Omerta ||ʙᴏᴏᴋ 1||

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇ

The following morning I wasn't hurt anymore.

I think the pain had just gone numb. Like an old bruise that no longer stung, but still colored your skin. My dad and I never had a picture-perfect relationship, but underneath all the anger and disappointment, he's still my father. And despite everything, a small part of me still craves his approval—his love. Maybe it's pathetic. Maybe it's just human.

At the very least, I owe him respect. That's what my mom would've wanted. She always believed in second chances, in forgiveness, even when people didn't deserve it. I've disappointed her so many times—I didn't want to be the daughter she had to keep forgiving.

A knock on my door pulled me back into the present. I looked up and saw my dad step inside. He didn't say anything at first, just walked in and sat at the foot of my bed like he used to when I was a little girl with nightmares. Back when things were simpler. When I still believed he could do no wrong.

"Princess..." His voice was rougher than usual. "I'm sorry I called you those names. I've been really stressed, and I took it out on you. That wasn't fair. Please forgive me."

I swallowed hard and took a slow breath, trying to hold the fragile pieces of myself together.

"I forgive you, Dad. But I'm not saying I'll forget. What you said..." I looked down at my phone to avoid his eyes, "it hurt."

He nodded, accepting it without a fight. "That's fair. But pack your bags. We're flying to Italy. Just for three days. I've got a major shipment coming in, and I need to make sure the men over there have it under control. We leave in three hours."

And just like that, he left.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just sat there thinking about how easy it was for him to say sorry and move on... but I'm the one who has to carry the weight of his words. Words that cut deeper than any bullet ever could. I knew he'd never be the kind of dad who said the right things all the time. But I'd take what I could get.

The flight to Italy was long. And awkward. We flew in Emilio's private jet—which, don't get me wrong, was amazing. No crying babies, no crowded aisles, no flight attendants pushing carts into your elbows. But even luxury couldn't drown out the tension.

My dad barely looked at me.

It wasn't just us either. Emilio's entire family came, which meant the one and only Cole Moretti was there too. My dad threw him these nasty looks—like if he could kill Cole with a glare, he'd be buried before we touched down.

And Cole? Of course, he didn't make it any easier.

He leaned back in his plush leather seat like he owned the plane, one arm draped over the backrest, his eyes flicking lazily over me every so often. It wasn't subtle. Every time my dad caught him looking, his jaw clenched tighter. I thought his teeth might crack from the pressure.

The air between them was suffocating.

At one point, Emilio tried to lighten the mood with a joke. "Glad we're all traveling together like one big, happy family, eh?" he said, raising his glass of whiskey.

Nobody laughed.

I sank further into my seat and pulled my hoodie over my head, pretending to sleep just to escape the thick, unspoken animosity.

Then came the touchdown.

As we stood to leave, Cole reached up to grab his bag from the overhead compartment, but he brushed past me—too close—and my dad immediately stepped in, hand on his shoulder.

"You're not slick, Moretti," he said in a low voice to where Emilio couldn't hear him, his tone like ice. "Touch her again and I swear to God, I don't care who your father is—I'll put you six feet under myself."