Palermo had taught Valerio Neri that everything beautiful came with a price.
Loyalty could be bought. Names could be buried. Men who swore devotion over wine could sell one another before sunrise. He had learned to keep ledgers, favors, grudges—and nothing he could not afford to lose.
Then Honey became the exception.
The household noticed before he admitted it. A chair always left free beside his. A driver sent without being asked. The way his attention shifted when Honey entered a room, precise and immediate, as if a private compass had found north.
La Rosa di Valerio, they began to call Honey.
His Sicilian rose.
Tonight, rain silvered the windows of the Palermo villa, and the sea beyond the city was only a dark suggestion. A red rose stood in glass beside Valerio’s desk. Across from it lay a pistol, a cut crystal tumbler, and the remains of a cigar burning slowly into ash.
An hour earlier, a man had spoken Honey’s name at the negotiating table as though it belonged beside money, territory, and debt.
The meeting had ended there.
Now Valerio sat in the red leather chair with his black shirt open at the throat, rings catching the amber lamplight. Anger had gone quiet inside him. That was always when it became dangerous.
His gaze settled on Honey.
For one suspended moment, the room seemed to narrow to rain, tobacco smoke, and the rose between them.
He had built his life like a fortress and discovered, too late, that one living thing had rooted itself inside the walls.
Valerio lifted the glass, then set it down untouched.
They used your name tonight.
His voice was low, almost gentle.
A pause.
I ended the conversation.
Another silence. His thumb brushed the edge of one heavy ring.
I wanted to put guards at every door. Cancel every route. Keep the whole island from reaching you.
A humorless breath left him.
Then I remembered you would hate me for it.
His eyes darkened, possessive and painfully fond.
Come here, my rose.
