This was what was expected of a Cavalho.More importantly—this was what was expected of a don.
For as long as I could remember, the war with the Trimboli family had been the one constant in our world.They’d struck first.We were expected to strike last.My grandfather had said it so often that it became scripture:
“As long as one Trimboli draws breath, the Cavalho family is never safe.”
He hadn’t said that for effect.He’d said it because it was a truth carved into the marrow of our bones.Their family had taken more from us than any outsider could comprehend, and that night was the first time in decades we’d had a clear shot at ending this feud.
My grandfather was gone now, his blood barely dry before the family started circling like wolves, waiting to see who would rise.That role had fallen to my father.And after him, it fell to me.Whether I wanted it or not.A don-in-waiting didn’t get to question the path laid out for him.He didn’t hesitate or falter.He carried the weight of an entire dynasty on his back and finished the wars the men before him could not.
So I focused on what a man in my position was supposed to focus on: order.Strategy.Elimination.Control.In that order.
The work was endless, and it kept me steady.Violence didn’t rattle me; it was the one language I’d always understood.But sometime after midnight, when the compound finally went quiet and the last of the men cleared out, the silence gave my mind room to wander.And a sliver of memory pushed its way in—unwanted, unwelcome, persistent.
I shut it down immediately.Mercy was a weakness.Regret was a crack in the foundation.Both could topple an empire faster than a bullet ever could.If I was to inherit this throne—if I was to become the man my grandfather had trained me to be—then there was no space in me for softness or second-guessing.Not when the stakes were absolute.Not when an entire organisation looked to me to uphold order with an iron hand.
So I poured a drink in my grandfather’s office—the office that felt too big now, heavy with ghosts and expectations.The liquor burned down my throat, but I barely tasted it.Leadership tasted nothing like I’d thought it would.It wasn’t victory.It was vigilance.Responsibility.Isolation.
I tried to focus on what came next—alliances that needed mending, territories we’d need to redistribute, men who needed to be reminded that power didn’t tolerate complacency.There were protocols for succession, protocols for war and punishment.My life was a series of protocols.
Rage.Power.Precision.Control.
That was the foundation.
It wasn’t the time for hesitation or reflection.And definitely not mercy.But the more I pushed the night down, the more it forced its way back into my mind—the smoke, the chaos, the moment my finger had hesitated on the trigger.
I shouldn’t have remembered it.I shouldn’t have felt anything at all.A future don didn’t second-guess the orders his bloodline demanded he carry out.Yet there I was, hours later, replaying a decision that should’ve been instinctive.One clean shot.One less loose end.One more step toward securing everything my family had bled for.And I’d failed to take it.
I tried to rationalize it—told myself it wouldn’t matter, that loose ends sometimes died on their own, that the world had a way of wiping out its own mistakes without my involvement.I tried convincing myself that the consequences wouldn’t follow me.
But the truth settled in my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake: a Cavalho doesn’t hesitate or falter.And by doing so, I may have just made the biggest mistake of my life.
The Present
6
Neve - Age 22
The markets stretched along the cobblestone like a patchwork rug; crates of figs and peaches, strings of tomatoes hanging like jewels, fresh bread cooling on linen cloths.Voices rose and fell in melodic Italian, a song in itself.It smelled like sun-warmed fruit and olive oil and summer.
I moved through the stalls with my knitted crossbody bag bumping against my hip, my savings tucked inside—small, tight, and counted twice to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake.The morning was already warm.My jeans stuck to my legs, but I didn’t care.
It was one of the first days I’d allowed myself to simply… exist outside of four walls.
It had taken me months to adjust to this world after leaving the convent.I’d locked myself in a rented room because I didn’t know how to function without someone telling me when to eat or sleep.The convent had been both the only home I’d had and a place I’d needed to escape before it swallowed whatever was left of me.
I’d spent weeks trying to decide who I was without prayers, bells, and schedules.Days of wondering if stepping outside meant risking everything all over again.Weeks convincing myself that living in fear wasn’t really living.But eventually, hiding had stopped being survival and started feeling like a slow death.So I’d forced myself out.
I’d found a tiny one bedroom bungalow style home—barely larger than my old room at the convent.Cheap.Damp.Cramped.But it was mine.I’d paid the rent for it with almost everything I’d saved from cleaning work and odd jobs the convent had found for me.What was left in my bag now wasn’t much, but it kept the rent paid for one more month.
It was either take that chance or stay hidden until the money disappeared and I ended up broke, alone, and nowhere.
So there I was, walking through the crowded market in Tuscany, trying to remember what normal looked like.Trying to pretend I belonged there.Trying to breathe air that wasn’t tainted by the past.
For the first time in a long time… I wasn’t hiding.I was just moving.
And for now, I had to believe that was enough.
My dark curls fell past my shoulders, wild as ever, and I tucked a strand behind my ear as I stopped to admire a jar of honey.