Chapter 7 Lines already drawn

Lina’s POV

“Are you threatening me, Marcio?”

Carlino sat, unhurried, as though the room bent to his timing. His voice was low, controlled—but I felt it anyway, seeping through the door like smoke. Rage, restrained. Barely.

“Enough.” His hand struck the table once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Still, the sound snapped something tight inside my chest. “You all hide behind silence and call it loyalty.”

No one spoke.

“You’re all cowards,” he continued. “But I’m not. I have the spine to call a spade a spade.” He paused, letting it land. “An ultimatum will be given. And if it comes to that, there will be elections.”

“We don’t rewrite rules,” Marcio said. “We enforce them.”

Carlino said nothing.

“And the rules—” Marcio turned fully toward him now, his voice sharpening, “—don’t care how you feel. That line was drawn long before you crossed it.”

Carlino didn’t rise.

That alone unsettled the room.

He remained seated, fingers loosely interlocked on the table, gaze lifting slowly to Marcio—as if Marcio had merely stood to stretch, not to challenge him.

“A king waiting to fall,” Carlino repeated quietly.

A faint smile touched his mouth. Not warmth. Calculation.

“You mistake solitude for weakness,” he went on, voice even, almost bored. “I’ve ruled this empire longer without a Donna than most of you have ruled your own homes.” A murmur rippled through the table.

Carlino leaned back, eyes sweeping the faces of the Cosa Nostras one by one. He didn’t rush. He let the silence work for him.

“You speak of rules as though they’re scripture,” he said at last, returning his gaze to Marcio. “As though they were carved by gods and not by men who bled to protect their interests.” He tilted his head slightly.

“And now those same men want to hide behind elections because the rules no longer serve them.”

One of the older Cosa Nostras cleared his throat. “With respect, Don Carlino… an election would restore balance.”

“Balance,” Carlino echoed.

Another voice joined in. “The families are restless.”

“And tradition matters,” someone else added. “A Donna solidifies the line.”

More nods followed. Too many.

Carlino noticed. Perhaps he always did.

“So,” he said softly, “this is what we’ve become.” He rose then—slowly, deliberately—and the room stilled.

“You call me stubborn because I refuse to be married off like a treaty,” he said, his voice hardening. “You call it concern. I call it fear.” His eyes locked on Marcio’s.

“You fear a man who does not need a woman to legitimize his authority.” The air felt tight, compressed.

Marcio didn’t look away. “Power must be anchored, Carlino. Or it drifts away.”

Carlino stepped closer to the table. “Power is anchored by blood and loyalty. Not rings.”

Silence.

Then, after a beat, Carlino exhaled slowly.

“But if you insist on dressing your doubts as democracy…” He spread his hands slightly. “…then let us be honest men.”

A pause.

“We will hold your election.”

The room stirred—relief, triumph, surprise.

Carlino’s eyes darkened.

“But Don—” Ruggero began but Carlino raised his hand and stopped him midway.

“Not because I bow to it,” he continued. “But because when I win, there will be no more whispers. No more cowardice disguised as counsel.”

He leaned forward, palms pressing into the table.

“And when that happens,” he said coldly, “remember this moment. Remember that you asked for it.”

His gaze cut back to Marcio.

“You wanted the line enforced?” Carlino finished. “Then step back and watch who truly stands on which side of it.”

The men rose almost in unison. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. As they did, Carlino spoke again—too casually, like they hadn’t just finished tearing into each other.

“And remind our partners,” he said evenly, “stability is a privilege, not a right.”

That was all.

I didn’t wait.

I turned and moved fast, slipping down the corridor before Carlino or any of his men could notice me. My pulse pounded in my ears. I took a corner too sharply—

And slammed straight into someone.

I went down hard. My leg twisted beneath me, pain flashing hot and sharp. A cry tore out of me before I could stop it. I sucked in a breath and looked up.

He was broad and solid, built like someone used to standing his ground. Not flashy, not polished—just strength worn naturally. His shirt stretched across his chest and arms, hinting at power he didn’t bother to hide. Olive-toned skin, touched faintly by the sun. Dark hair, short and slightly unkempt. Rough stubble lined a firm jaw, framing a straight nose and steady brown eyes. Eyes that didn’t miss much.

“Lina, right?”

My stomach tightened. He knew my name.

I pushed myself upright, forcing my expression steady even as unease crawled up my spine. He didn’t look threatening—not yet—but his voice carried certainty. The kind that didn’t ask questions unless it already knew the answers.

“Yes,” I said, firmer than I felt.

“What were you doing there?” He gestured toward the meeting room.

“Nothing.” I straightened despite the ache in my leg. “I took their meal. I was told to.”

He studied me for a moment, gaze sharp, unreadable.

“Carlino doesn’t bring just anyone into his house,” he said. “So tell me—what’s so special about you?” I met his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide.” The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile.

Something else.

And that made my grip tighten at my side.

“And how the hell am I supposed to know that?” I snapped, the words flying out before I could stop them. My voice rose—just enough to be noticed.

“Lower your voice.”

His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“You weren’t invited here,” he continued calmly. “You exist because someone signed you over. You’re what was left when he ran out of options. If you had mattered, he wouldn’t have traded you.” The words landed clean. Precise. Like a verdict already passed.

“You don’t know me,” I shot back, jaw tightening. “So don’t speak to me like you do.”

“You—” His hand lifted.

I braced—

“Don’t you dare, Damien.” The command sliced through the space between us.

Carlino.

He hadn’t raised his voice, yet the room bent around it. Final. Absolute.

“Don,” Damien said quickly, turning, irritation flashing. “She was acting too clever—”

“That’s enough.” One word. Heavy.

“That’s not—” I started.

“I didn’t ask you to speak.”

Carlino’s eyes cut to me. A warning. Clear. Sharp. I shut my mouth, fingers curling at my side. Then he turned back to Damien.

“And you,” he said evenly, “will remember your place.”

He stepped forward—just one step—but it shifted everything.

“She belongs to me. She’s mine.” The statement hit harder than a slap.

“You don’t touch her. No hands.” A pause. Deliberate. “You don’t speak to her either. Not a word. Do you understand?”

Damien stiffened, then nodded. Carlino didn’t look away. “Step out of line again,” he said quietly, “and you’ll learn what mistakes cost in this life.”