Alessandro, my husband, the man who ruled this island with an iron fist, slept soundly. He was a force, a legend. But even legends have weaknesses. Mine, I suspected, was my kindness. Leonardo, my seventeen-year-old, was a carbon copy of his father. He chain-smoked, those expensive cigarettes a constant trail of ash in his wake. And the women. He was a predator. He’d been groomed for the family business. But the training created a monster instead of a leader. He was supposed to be Alessandro’s heir. That was the plan. Now? Now I was scared. Matteo, thirteen, was different. Sharp. A mastermind in the making. He was Leonardo's shadow, quietly observing, learning the ropes, all the wrong ropes. He was supposed to be Leonardo's right hand. This was the second terrifying aspect of my reality. Camilla, my eight-year-old daughter, was the light. She was shielded from all this—from the shadows, from the violence. She was innocent. She will remain innocent. That was my promise. A fragile shield against a brutal world.

You felt Alessandro churn in his sleep. You remained laying on his chest.