them, tall and imposing.

Broad upper arms. Lean, muscular frame. Body tight as fuck, like a man who prioritised his fitness.

His face, a craggy-hewn sculpture of rugged masculinity and dangerous allure, featured a jawline reminiscent of the iconic figures of Italian cinema.

Dark, slicked-back hair set off piercing dark blue eyes, which held an alluring and threatening intensity.

He wore a navy chambray shirt beneath an elegant, unlined, double-breasted navy blazer that hugged his muscled, sinewed body, exuding confidence and power.

It accentuated his shoulders and tapered waist. Thick thighs were encased in trousers of the same material, feet clad in patent leather upper black dress shoes with embossed detail.

He'd accessorised his timeless style with a silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. My gaze fluttered to his akimbo tie — sprezzatura incarnate —it made the outfit, adding a touch of playfulness to a classic jacket.

When one of the guests called his name, I raised a brow as he lifted two lean fingers to his lips as if to kiss them. I tagged it as the signal for Omertà silence, but to witness it in person blew me away more than any man had in all my thirty-one years.

Damn, it was sensual.

The move caused a similar shaken response amongst those watching, which he ignored. He powered on, exuding confidence and a dangerous magnetism that drew the eye and commanded attention.

I ran my tongue over my lip in wonder at how one man, in a single glance, had the ability to convey the sheer weight of his unspoken power and influence in the underworld and above.

Stepping out after him from my hiding place in the vestibule, I was hit with a faint hint of cologne, cigars, and cinnamon, a musky and masculine essence that drifted off him, only adding to the prepossessing aura he radiated.

His bodyguard hovered at the door and gave me a once-over before sidling aside to let me pass. I sensed that anyone else might not have been allowed to walk in so close behind the legendary honour man.

I lingered at the back of the church for a moment, hesitating in Lorenzo's wake. With a breath, I overcame my trepidation and sailed to my assigned pew.

I sensed it the second his eyes fell on me.

His scorching gaze raked me from head to toe as I settled in.

I refused to turn, rejecting it and how it stoked my soul, its flames licking at me.

I ignored it.

But as the priest's monotonous voice droned on, the impression of Lorenzo's eyes stayed on me, playing on my skin like a physical touch, prickling the tiny hairs on my neck.

Sneaking a glance in his direction, I caught him staring right at me, his dark-eyed gaze intense, unwavering. The punch, to my core, was indescribable.

He raised a brow, raking over my body and back again to lock eyes in a questioning, searching study.

I returned his regard with a tilt of my hat and a slight curve to my lips.

His eyes narrowed further, his jaw tightening, sending a shiver down my spine.

Deciding I was done flirting with the devil, I averted my eyes, working hard to focus on the priest's words.

Still, his stare burned on with such intensity that it lit me up inside.

A bolt of unexpected need and emotion went through me, mingling with the grief of Bianca's funeral.

It felt wrong for him to be eyeing me so and for me to react to him like this.

The thing is, I'd never met nor spoken to him.

But something in his bare regard stirred a long-buried desire within me, a touch of dangerous thrill so missing from my quiet, unassuming life.

As the priest's voice droned on in the background, I stole another glance. The honour man turned his magnificent head, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a jolt of electricity through me.

My heart raced as I struggled to maintain my composure and push down the unexpected emotions bubbling.

The solemnity of the funeral clashed with the charged atmosphere between us, creating a tension that crackled in the air like static before a storm.

His head swivelled further back, eyes making contact with someone, one brow canted. His bodyguard approached, and a whispered conversation occurred before the latter ghosted away.

We rose for the first hymn, forcing Lorenzo to focus on the front of the church.

I sighed in relief and settled into song until I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Turning, I found Lorenzo's burly companion next to me.

I raised a questioning brow as he leaned his massive head down to me. ‘You're not family,' he whispered, his face brooking no argument.

I jolted. ‘No, I am not, but -.'

‘These pews are set aside for the Calibrese family. Please find someplace else to sit.'

There are moments in life when one came to the brink of losing their shit. This was it for me.

A white-hot, incandescent rage suffused my body until it exploded in my face.

I shot a scorched glare toward Lorenzo on the other side of the aisle and found him staring dead straight at me with a cold iciness.

I shut my eyes for a long moment, turned to his sentinel and snarled. ‘I'll move.'

LORENZO

She slipped away after Mauri dealt with her.

Fleeing down the aisle as the choir led the congregation in Bianca's favourite song.

Her departure, swift and silent even in her heels, left only the faint wisps of her perfume.

I refused to dwell further on her sudden exit as the service continued.

Bianca's friends from the local community recounted eulogies, remembrances and readings.

Vitto provided our family's contribution, sharing a moving, short tribute to our aunt's life.

After informing the congregation of the wake to come after, the cleric ended the service, and the crowds surged forward to offer their condolences.

I made my way through the mourners, searching for any sign of the mysterious woman in lilac. She was nowhere to be found among the sombre crowd.

Vitto's hand on my elbow brought me back to reality, and I followed him as we approached the front of the church to thank the priest for the heartwarming service.

We were the only members of Bianca's direct family present, so he folded us to his side so the mourners had the opportunity to pay their respects.

Condolences were offered, tears were shed, and distant relatives I had never met murmured words of comfort.

Amidst the suffering faces, I caught a glimpse —just a flash of purple fabric disappearing into a small white van. The lilac of her dress, vivid against the grey of the concrete parking lot.

The car pulled away, and she was gone.

In that instant, my dark heart jolted with an indescribable emotion as if it'd been torn from a fleeting anchor it had just found, only to float astray once more.

Fuck, despite my ire at her audacity of sitting with the family, her essence and stricken anger had blown through my grief.

I sucked my teeth, wondering once again who the hell she'd been, intrigued at how she'd dared glare at me in defiance.

Right then and there, I made up my mind to move heaven and earth to find out.