Dark Mafia Heir: Chapter 20

“Peter’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

Dario’s the first person to break the silence.

Since his arrival in my office, we’d done nothing but stare wordlessly at each other. However, now his expression is carved from stone, but his eyes burn with restrained fury, matching my own.

My fingers drum rhythmically against the edge of the table, and I lean back. The buzz of the club rattles in a silent hum against the walls of the office, but it barely distracts us.

More serious issues are at hand, like fishing out who launched the attack on the warehouse by the dock.

“Stubborn doesn’t even begin to cover it.” My jaw tightens. “His daughter’s life is hanging by a thread, and he still won’t talk.”

“You’d think with family on the line, he’d fold. But no. He might be protecting someone—whoever’s behind this,” Dario says.

I nod, running a hand down my face as I try to push down the anger threatening to consume me. “And that someone sent a message with that attack. Peter’s either scared.” I meet Dario’s gaze, “totally clueless, or he’s in deeper than we realize.”

“Peter Cole can’t be innocent.”

“Doesn’t matter what he can or can’t be. Whoever did it is trying to cripple us.”

“You know who it is.”

“I have my best guess.”

Dario sits up, folding his arms across his chest. Curious eyes meet mine. “Who?”

My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, unable to sit any longer. The weight of this shit presses down on me, suffocating. Every second we waste leaves us more susceptible.

“Salvatore Russo.”

Dario shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

Dario rises to his feet as well, sticking his hands into his pockets. “That surprise attack was a sneaky one. We’ve been against Russo for years, Nio. Salvatore’s style is bold. He’d walk in dressed in a fucking suit, burn the place down, and leave his fucking signature on the cameras. I have high doubts that he did this.”

“Don’t put it above anyone; a man can change.”

“A man?” His eyes narrow and the frown on his mouth etches deeper. “Salvatore’s not just anyone, Nio. You know this. He’s a fucking beast. He’s been that way for years. Why send masked men now? Or launch a surprise attack when he can just do it anyway? Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

No, it doesn’t.

The whole thing is frustrating, and I quell the urge to smash into something. But Dario had more than just a fucking point.

We’ve never known Salvatore Russo to be a coward. It’s one of the reasons we take his threats seriously.

“Talk to Peter again. Push harder. Remind him of what’s at stake.”

“You think he’ll crack?”

I stop, turning to face him. “He has to. If not for himself, then for his daughter. No man alive can watch his child suffer and stay silent forever.”

Dario exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We don’t have forever, Antonio. We need answers now. If he doesn’t give us what we need…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. We both know what comes next.

“Handle it. One way or another, Peter’s going to talk. And when he does, or if he doesn’t, we’ll find whoever’s behind this and make them regret the fucking day they decided to cross us.”

Dario leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes locking onto mine. “That’s the only option. If we don’t, they’ll come for more than just the warehouses next time.”

When Dario leaves, I pick a random tumbler from the mini bar at the corner, and throw it against the wall.

Another day wasted. Peter refuses to break, and neither Dario nor Lorenzo has good news for me.

The faint aroma of something cooking greets me when I step through the door—spice, chili, something warm.

It’s comforting, but it doesn’t settle me. Nothing does. My chest feels too tight for that.

I follow the sound of clattering dishes to the kitchen, and I find Vivienne there, moving between the stove and the counter with a strange efficiency.

She’s wearing an apron that’s slightly too big for her, tied tightly around her waist, and her hair is pinned back, a few loose strands framing her face. She doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know she’s aware of me.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she says between shuffling a pot and waving a spatula in the air.

Dinner?

I must’ve entered the wrong house, because Vivienne doesn’t cook.

Agatha’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. She meets my gaze briefly, and I raise a brow. She looks away with a shrug, silently advising me not to bother asking her anything.

Vivienne turns to me. “Take a seat.” She gestures to a selected high stool drawn out from the kitchen island.

I hesitate, but there’s something in her demeanor that disarms me. It’s calm and new. Reluctantly, I pull out a chair and sit.

Vivienne continues working, and I lean back in the chair, my eyes darting between her and Agatha.

“What’s going on?”

The question is directed at Agatha, but she just shrugs again and nods toward Vivienne.

“You’ll have to ask her.”

And with that, the old maid leaves the kitchen.

The silence is immediately disturbed by the occasional clanging of pots and ceramic.

I turn to my wife’s back. “Over to you. What the hell is going on?”

Vivienne doesn’t respond immediately. She stirs the pot on the stove, and I can see her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

I grip the edge of the table. “Vivienne.”

