His anger melted into concern in an instant. He held her tighter, murmuring soothing words against her temple, his brow creased with worry. His palm moved in slow circles across her back. The performance was seamless — and it was a performance, because I had catalogued every real gesture Nico Bracciale possessed during five years of building his operation from a street-corner racket into something that almost resembled a syndicate, and tenderness had never been among them.
Then he turned back to me, and his expression hardened like stone. The concern vanished as cleanly as if someone had drawn a curtain across his face. What remained was the Boss — or the man who believed himself to be one.
"Apologize, Rosalia. If you think you can get away with this, you're so wrong."
I tilted my head, unfazed. The gold signet ring on my right hand — my mother's ring, the Ferrante crest turned inward against my palm where no one could read it — pressed its familiar weight into my skin. I did not turn it. Not yet.
"Oh? And what exactly are you going to do?"