She Spoke Native Italian on the Phone—Then the Mafia Boss Whispered, “Find Everything About Her”

I pulled myself gently from Matteo’s embrace, my eyes locked on the white slip of paper protruding from Marco’s jacket.

My fingers trembled as I reached out and pulled the ticket free. Sophia Rossi. JFK to Palermo. Departure: Tomorrow, 6:00 AM.

“Matteo,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow in the destroyed room.

He looked up, his brow furrowing as he saw the paper in my hand. He gently set Leo back, keeping one arm securely around the boy, and took the ticket from my shaking fingers.

His eyes scanned the text, and the warmth that had just flooded his features vanished, replaced by a chilling, terrifying realization.

“Marco wasn't acting alone inside my house,” Matteo said, his voice tight. “Lawson wanted you, but Marco had a backup plan to get rid of you if Lawson failed. He was going to put you on a plane to Sicily.”

“Why?” I asked, panic clawing up my throat again. “Why send me back there?”

“Because he knew my father’s debt to your grandmother was the only thing keeping you under my protection,” Matteo deduced, his mind working furiously. “If you were sent back to Palermo, out of my jurisdiction, you would be vulnerable. And Marco... Marco has cousins in the Sicilian syndicate. He was going to have you killed where I couldn't protect you.”

I felt physically sick. The betrayal ran deeper than a simple payoff from Boston. Marco had meticulously planned my execution just to remove the distraction I posed to Matteo’s rule.

Suddenly, a loud groan echoed from the floorboards.

I jumped back, a scream dying in my throat.

Marco’s hand twitched. The traitor wasn't dead. The bullet had struck him high in the shoulder, missing his heart by inches. He was bleeding profusely, drifting in and out of consciousness on the rug.

Matteo stood up, his face devoid of all mercy. He stepped over to Marco, looking down at the man who had ordered the murder of his brother.

“Who in Palermo?” Matteo demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He pressed the toe of his expensive leather shoe directly onto Marco’s gunshot wound.

Marco screamed, a gurgling, wet sound. “It doesn't matter...” he gasped, coughing up a spatter of blood. “It’s already done, Matteo. The call was made... an hour ago.”

“What call?” Matteo roared, leaning down and grabbing Marco by the lapels of his blood-soaked shirt, pulling him halfway off the floor.

Marco offered a sickening, blood-stained grin. “I knew Don Carlo would intervene if Lawson breached. I knew I might not walk out of this room. So I called Palermo. I told my cousins the Rossi girl was causing problems for our business.”

My heart stopped. “My grandmother,” I whispered.

“Your grandmother is dead, Sophia,” Marco spat, looking at me with pure hatred. “But your aunt Elena... the one who still runs the bakery... she’s very much alive. For now.”

The world tilted on its axis. Aunt Elena. The woman who had practically raised me alongside my grandmother. The woman who had scraped together the money to send me to America when I was nineteen to escape the poverty of our village.

“They are going to burn the bakery to the ground,” Marco wheezed, laughing weakly. “With her inside. Unless you get on that plane tomorrow and hand yourself over to them.”

Matteo dropped Marco with a sickening thud. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers flying across the screen.

“It is 4:00 AM in Sicily,” Matteo said, his voice tight with urgency. He put the phone to his ear.

“Who are you calling?” I begged, tears blinding me. “Matteo, we have to call the police in Palermo! We have to warn her!”

“The police in Palermo work for Marco’s cousins,” Matteo replied grimly, raising a hand to silence me as the line connected.

He switched rapidly to a rapid-fire, aggressive Sicilian dialect. I understood enough to know he was talking to his uncle, a man who still held significant power in the old country.

“I need a crew at the Rossi bakery on Via Roma,” Matteo ordered, pacing the room. “Right now. Marco’s men are moving on it. Protect the woman inside. Shoot anyone who strikes a match.”

Matteo listened for a moment, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth would shatter.

He hung up the phone and looked at me. His eyes were devastatingly sad.

“What?” I sobbed, clutching Leo closer to me as the little boy buried his face in my neck. “Matteo, what is it?”

“My uncle’s men are twenty minutes away,” Matteo said softly, crossing the room to stand in front of me. “But Marco’s cousins... they own the block. They are already there, Sophia. My uncle said they have surrounded the building.”

A primal wail tore from my throat. I couldn't lose her. I had just lost my grandmother; I could not lose the last piece of my family to this senseless violence.

“I’ll go,” I cried, grabbing Marco’s bloody ticket from the floor. “I’ll get on the plane. Call them back! Tell them I’m coming, just tell them not to hurt her!”

Matteo grabbed my wrists, pulling me up to stand, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I will not let you sacrifice yourself for an empty promise. If you get on that plane, they will kill you, and they will kill Elena anyway to make an example of my weakness.”

“Then what do we do?!” I screamed, hitting his chest in pure, helpless desperation.

Matteo caught my hands, holding them tightly against his heart.

“We go to war,” he said simply.

He picked up his phone again and dialed a number I knew he had sworn never to call. The number of the Don of the Sicilian syndicate himself. A man who demanded blood for every favor.

“Don Vincenzo,” Matteo said, his voice echoing with absolute authority in the ruined nursery. “This is Matteo Ricci. I am cashing in the debt you owe my father. Call off your dogs on Via Roma. Now.”

There was a long, agonizing pause. The silence in the room was deafening. I held my breath, praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years.

Matteo listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Slowly, the color drained entirely from his face.

He lowered the phone, staring blankly at the wall.

“Matteo?” I whispered, terrified by the emptiness in his eyes.

“He didn't order the hit,” Matteo said, his voice barely a breath. “Vincenzo didn't order it. Marco bypassed the Don. He hired rogue mercenaries.”