Chapter 5

CHIARA

C aravaggio’s Nativity disappeared from the church of San Lorenzo in Palermo in 1969, in one of the most notorious art heists in history.

Taken by members of the Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian mafia, during a period when Italy was cracking down on organized crime, its disappearance sent shockwaves through the art world.

The theft became so significant that it led to the creation of the world’s first art police unit—the Italian Carabinieri Division for the Protection of Cultural Heritage.

Yet, despite their efforts, the painting never resurfaced.

That heist served as a quiet reminder to me—a warning of how vulnerable artworks could be, even under the most careful watch.

This reality was never more accurate in the current knife-edge atmosphere of Naples.

Where ‘ mafiosità ,’ the unscrupulous behavior of mobsters, ran wild and was celebrated. Also, the growing use of art theft and fraud to cover up mob crimes was on the rise.

My brothers had seen it fit to use my industry connections to make the most illegal art trade.

Now, as I searched, desperate for some way to protect myself, the gallery, and the works I’d poured my soul into, that cautionary tale came rushing back to me. As did the all-too-familiar grip of fear tightening in my stomach.

Two hours after my search commenced, I sat at my desk, phone in hand, my contacts list dwindling with every call.

Each time, the same pattern.

The receptionist would put me through to some manager, and a calm voice would greet me, polite and professional, asking how they could help.

I’d explain—in careful, clear sentences—what I needed.

A firm to provide protection.

Discreet, trustworthy.

The request was not unusual, not for someone in my position.

I began started with the biggest firms, the ones everyone recommended.

After five rejections, I moved on to the smaller operators, hoping for better luck. But none bit, and their answers were always the same.

‘Ms. Tirone, scusa, but we are fully booked for the next few months.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms. Tirone, but our team specializes in corporate security, not personal contracts.’

I didn’t believe any of them.

It wasn’t about capacity or specialization.

No, this number of rejections was shady as fuck.

I caught it in their voices, the hesitation, the subtle shift in tone when they grasped my background.

Did the name Tirone carry such a foul stench that they didn’t want to touch it?

Or was there another reason for their reticence?

After the seventh rejection that day, I hung up the phone, pressing my fingers to my temples to stem back the frustration.

‘ Cazzo !’

I had cause for needing protection.

My ass was underwater and sinking fast.

My father lay on his deathbed.

Worse, Claudio and Aldo’s debts were mounting, and my brothers kept chasing me to push through more fraudulent art deals.

I suspected they’d made backroom compromises with the most vile bottom-feeding scum of the criminal world. At the same time, they were using me to whitewash our family money.

How deep their shadiness went, I had no clue.

I had no visibility of the books.

Neither did I have any proof, only hints.

All I grasped was that they were mismanaging the business my father had left in their care. Taking advantage of his weakness while he recovered from cancer, I suspected they raided his finances with greed. From what I gathered, the Tirone accounts were in severe arrears.

They also borrowed from pitiless loan sharks to fund their excessive lifestyles.

Lucia, my assistant, had two brothers who were capos for Claudio and Aldo

She’d overheard them discussing how my fratelli now owed a significant amount of cash to the Barbieris.

One of the most ruthless Maltese drug syndicates.

Fuck me.

I had one name left on my list.

Ciprioni Security.

No number, however, for the mysterious Rio had provided none.

I flipped open my laptop and searched.

Nothing came up in the results.

Double. Fuck. Me.

VALERIO

‘She buy it?’ I called out to the husky man strolling into the living room of Villa Tesoro.

‘Hook, line, and sinker,’ Mauri murmured.

He was a force unto himself, 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 who’d never hesitate to protect the Calibreses at any cost.

He was also our consigliere and trusted advisor.

As well as being one of Europe’s most ruthless weapons and mercenary warfare experts.

He was the man we wished we’d had in our purview when my parents and uncle had lost their lives so senselessly all those years ago.

I heard laughter drifting through the house.

Mauri, Alessio, and Alessio’s woman, Cleo, were in town.

They lived in Australia but were staying with me at the family villa for a few weeks as the loved-up pair traveled through Italy on a non-honeymoon.

Mauri and his first love, his cat Lupo, were taking a break at my brother Lorenzo’s insistence.

However, bored as hell, Mauri begged me to send some work my way, and I’d obliged, feeling sorry for the mofo.

‘What’s your play?’ he rasped, settling into one of the lounges as Lupo ran into his arms for a stroke fest.

I swiveled my eyes to my split screen, which showed a view of Chiara’s laptop window via a remote hack.

One I’d placed myself when I’d had access to her office earlier in the week.

I studied the display, following her keystrokes with a smirk, then stared out of the view, pondering my next steps.

My eyes flicked over the breathtaking views of the sea, Mount Vesuvius’ stunning beauty, and its underlying volcanic threat.

‘Your intimidation catwalk moment worked. I can see, onscreen, that she’s searching for me. Perhaps it’s time I revealed myself,’ I growled. ‘Or should I give her a few days to stew?’

‘Olivio doesn’t have long to live. The man’s about to expire. You need to make your move before then.’

I jerked my chin at Mauri. ‘Good call. Let’s keep tracking her, then please watch my six when I get close to her.’

‘ Padrone .’

Mauri and I, on foot and in a couple of black sedans and SUVs, had been ‘prowling’ the shadows in Chiara’s wake for weeks.

Rattling her, shaking her confidence in her safety.

All part of my plan.

Also, I planned to appear when she least expected it.