She turns then, holding a wooden spoon in her hand like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. Her eyes meet mine, and I see something she never gives me access to—her anxiety.

She gestures to the food in the pot. “You had a long day. I thought… I thought this might help.”

Her answer is not what I was expecting, and her genuineness throws me off guard.

“I always have a long day.”

She rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ve not always known how to cook. Just. . .I don’t know, Antonio. Today’s a special day. Take it that way, okay? I thought I’d do something nice.”

“Or maybe the pillow didn’t work, and now you’re trying actual poison with a mix of niceness to deceive me.”

The smile melts off her lips, and quietly, she turns back to serve the meal into the arranged plates. “I deserved that.”

She does.

But I feel like an asshole for bluntly pointing it out.

Exhaustion rolls off my shoulders, and I rub between my eyes. “Vivienne⁠—”

“You’ve stopped calling me gattina.” She places a steaming plate of pasta before me with a brow raised and goes back to grab her plate from the counter.

Dragging her stool, she lifts a wine bottle from the island and fills each glass, half full.

I’m too stunned to speak. Everything is happening so fast, it feels surreal. The last time I had a conversation with her, she poked at my past, and I shut her off. The Vivienne I knew should have done anything else but cook me dinner.

I exhale. “You know what? I’ll taste it. If it kills me, I have men that will willingly shoot you in the head, execution style.”

Vivienne doesn’t flinch under my threat; she just raises her glass in an air-toast and takes a sip while watching me through unguarded eyes.

I twirl a forkful of pasta and lift it to my mouth, expecting something disastrous at best, but the flavors surprise me.

The sauce is rich, perfectly balanced between the tang of tomatoes and the warmth of garlic.

The pasta itself is cooked just right, not too firm, not too soft. The traditional way.

I set the fork down, taking a moment to process.

There’s no point hiding my opinion from her. By the time I’m done with the plate, she’ll figure it out.

“This is good. Really good, gattina.”

Across the island, she lets out a soft laugh, almost nervous, like she wasn’t sure how I’d react.

“I’m so glad you like it. For a moment, you had me there. But, I had help.” She brushes her hair behind her ear. “I practically begged Agatha to show me how to cook something decent. She gave me a crash course today.”

“Looks like it paid off.”

I take another bite. The warmth of the meal spreads through me. It’s rare for anyone to go out of their way for me like this.

She shrugs, but Vivienne’s not one to hide the pride in her expression. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I figured… it’s about time I learn something useful.”

Her words make me pause, the fork resting halfway to my mouth. “My honest opinion: you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, she murmurs. “Maybe.”

I decide to change the subject, shifting the focus away from her self-doubt.

“I’m going to tell you something. Promise not to judge.”

She raises her hand. “I swear, I won’t.”

“I’m not much in the kitchen myself.” I lean back slightly. “But I can manage a few things. Omelets, mostly. Pasta, if I’m in the mood.”

Vivienne bursts out in a shocking laugh that shoots a tingle down my spine. Her green eyes light, and the strands framing her face brush her cheeks.

“Antonio Mancini making omelets? You, in the kitchen? How does that even work?”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “You swore.”

“I didn’t think a man like you would have time for cooking. I expected something else, maybe a hobby of carving people’s eyeballs. Not cooking.”

“No,” I admit. It’s been years since I did. “But sometimes it helps to keep my hands busy. Keeps my mind quiet.”

Her gaze softens at that, like she understands more than she lets on.

The more we talk, the more I take note of the tiny details that might have passed off as insignificant if I didn’t look closely. She’s laughing, not the polite, measured kind, but the kind that bursts out loose and genuine.

It’s fucking infectious. Before I realize it, the corner of my mouth lifts more.

This woman is not just beautiful. She’s… alive.

Every word she says, every gesture, fills the space around her like she’s somehow stolen all the light in the room and made it hers.

Many times during the conversation, I catch myself leaning forward, drawn in without knowing it. Her smile carries warmth, the kind that seeps into places I thought I’d closed off long ago, and I realize I want to see more and more of her smiles than scowls.

Whatever’s going on inside me can’t just be attraction.

Lust is fleeting, simple.

But what I’m feeling now? It’s something heavier, something that settles in my chest and refuses to let go.

I shake the thought, but it clings stubbornly, and the realization hits me quietly, like something I don’t want to admit out loud.

It’s not just her beauty, though that’s undeniable.

It’s all of her.

“Thank you for this,” I say, breaking the quiet. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away this time. “I’m glad I did, too.”

And as I take another bite, I realize it’s not just the food that’s warming me—it’s my gattina.