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A smile curves Vito's mouth, genuine this time. Almost... proud.

"You understand more than I gave you credit for."

"I understand exactly who I am," I step closer, until the barrel of the gun presses against my sternum, just above where Luca carved his mark. "I'm a Ravelli now. And we don't break easily."

The distant sound of commotion above us breaks our standoff—shouting, the crack of what might be gunfire.

Vito's eyes narrow. "It seems my son has returned earlier than expected."

Hope surges through me.

Luca is alive.

And he'shere.

"He'll kill you for this," I whisper. "For Elena. For me."

"Perhaps." Vito adjusts his grip on the pistol. "Or perhaps he'll finally understand what it means to be Don Ravelli. That sometimes, the greatest sacrifices are the ones closest to our hearts."

The door at the top of the stairs crashes open, voices echoing down to us. Matteo's, raised in warning. Another—Luca's—responding with cold fury, and then, a gunshot.

My head snaps to see Matteo's body tumbling down the concrete steps. The sound of his body falling echoes through the underground chamber like thunder.

He lands face-up at the bottom, limbs twisted unnaturally. Blood pools beneath his head, seeping into the collar of his pristine white shirt. His eyes stare upward, unseeing, the same cold hazel that had watched me for weeks across breakfast tables and garden paths.

"It's seem my husband has come for me."

But as Vito's finger tenses on the trigger, I realize he may be too late.

I close my eyes, one hand pressed protectively over our child, and pray that if I fall, Luca's vengeance will be swift and complete.

For both of us.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Luca

TheVolkovmeetingwasa fucking waste of time.

I knew it would be the moment Demyan's smug face greeted me at the Gramercy Hotel, flanked by men whose hands never strayed far from concealed weapons.

No Dmitri in sight—just his lapdog son with empty promises and vaguer threats.

For ninety minutes, I endured Demyan's circular conversation about bloodlines and heritage, about connections that tied my wife to their family through her father. But when pressed for proof… for the evidence they'd claimed to possess… he offered nothing but smoke and mirrors.

A distraction. Nothing more.

Now, as I race back to the estate, rage burns cold in my veins.

Every false lead, every misdirection, every orchestrated chaos of the past weeks points back to one source: Dante.

My brother has been working with the Volkovs, feeding them information, setting me up while positioning himself to claim the throne.

The Aston Martin's engine screams as I take the corner too fast, tires grinding against wet asphalt. Rain slashes against the windshield, mirroring the storm building inside me.

My phone vibrates with Alessio's call. I answer with a bark: "I'm five minutes out."

"Sir—" His voice cuts through static, urgent and strained. "It's Matteo. He took her."