To keep her on her toes.

Truth be told, I was enjoying myself a little too much.

She was one sexy woman, and I was thoroughly enjoying keeping an eye on her.

I followed her when she went on walks and exited the house for work.

Appreciating her ass in her jogging tights, as well as her Italian flair combined with casual panache.

She had a talent for wearing fitted dresses, loose pants or skirts, and elegant tops, often paired with stunning high heels.

This sense of style added a layer of confidence to her personality while remaining effortlessly seductive without becoming trashy.

My kind of flair.

My sort of woman, for we Calibreses had a type—feisty, strong, badass.

Like Lorenzo’s Mia - feminine yet with a gun aim that was out of this world.

So too, Cleo, Alessio’s tough yet elegant sprite who’d survived a shit upbringing and now made my brother’s life a dream.

As for me, I’d sworn off women. Not until my vengeance was complete.

Chiara Tirone was the bait, and I could hardly wait to claim my prize.

Cleo’s laugh in the kitchen cut through my thoughts.

Alessio and his woman were prepping lunch with our housekeeper, Mrs Venetio, and their voices echoed through the house.

Their joy was righteous and so welcome.

Especially after the years of grief that this house had suffered.

Before their deaths, our parents hosted intimate gatherings and celebrated milestones, surrounded by love, laughter, and the aroma of beautiful food.

It had stood like a fortress of history and pride, a sprawling testament to my family’s legacy.

It wasn’t just a house but a symbol of our Calibrese values. Of our fierce love and resilient dominance, even in the face of the impending storms that always loomed over us.

Packed with cherished memories, it was surrounded by sheer beauty.

The property stretched over three levels, boasting views that stole your breath. From the moment you stepped inside, the sea greeted you in a breathtaking panorama stretching from Via Posillipo to the sea.

In every corner, I envisioned snippets of the life my three brothers and I had once shared with our father and mother. Each space carried a memory, from the expansive dining room and living spaces to the bedrooms, outdoor fireplaces, sprawling gardens, and a swimming pool.

It was remarkable; it was our legacy.

Eight years ago, the reality that our parents would not be here to celebrate birthdays, new babies, christenings, and weddings with us had been agonizing.

All because Olivio Tirone, Carlo Abrazzio, and Franco Conti had torn them away from me.

Vengeance ran thick in our blood now.

Both Carlo and Franco had been taken care of by Lorenzo and Alessio.

Olivio and his associates remained wholly in my purview.

Chiara’s father destroyed my family, his empire built on the graves of people I loved.

I’d been driven for years now by the singular goal of destroying the man and all he’d involved in the bombing.

I’d fuckin’ waited, observed, and planned for the most effective moment to cut him and his lineage to their knees.

I’ve spent years planning my revenge to dismantle the Tirone world from the inside.

Olivio’s failing health had made way for his sons to take over the business.

However, they were unqualified, greedy bastards who’d burnt through the Tirones cash reserves like wildfire.

Soon, they were forced to take out absurd loans to maintain their syndicate.

Which they were now struggling to repay.

With Olivio ailing and his people weak, the stage was set, and the time was favorable.

To destroy the Tirones in one final explosive inferno.

I availed myself of all the resources at my fingertips to do so.

The Ciprioni Group wasn’t your run-of-the-mill security firm.

Operating under the umbrella of the Calibrese family empire, we operated in the shadows, ensuring the wealthy and powerful slept at night without worrying about what lurked in the darkness.

We did very well by protecting the elite from the mafia, rival business interests, and anyone who dared cross a line they shouldn’t have.

At the heart of it all was discretion.

Few were acquainted with our name outside certain circles, and that was by design.

Our clients paid for protection, not publicity, and we offered a level of service no other company matched.

The Ciprioni Group was renowned for being ruthless ghosts who materialized when needed and disappeared as fast when the assignment was done. We never left a trace.

Our operations were global, and we used high-tech monitoring systems, encrypted communications, and strategic partnerships in major cities worldwide.

We had a team of experts, ex-special forces, intelligence operatives, and cyber geniuses who worked together like a well-oiled machine.

Every threat was assessed, each move calculated, and every job carried out with precision. Our motto wasn’t written on any letterhead, but we lived by it: Protect, Defend, Eliminate.

Most clients came from old money, corporate dynasties, or political families.

These people weren’t only rich—they were targets.

The kind of people who pissed off the wrong groups or found themselves in the middle of some mafia power struggle. They came to us when the police were unable to help when they needed more than a bodyguard. We weren’t afraid to get our hands dirty, to do what others wouldn’t. That’s why we were expensive. But if you afforded our fee, we kept you safe. Period.

We were the last line of defense, a lifeline for people with too much to lose. And we made sure they didn’t.

My people had a way of sending messages that were subtle but effective.

We weren’t in the business of starting wars, but we ended them with swift, brutal precision if necessary. More often than not, the mere whisper of our involvement was sufficient to make any would-be attackers back off.

No one wanted a showdown with us.

And when the mafia didn’t take the hint? Well, that’s where I came in.

The wealthy clients loved having an ally like me at the helm—someone unafraid to take vital steps to ensure their safety, no matter the cost.

They trusted me because I’d never let one of them fall.

I wasn’t above knocking on doors or making threats face-to-face.

Neither beyond stalking my marks, like I planned to this evening.

This was why I found myself waiting in a bar around the corner from Galleria Gisela later that day, sipping fine wine, head back, arms splayed.

A hunter anticipating my prey.