The Italian

She’s dead.

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I scrunch my eyes shut to try and block it out.

Why do I keep seeing it? Why do I keep seeing visions of my Olivia in the sea? Is it just a product of my fear or a premonition? Either way, the vision is haunting me.

I’ve never been scared of the consequences of who I am. Not until now.

What if he gets to her? What if he tortures her?

What if she dies?

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.

We will kill Lucky Lombardi. The war has only just begun. Ten of his men have already lost their lives today, but until I see Lombardi’s lifeless body with my own eyes, I won’t relax.

I need a plan—something to keep Olivia safe.

I glance over at the clock and see that it’s 2:00 a.m. It will be 8:00 p.m. in New York. I slowly slide out of bed, throw on some boxer shorts, and walk downstairs to my office.

I scroll through my phone until I get to the name I’m searching for.

Gabriel Ferrara

My cousin.

Our grandfathers were brothers. As the second in line, his grandfather Emilio wasn’t committed to Italy. His passion was very different. He moved to New York City and opened Ferrara Media, which is now one of the most successful media empires in the world. Gabriel is the CEO.

We have the same blood, yet the life he lives is so very different to mine. We grew up on opposite sides of the world—my family in Italy and his family in New York—but we understand each other. A strange comradery has built between us over recent years.

We have both struggled with being Ferraras. Both struggled being the CEO of a family business we didn’t choose of our own accord.

Different ends of the spectrum.

Different businesses that are worlds apart.

The same goddamn battles.

Nobody gets it like we do.

We live with it every day. Like an insidious monster that sits on our shoulder, the pressures of expectation are heavy burdens to bear.

I dial his number and listen as it rings.

“Enrico.” His voice is filled with happiness. “Tell me someone died.”

I chuckle. We always say that we only get to see each other at funerals. “Not today. Hello, my friend.”

“It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Good. Engaged to be married.” I smile at the sound of those three words. Who knew it would ever feel so good to say out loud?

“What?” He gasps. “Engaged? Poor woman. Who is she?”

I laugh. “Her name is Olivia Reynolds, and she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Name it.”