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I let out a cold, brittle laugh. “No. He wouldn’t stand for it. He’d see them both dead before sunrise.”

“And you care?” Nicolo raises an eyebrow. “Since when does Marco Bianchi risk family business for a pretty face?”

“This isn’t about her face,” I snap, though the image of Aria—flushed, defiant, beautiful, wrecked—flashes unbidden through my mind. “They’re innocent. They were only babies then.”

“Your father doesn’t believe in innocence,” Nicolo reminds me. “He believes in eliminating threats. And the DeLuca twins, by their very existence, are threats. Your father wasn’t half as powerful when the DeLuca’s were around. He’ll fear to learn the name still exists.”

I run a hand over my stubbled jaw, feeling the rough scratch against my palm. “They don’t know, Nicolo. They have no idea what their parents were involved in, who their family really was.”

“And that’s the second reason I’m here,” Nicolo presses. “They could find out. And then what? When Aria learns her parents didn’t die in an accident—when she discovers that your father, a trusted associate, was responsible for their deaths? That he betrayed them, and how?”

The words land like physical blows. I’ve known this truth since the wedding, ever since my investigators uncovered the twins’ identities.

Their father, Emilio DeLuca, a brilliant and ruthless man, had once upon a time run the greatest crime unit in the country. My father used to work for them, but he grew bitter over time. Emilio kept him on a leash, or so he believed, and in a fight for power, my father succeeded in creating an internal rift, turning Emilio’s men against him. Emilio weakened, and that was when my father struck the final blow.

When Emilio realized he was about to be overthrown, he tried to disappear with his wife and infant daughters. But he trusted the wrong people. In the end, he gave up his girls to his sister, Teresa, and soon after, he and Sofia met their deaths at the end of my father’s barrel.

The girls grew up without knowing any of this, bounced between foster homes, their true heritage erased by time and deliberate obfuscation.

“You need to decide what you’re doing here, Marco,” Nicolo continues when I remain silent. “If this is about revenge for how the girls played you, there are cleaner ways to handle it. If it’s about protecting those girls from your father, you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re conflicted. And conflict leads to mistakes.”

I glare at him, tempted to throw him out. But Nicolo’s right—we both know it. This situation has become far more complicated than I ever expected. When I first uncovered who Aria and Chiara really were, my plan was simple: Use their debt as leverage, pull them into my orbit, and decide if they posed a real threat to the Bianchi family. If they did, eliminate them. If not, well, I have no plan for if not.

I hadn’t counted on Aria getting under my skin. Hadn’t anticipated the fierce protectiveness I feel toward her, even knowing her bloodline.

“She doesn’t find out,” I say at last, decision made. “Not about her parents, not about her family connections.”

“Secrets like that have a way of surfacing, Marco. You know this.”

“She won’t.”

“She’s smart, determined. I’ve seen how she watches everything, remembers every detail. She might start digging…”

“Then I’ll handle it,” I cut him off. “For now, not a word to anyone. Not to my father, not to our men, and certainly not to Aria or her sister.”

Nicolo studies me for a long moment, then nods, accepting the order even as doubt shadows his eyes.

“But be careful, Marco. If Aria discovers that her heritage traces back to one of the most powerful families in Sicily, she won’t just leave you. She’ll come for blood. Her father’s people… they don’t forgive. Ever.”

“I’m aware,” I say tightly.

Nicolo rises from his chair, straightening his jacket with practiced hands. “I’ll stall your father as long as I can—buy you some time to figure out your next move.” He pauses at the door. “Just remember who you are, Marco. Remember what’s at stake.”

After Nicolo leaves, I sit motionless, confused than ever before.

Who am I? The cold-blooded enforcer who built his reputation on calculated violence? Or the man who just walked away from Aria minutes ago because I couldn’t bear to see the potential regret in her eyes?

I move to my desk and open the folder again, my fingers tracing over a photograph of Aria. She looks younger in the surveillance shot, her hair caught by the wind, her expression unguarded as she laughs at something beyond the camera’s frame. So different from the woman who stood before me earlier, her voice steady even as her body trembled, claiming her loyalty to her sister.

That’s what draws me to her. Not just her beauty or the fire in her eyes when she defies me. It’s her loyalty—absolute, unflinching, even when it costs her everything. She lied to protect Chiara, placed herself between her sister and my wrath without hesitation.

I’ve never encountered that kind of loyalty in a woman before. In my world, relationships are transactions—alliances shifting with the winds of advantage. But Aria… she remembersevery kindness, cherishes every sacrifice. From what she told me, as children, Chiara took punishments meant for Aria. And for what happened decades ago, Aria gave up her freedom.

A woman who never forgets a favor is a rare and valuable ally. But a woman who never forgets a wrong—that’s something far more dangerous. I wonder if Aria is as quick to forget a wrong as she is to repay a debt.