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My hand shoots out, fingers clutching Teresa's wrist with the precision of a man who's spent a lifetime extracting truths from unwilling mouths.

"Teresa," I keep my voice soft, controlled—the tone that makes hardened criminals tremble. "I'll ask once more. What's happened?"

She simply looks down at my hand, then back up to me.Fuck.

After decades in this house, she's immune to the intimidation that breaks others. But she knows better than to lie outright.

"Don Vito requested Mrs. Ravelli's presence this afternoon. For tea."

Ice floods my veins, replacing the fire of moments before. "My father summoned my wife? Alone?"

"I accompanied her to his quarters myself, Luca," Teresa says, a hint of defiance creeping into her tone. "I waited and ensured she returned unharmed."

Unharmed. A physical state that reveals nothing about the poison my father may have dripped into her ears.

"What did he want?" I release Teresa's wrist, moving toward the bathroom where Bianca waits.

"I wasn't present for their conversation."

I turn back, eyes narrowing as I assess the woman who has served my family since before I was born. The woman who bathed my mother's body after death, who helped arrange her in her casket, who knew—she must have known—that Vito had ordered the hit.

"But you have your suspicions," I press, watching her carefully.

Teresa meets my gaze directly, something unusual flickering behind her eyes. Not fear. Something deeper. Sadder.

"Your father is dying, Luca," she says softly. "Men facing death often feel compelled to unburden their souls—or wound others with truths best left uncovered."

My jaw clenches, understanding her meaning perfectly.

"Where is she?"

"In your bathroom. I've drawn her a bath. She seemed... shaken. So please, give her a minute."

Of course she was shaken. My father's specialty has always been finding the precise pressure point that causes maximum pain with minimal effort. Whatever he revealed to Bianca—whatever game he's playing—I'll end it tonight.

I nod once, dismissing Teresa with a gesture as I move toward the bedroom, loosening my tie.

The recording burns in my pocket like a loaded gun as I walk through my wing.

Three minutes and seventeen seconds of my father's voice, calmly arranging my mother's execution.

The hitman's confession has taken weeks to extract, but hearing Vito's words made every second of torture worth it.

"Elena's become a liability. She plans to take the boys. Handle it tonight, make it look like the Volkovs."

My fingers brush the edge of the phone, remembering how my mother's blood felt on my hands that night. For fifteen years, I've carried that memory, letting it fuel every calculated move toward the throne.

Now, with proof of Vito's betrayal secured, I can finally act.

But first, Bianca.

Whatever game my father played today, summoning her alone, it wasn't random. Vito doesn't waste moves, especially now when his time grows short. The timing is too perfect. He must suspect I'm close to the truth.

I trace the outline of my phone again, picturing the scene that will unfold in his study later. The look in his eyes when I play the recording. The moment he realizes his own voice will destroy everything he built.

But that satisfaction will have to wait.

Right now, Bianca needs me. And whatever poison Vito tried to plant in her mind, I'll burn it out with truth.