Chapter 11 - The Shadows of Palermo
The warmth of the Lake Forest afternoon lingered on Lena’s skin long after the last of the white silk tents had been folded away and the two hundred guests had departed. In the quiet luxury of the Duca estate’s master suite, the scent of the Black Baccara roses was still heavy, carried through the open French doors by a cool breeze blowing off Lake Michigan.
Lena sat at the edge of the massive mahogany bed, slowly unlacing her boots. Her right leg ached with a dull, throbbing heat—a physical reminder of the five bullets she had taken eleven months ago. But it was a victorious ache. Today, she had walked down the aisle. She had looked into the eyes of the most feared man in the Chicago underground and bound her soul to his in the light of day.
The bathroom door clicked open, and Marco stepped out, steam billowing behind him. He had discarded his formal tuxedo jacket and tie, wearing only his crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark, intricate tattoos of his former life. His hair was damp, and the hard, sharp lines of his face—usually locked in an expression of hyper-vigilant defense—were softer than she had ever seen them.
He walked over to her, his movements silent and predatory, a habit born of years in the Chicago shadows. But as he knelt before her on the plush rug, his touch was impossibly gentle. He took her right foot in his massive hands, carefully massaging the tight muscles of her calf.
"You pushed yourself too hard today, mia cara," Marco murmured, his dark eyes looking up at her through thick lashes. "I saw you wince when we stood for the blessing."
"I wanted to walk to you, Marco. Not limp, not lean," Lena replied, reaching down to run her fingers through his damp hair. "I wanted you to see that the woman you fought for is whole."
Marco leaned his forehead against her knee, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh. "You were more than whole. You were breathtaking. But the victory is won, Lena. You don't have to prove anything to the world anymore. Or to me."
"And what about you?" Lena asked softly, her fingers tracing the scar that ran along his jawline. "The priest asked if you took me to be your wife, and you told him you had already given me your life. Do you feel peaceful, Marco?"
Before Marco could answer, a low, rhythmic vibration echoed from the pocket of his discarded trousers. Marco’s entire body went rigid. The softness in his eyes vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by the cold, calculating look of the Duca syndicate's don. He stood up, crossing the room to retrieve the secure satellite phone.
He looked at the encrypted screen. The caller ID was a string of zeroes, but the routing code originated from Sicily—specifically, the mountain province of Palermo.
Lena watched him, her heart sinking slightly. The shadows of his past were never truly gone; they were only waiting in the corners of their new life.
Marco answered, his voice dropping into a low, harsh Italian. "Parla." (Speak.)
A raspy, ancient voice crackled through the speaker, speaking in a thick, old-world Sicilian dialect. "Marco. It is Don Sforza. The transition of the shipping channels in the Mediterranean is hitting a wall. Your uncle’s old loyalists in the Caprese family refuse to sign the final relinquishment papers. They say they do not take orders from a boy who fled to America to play king in the mud of Chicago. They are mobilizing. If you do not return to Palermo to settle the blood debt of the Duca name, they will bring the war to your shores."
Marco’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. He glanced back at Lena, his eyes darkening with a mixture of rage and protective instinct.
"I am a married man now, Sforza. My business in Italy is finished," Marco hissed.
"A Duca is never finished with Sicily, Marco," the old man replied. "They know about the girl. They know she took the bullets meant for you. They know she is your heart. If you do not come to them, they will find her. The contract on her life is already being discussed in the dark corners of the Mercato."
The line went dead.
Marco stood frozen in the center of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear. The silence in the bedroom was suffocating.
Lena stood up, relying on her silver-tipped cane, and walked over to him. She placed her hand over his heart, feeling it hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast.
"Who was it?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear creeping into her chest.
Marco slowly lowered the phone, his gaze fixed on the dark waters of Lake Michigan outside the window. "My family’s past," he whispered. "The Caprese family in Palermo. They are refusing to let the old syndicate die. They think because I married you and stepped away from the Chicago streets, I have grown soft. They are threatening to target you to force my hand."
May you like
Lena’s grip on his chest tightened. "Then what do we do?"
Marco turned to her, his eyes burning with an ancient, dangerous fire. "We don't wait for them to come to us, Lena. We go to Sicily. And we bury them where they stand."
