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“I choose my family,” I say quietly. “My wife. My child. The future I want to build, not the past you’re obsessed with destroying.”

His hand moves to the gun at his hip, and for a moment, I think he might actually draw on me. His own son. But then his fingers still, and I see the calculation creeping back into his eyes.

“Break her,” he says finally, his voice cold as winter wind. “Break her before she breaks you. Before she destroys everything we’ve worked for. Or I will.”

He turns to leave, pausing at the door to deliver his final threat.

“Choose whether you stand with your family or against it. And let her show you who she is—a DeLuca or a Bianchi.”

The door slams behind him, leaving Nicolo and me alone in the sudden silence. I can feel my second-in-command’s eyes on me, waiting for some sign of what comes next.

But I already know.

I’ve made my choice. Not in this moment, but months ago when I first laid eyes on Aria in her wedding dress.

“Nicolo,” I say, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening inside me.

“Yes, boss?”

“Double the security around Aria. Do not bring her. Do not attack. Just make sure my father doesn’t get within her orbit.”

He nods, understanding immediately.

I walk to the window, staring out at the city where my wife wages war against everything I’ve ever known.

“My father made his choice twenty-five years ago when he ordered the DeLuca massacre,” I say. “Now I’m making mine.”

I won’t lose Aria. Not to my father’s madness. Not to her own thirst for vengeance.

Let her destroy me if she must—so long as she knows everything I did, I did for her. If she wants to burn me down, I’ll hand her the match… so she can see me standing in the ashes.

33

ARIA

Istand under the scalding spray of the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a loofah until it’s red and angry.

But no amount of soap can wash away the phantom memory of Marco’s hands on my skin.

It meant nothing.

I repeat the lie like a mantra as I towel off. Just sex. Just a moment of weakness. Just my pregnant hormones making me stupid and sentimental.

But when I catch sight of myself and the bite mark he left on my collarbone, the faint bruises on my hips where his fingers gripped me, my stomach clenches with dangerous longing.

My hands shake as I get dressed. This is exactly what he wanted. To get under my skin. To make me doubt myself, my mission, my resolve.

Well, fuck him.

And fuck me for falling for it.

I make myself some coffee. Today’s an important day. The start of the end.

I can do this. I can compartmentalize. I can forget Marco Bianchi.

But instinctively, my hand drifts to my stomach. Soon, I’ll be staring at a face that’ll never let me forget Marco.

I wonder what I’ll tell my child. Will he or she grow up knowing their grandfather was a monster? That he turned his back on justice to shield those who never deserved mercy?