Page 27

“No,” he says, meeting my eyes directly. “I didn’t. I swear on my father’s grave.”

I watch him for a long moment.

His hands are steady now. His voice doesn’t shake. There’s fear in his posture—but not guilt. Just dread. And grief. He looks like a man buried under a truth too big to carry, too dangerous to let go.

And that’s what convinces me.

I rise slowly from my chair.

“Find Mother J’s son,” I say coldly. “He’s our only lead.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” I hiss. “Because if I don’t get that stash back, I’ll carve you up and send your teeth to your mother’s shrine. And you know I don’t make empty threats.”

Bugatti nods, pale now. “I understand.”

The chair scrapes back hard against the floor as I push away from the table. I don’t look back.

My hand slams the door so hard behind me that the frame rattles. Wood cracks near the handle.

“Figlio di puttana,” I mutter under my breath, my voice tight with fury.

I stalk down the corridor, footsteps heavy, breathing ragged.

By the time I reach my car, the rage has nowhere else to go.

I kick the front fender—once, twice—then again and again, the toe of my polished shoe slamming into the steel with brutal force. The impact echoes in the cold night air.

I grab the edge of the door and kick it harder, over and over, growling through gritted teeth until the panel bends beneath the pressure.

I throw my head back and let out a raw, guttural scream—a sound torn straight from somewhere deep—animal, furious, hollowed by years of buried rage.

I shove the door open and drop into the driver’s seat, still breathing like a war drum.

Forty percent.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

Forty.

The numbers claw at my mind. That cursed legacy, meant for me and Bugatti once Desmond was dead. But now—if the child exists—he stands to inherit the largest stake of all. My jaw locks.

If the child lives, he’s in his twenties now. Old enough to lay claim. Old enough to show up one day, wide-eyed and righteous, and think he has the right to anything.

My lip curls.

No.

No bastard child of two doomed lovers gets to walk in and claim almost half of everything. He complicates everything.

I drum my fingers along the steering wheel, jaw twitching.

Fine. Let Bugatti find Mother J’s son. Let him do the work.

If her son was still alive and still searching for the child of Vasco and Lena, then he’ll lead me straight to the child.

And I’ll finish the job Desmond couldn’t finish. Erasing the bloodline completely.