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I attack first, throwing my full weight forward, both of us crashing to the ground with a thud that vibrates through my spine. My gun skids out of reach. So does his.

He recovers fast. His elbow drives up hard into my chin, snapping my head back. I twist, grab for his collar, and ram my knee into his side. He grunts but doesn’t fold. He throws me off. I slam into a chair leg, wood splintering at my back. Pain bites, but I push up fast. Riccardo’s already on his feet. I duck his swing, grab the edge of the toppled table, and slam it into his chest. He stumbles but doesn’t fall.

“You’ve always been dramatic,” I growl, circling.

“And you’ve always been a snake,” he spits.

He charges again—this time, I’m ready. I twist his arm behind his back and slam him into the wall. His shoulder hits with a sharp crack, and he snarls, head whipping back to catch me in the jaw. He kicks my shin, hard. I grunt, lose my grip, and he spins, landing a punch that sends me reeling.

We hit the floor again, tangled in each other, blood on our knuckles, gasping for space.

I claw for the closest weapon. My fingers graze the edge of a paperweight—just as he plants his knee on my wrist.

The shot slices through the room and Riccardo stiffens mid-breath. His body lurches. Then crumples beside me with a dead weight that slams the floor hard. And blood spreads under him.

I don’t have to turn. I already know who fired.

Leather shoes cross the threshold, slow and casual. I push Riccardo’s body off with my boot, roll my shoulder back, and glance at the door.

He holsters the pistol, steps past Riccardo without a glance, and closes the door behind him with one hand.

“The kid was never going to stay on script,” he mutters. “You rushed him.”

“Gee, maybe you should have told me you were coming when you hung up,” I say to Cesare Bellandi.

The mastermind, the brain behind the mission. The one who birthed the idea. The one who watched over his late brother's affairs with eagle eyes, waiting to take out nephews and have it all. The one who helped me take out Desmond after he served his purpose, the one who pointed me to Riccardo as the brother who was the weakest link.

With him, I was going from a measly 20% to a whopping 50%. We just needed to get rid of the very last rough ends.

“What are you waiting for? Get my nephew off the floor and clean him up. He isn’t dying of a bullet wound. He’ll die a much more torturous death,” Bellandi says, sitting carelessly and smoothening his shirt.

“Vieri is in his car.”

“Beautiful, lock them both up. They die together.”

Chapter Twenty-Six – Lunetta

The spoon trembles slightly as I bring it to Nonna’s lips.

“Just one more,” I whisper, forcing a smile. “You have to eat, okay? Look how your color is coming back.”

Nonna blinks slowly, lips parting. She takes the bite without a word, her eyes already starting to drift shut again. Her hand, once strong and calloused from years of kneading dough and folding laundry, rests limp on the blanket.

Beside me, Bea hums quietly as she folds a blanket into a small basket. She tucks Nonna’s robe into the laundry bag and glances over, her voice casual, almost cheerful.

“If she eats any more, she’s going to start scolding me again. You know how she gets.”

I glance down at Nonna, her breathing shallow but steady. Her gray hair lies pressed against the pillow like strands of silk. A few months ago, she’d been a woman filled with life. Now she looks like a sigh barely clinging to the world.

Bea pauses behind me. I feel her gaze land on the side of my face, then down to the way my fingers still grip the edge of the tray too tight.

“You need rest too,” she says quietly.

I don’t answer.

It’s easier this way. Focus on her. In the room. On the rhythm of routine—medicine, food, soft words, long nights curled in a visitor chair. Every second here is a distraction from the thoughts I don’t want to touch. The memories I fold and refold like sheets in my mind.

Bea told me everything.