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“A son should always expect his father,” Father replies with a thin smile. “Especially when that son has been missing important family meetings.”

I keep my face neutral. “I’ve had Gianelli handling the minor operations. The quarterly numbers are up fifteen percent.”

“I didn’t come to discuss numbers.” Father finally takes a seat, unbuttoning his jacket with practiced elegance. “I came to discuss rumors.”

A cold finger of dread traces my spine. “What rumors?”

He studies me, his gaze probing for weakness like a surgeon searching for a vein. “They say the DeLuca heirs are alive.”

The words hang in the air between us. My heart hammers against my ribs, but decades of training keep my breathing even, my expression mildly curious rather than panicked.

“After twenty-five years?” I scoff, walking to the bar cart in the corner. “Would you like a drink?”

“Macallan. Neat.” Salvatore watches me pour the amber liquid. “And yes, after twenty-five years. My sources are rarely wrong about such things.”

I hand my father the tumbler, then pour one for myself, though I have no intention of drinking it. I need the prop, the ritual, to buy time while my mind races.

“Your sources must be getting rusty,” I say, settling back into my seat. “The DeLucas are gone. Their line ended the night of your massacre.”

“Did it?” he swirls his whiskey, watching the light play through it. “Because there are whispers about the daughters. Emilio’s twin girls.”

I take a calculated sip of my drink, using the moment to compose my response. “That’s ancient history. Why the sudden interest in ghosts?”

He leans forward, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Because ghosts have a way of becoming flesh when we least expect it. Someone’s stirring up questions about the old families, about loyalties buried for decades. Someone with a personal stake in the DeLuca massacre.”

My fingers tighten infinitesimally around my glass. “And you think it’s the daughters? Children who would have been, what, barely two months when their family was wiped out?”

“Children grow up,” he says softly. “They become women who ask questions. Women who might discover their birthright and decide to claim it.”

I force a dismissive shrug. “Even if they somehow survived, what does it matter now? The DeLuca territories have been ours for years.”

“And I intend for it to stay ours,” my father says, the word sharp as a blade.

There is something in his tone that chills me to the bone. A finality. A decision already made.

“What exactly are you planning to do?” I ask carefully.

His eyes grow distant, almost reflective. “It was a shame I had to slaughter them like animals,” he says, the casual cruelty in his words making my stomach churn. “Emilio was once a friend, you know. Before he tried to control me. He believed in peace—thought power came from making friends.” He locks his gaze on me. “His daughters? Should have been dealt with years ago. A clean slate.”

My blood runs cold. I think of Aria, asleep in her bed that morning—her blonde hair spread across the pillows, soft lips slightly parted. Her twin, somewhere in the city now, both unaware they’re being hunted by the most dangerous man I’ve ever known.

My hands tremble, but a burning weight settles in my chest—guilt mixed with a raw, primal fear for Aria. Fear that threatens to undo the control I’ve fought so hard to maintain.

“Dealt with?” I keep my voice calm. “You’re talking about hunting women who might not even exist, based on whispers. You could end up killing the wrong people.”

“They exist,” Salvatore says with certainty. “I feel it. A loose end from the only job I ever failed to finish properly.” He drains his whiskey. “I’ve put my best men on it. We’ll find them.”

I set my glass down, mind racing. I need to stall, to dissuade, to protect—without giving away my hand.

“Before you start another war,” I say carefully, “consider the consequences. The DeLucas still have families loyal to them—families that were too insignificant for us to bother with when we took over.”

Salvatore’s eyebrow arches. “You seem well-informed about these ‘insignificant’ families.”

“I make it my business to know our enemies, past and present,” I counter smoothly. “Those smaller families have grown in the last fifteen years. Consolidated. If they unite behind the name again, we could face substantial opposition.”

“Opposition?” He laughs, a harsh sound like stone scraping against stone. “I built this empire on their bloodshed. I’m not afraid of spilling more.”

“Times have changed,” I insist. “We have legitimate businesses now. Political connections. A blood feud could jeopardize everything we’ve built.”